Page 167 of American Hellhound
Over Joe’s shoulder, Ghost met Collier’s gaze:be careful, his expression said.
“I oughtta shoot you.”
“But you haven’t yet,” Ghost pointed out. “And that means something.”
“Fuck you.”
“Give me two hours, and I’ll give you Roman.”
“Two hours.” Doubtful, but not a refusal.
“Whatever Duane’s promised you, I can do better. My uncle’s a short-sighted man with no ambition. Trust me: long term, you want to be on my good side, not his.”
A long, tense moment passed, punctuated by the quiet rubber flaps of the bat wings overhead, stirred by the incoming breeze.
Finally, Joe smiled again. “You got balls, I’ll give you that.” His eyes moved down and then back up, taking in Ghost like he was sizing up a horse he wanted to buy. “Alright, kid. I hate your uncle’s guts.”
“Most people do.”
“You’ve got two hours. Meet us waterside, the old Mercury place.”
Ghost saluted him. “Two hours. And you’ll tell me what I want to know?”
“Yeah. I’ll tell you.”
~*~
Maggie didn’t take a full breath until she heard several extremely modified trucks roar to life out in the driveway. When she tried to stand, her legs were shaking too badly to support her, so she waited another moment, concentrating on her feet, her ankles, her knees, all her uncooperative joints. Slowly, she managed to get upright, leaning against the wall, hand slick with sweat around the grip of Ghost’s gun.
It felt horribly real all of a sudden: the life-and-death part of Ghost’s outlaw existence. She hadn’t ever thought it all the way through, but it made a terrifying kind of sense: men living in open defiance of the law and society’s rules wouldn’t object to killing one another.
A sobering thought.
But it didn’t change anything, not for her at least.
“Mags?” Ghost called from down below, and her legs started working – albeit shakily.
She peeked over the rail and saw him standing in the middle of the ballroom, bathed in Christmas light, black and hard-edged, the true darkness that all the Halloween decorations had tried and failed to capture. He twisted to look up at her over his shoulder, and the impression of him – black eyes, black hair, black shadow of stubble along his jaw – almost knocked her back down. No wonder a whole troop of thugs had walked out the door rather than stay and fight him. Who wouldn’t?
“You can come down now,” he said, voice gentle, at odds with the energy he projected. When she didn’t move, his brows pinched together. “Mags?”
“Yeah, coming.”
Her legs felt stronger with each step, her chest a little freer the closer she got to him. When she reached his side, and he put his arm around her shoulders, she stopped shaking altogether.
Damn it, she was still pissed at him, but she felt sorightstanding next to him. Safe, and loved, and stupidly strong.
“Here.” She shoved his gun toward him. “Please take this away.”
“You should keep it.”
A stare-down ensued. Finally, with a sigh, he took it back and tucked it in his waistband. “I’m teaching you to shoot. Soon. Tomorrow.”
“Sure.”
“I mean it. And.” His scowl darkened, arm tightening around her shoulders. “What the hell are you doing here tonight?”
“Itoldyou I was coming. Iinvitedyou.”
