Page 161 of American Hellhound
“Because you’re letting a buncha rednecks take credit for it!” he snapped.
“Keep your voice down,” Duane hissed, real anger flashing in his eyes now.
“I got no love for the guy,” Ghost said, though his stomach twisted to think of him dead. Disliking someone and wanting him dead were two very different things. “And if he’s stealing from us, and going behind your back, then yeah, you need to strip his patches. But this doesn’t make a point. It looks like an accident. And it makes us look weak! If the Ryders take out one of our guys, we look vulnerable, and then every gang and club within a hundred miles is gonna be trying to knock us off the top of the pile.”
Duane gave him a tight smile. “Then we’ll have to prove them wrong.”
“I don’t get this!” Ghost ranted, frustrated, breathing hard. A little bit scared. “Why won’t you just man the fuck up and kick him out? Why does every goddamn thing have to be a scheme around here?”
“Tell you what,” Duane said. “When you’re the president, you can make the decisions. Until then, shut up.”
“When I’m president,” Ghost echoed.
“Who else do you think I’m doing all this for?” Duane said, almost gently. “I ain’t gonna live forever, and this club’ll be yours one day. I’m trying to make sure it’s strong for you. The least you could do is get on board and show a little appreciation.”
Ghost had always known Duane was an asshole. But apparently, he’d never realized that the man was absolutely bat-shit insane.
It was the sort of epiphany that hit him right in the gut, a sharp pain up under his ribs. When looked at through the lens of crazy, everything Duane had done and said in the past few months took on a whole new, frightening sort of clarity.Crazywas an easy out for complicated situations, a catch-all description that dismissed patterns and coincidences. And it was terrifying. Ghost had always thought his uncle crazy like a fox…but what if there was no fox. What if he was just…nuts.
He felt sick. All the things the club stood for – resistance to a stifling conformity, personal freedom, the bravery to live the way you wanted to, and above all, brotherhood – had become, admittedly, background noise in Ghost’s life. He was too caught up in personal shit to see the big picture any more – but it wasthere. He leaned on it, the grounding sense that it existed and was waiting on him, ready to give him wings when he finally got back on his feet.
But maybe it wasn’t there. Maybe it was just drugs, and a psycho uncle who didn’t care about anyone or anything. Maybe the Lean Dogs were a sad mockery of an MC.
“Ghost,” Duane said. “Go make the drop. Do as I said.”
Ghost took a deep breath, held it until he felt light-headed, and then let it out slowly. There was a shift inside him, an important tipping of the scales.
Bikers talked about independence, about how they were free of all restraints, no strings, no worries. But when they formed clubs, they formed tiny kingdoms. In the case of the Dogs, a decent-sized kingdom, with satellites scattered across the world. Like any kingdom, a club could become infected, could crumble, could fall to the swords of other clans. But that neverjust happened– kingdoms fell victim to bad kings.
The MC wasn’t ruined – its king was.
In a moment of aching clarity, Ghost realized that no amount of new garages, or better business deals, or shows of leniency could save his club. It would take a coup. A seizure of the crown by a better leader, a stronger, smarter, more ambitious king.
A pressure valve released, deep inside his chest, a sharp stab of pain, and then an easing. He felt the hiss of stream through his ribs, warm around his heart, his belly, easing the tightness in his throat. It was high time to unmake a king.
“Okay,” he said, all mildness and agreeability. Duane’s brows lifted, surprised. “I’ll make the drop. Whatever you say, boss.”
“Good,” Duane said, and he didn’t know his days were numbered.
~*~
Maggie wasn’t stupid enough to park in the driveway of Hamilton House. She left the Monte Carlo a few yards down the road, in the drive of a house that had long since burned to the ground, hidden behind a cluster of overgrown hydrangeas. The pale, dead blossoms rustled against the car’s windows and fenders, the sound like footsteps in the underbrush. She pulled her jacket tighter around her, listening, holding her breath. Soft hoot of an owl nearby. Bark of a fox farther off. She could feel the rumble of music from Hamilton House through the soles of her boots, a faint but insistent thump.
Leave, a small voice whispered in the back of her head. But she didn’t, picking her way down the cracked pavement toward the antebellum mansion, its blazing windows and gaping doors.
Her steps faltered when she saw the decorations; lost in her own miserable thoughts, she’d forgotten it was almost Halloween.
Someone had taken painstaking care stretching cotton spider webs between the porch columns and rails, securing it up in the high corners and arranging it so that it almost looked real; Maggie thought it was aided aesthetically by the webs already in existence. Orange crepe streams were wound round the banisters, and a generator must have been working doubly hard to power all the twinkle lights. Black rubber spiders dangled from the porch ceiling, swaying in the breeze, obvious and childlike, but unnerving too.
Inside, every available surface was strung with lights, and webs, and spiders. Dozens of rubber bats had been tacked to the hallway ceiling, low enough some of the taller boys kept knocking them around with their heads as they walked. It reeked of pot smoke, spilled beer, sweat, and dozens of competing perfumes. Maggie wanted to leave immediately.
A tiny part of her wanted to believe that Ghost would show up. A larger part knew he wouldn’t. This place was choking her – but the idea of going home was even worse.
She was stuck. Miserable and feeling sorry for herself.
Stay or go – her mind was made for her when Cody spotted her from the base of the ballroom stairs and shouted, “Lowe!” at the top of his lungs, somehow louder than the music. Rachel was hanging off his arm, and she smiled and waved.
Oh, might as well, Maggie thought, and made her way toward them.
