Page 169 of American Hellhound
“Hey,” he said, voice low and rough, “I need you to go home, okay? Go home and stay there. I’d take you myself, but–”
“No, I know.” She touched his face in turn, the hard, bristly plane of his cheek. “You have to go. I’ll be fine.”
“Please take the gun, Mags,please.” He stressed the word. Reached back to pull it out of his waistband.
It was warm when he put it in her hands, carrying the heat of his skin. “Yeah, okay.”
He kissed her once, fast, and then bundled her into her car. “It’ll be okay,” he told her. “I promise.”
~*~
It would have been so much easier, Ghost reflected on the ride, if he’d just let Roman get shot all those weeks ago out in the woods. Or if, you know, Duane had bothered to tell him anything.
But his life wasn’t that simple.
They had to stick to the speed limit going through town, but once they crossed the bridge, they opened up the throttle. He kept replaying Roman’s pitiful cry of “Ghost!” over and over in his head, his chest tight. He’d been truly frightened, his voice thin and high, his eyes white-rimmed. Ghost was riding to the rescue now for the club, yes, but also because that scream was going to haunt his nightmares for months if he didn’t.
The Ryders lived ten minutes outside the city proper, up a long snaking driveway, a jumble of cabins and farmhouses on a hill that all shared a single address and mailbox. Everyone around town joked about the Leatherface chainsaw antics and inbreeding that went on up there, and those stories ran through Ghost’s head now, as they left behind streetlights and well-paved roads and entered a twisty maze of backstreets that would eventually take them to Chancellor Street, and their destination.
When his headlamp caught the right mailbox – a big black cast-iron number – he pulled off onto the shoulder and killed the engine.
Collier pulled in behind him. “Sometimes,” he said, when the engines were pinging and hissing, “I wish we had quieter rides.”
“Wanna trade in for a Japanese bike?”
“Not on your life.”
Ghost fished a flashlight and a few spare magazines out of his saddlebag and stowed them in his cut. “Ready?”
“Yep.”
The driveway was crushed gravel, and it was steep. It was a long walk, punctuated by the chirp of nighttime insects and the crunch of gravel underfoot.
Collier asked, “You’re serious about Duane needing to go, aren’t you?”
He was. “You think he ought to stay?” he challenged. “After this shit tonight? Afterallthe shit he’s put us through? The guy’s a shitty leader. Always has been.”
“He is, yeah. And tonight…yeah. I just…I guess I didn’t expect it.”
“Why not?”
Collier sounded hesitant. “You haven’t seemed to care what goes on lately. With the club,” he amended. “Understandable. Your plate’s been full.”
Ghost snorted. “I’ve been stuck up my own ass, you mean?”
“You said it, not me.”
“I have been. I admit it.”
“Liv–” Collier started.
“Nah. It wasn’t about her.”
He couldfeelCollier’s skeptical look.
“Okay, so it was a little bit about her.”
“You loved her.”
