Page 19 of American Hellhound
“No, sir.” Ghost dropped his smoke and ground it out beneath his boot; it made a gritting sound against the hardwood. “I guess I should go check on him.”
“Now there’s a thought.” Any more pressure, and Duane might just dislocate his shoulder with his thick, callused fingers. “And here’s another: when you talk to Rita, you tell that bitch not to disturb me on that line unless it’s a motherfucking emergency. You understand?”
Ghost swallowed hard. Over Duane’s shoulder, he caught Roman smirking at him. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Duane released him and blood rushed back to his shoulder, the joint full of needles. “Also, what’s the name of that blonde piece you had last night?”
Ghost smiled at him, and it felt false, feral, sharp as nails. “Jasmine.”
“Good to know.”
“Might wanna check her ID first.”
Duane snorted. “Maybe you shoulda.”
It was a great way to start the morning.
Ideally, he would have sat around the clubhouse awhile, nursed some coffee, and headed out once his hangover was well in-hand. But without that choice, he dug his shades out of his cut pocket and put them on as he left the building.
They weren’t enough protection. It was like coming up to the surface after a deep-sea dive. Like walking out of a cave. The daylight was brutal. He hissed like a vampire and shaded his eyes with his hand. The pain stabbed through his temples, wrapped around the back of his head. He stood beside his bike – his gorgeous, refurbished FXR – for a full minute, breathing through his mouth, willing his abused body to overcome the sunlight.
If Olivia could see him now…well, she wouldn’t be surprised. No, she’d probably smile. He was proving her point, after all, that he was an impossible, irresponsible man-child with no hope for the future.
He almost sat down on the curb and put his head in his hands, so great was the sweeping sense of loss. He couldn’t say he still loved her, not after what she’d done to him. But he felt like a failure. He was proud by nature – by blood – and the divorce was a low blow; it cut him right in half.
And the worst part – the part he hated himself for thinking – was that Olivia had left Aidan behind. So complete was her rejection of him that she couldn’t even bear to raise the son he’d given her. How did a woman do that? How did anyone? How had he misjudged her so greatly, as to think she might be someone capable of loving her own offspring?
Ghost put his helmet on, careful of his tender scalp, and swung onto the bike. His equilibrium was still off-kilter, the parking lot on a slant around him, but he started the engine and pulled out anyway. He’d driven in worse condition before. He’d become a master of the hangover these last six months.
He rode so seldom these days – stuck in a cage carting Aidan to school and to doctor’s appointments and to various babysitters who all looked at him like he was a terrible, hopeless father – that he tended to forget thatthis, his Harley, and all it represented, was the basis of the club. It wasn’t about fear and subjugation, about divorce and the ruin of families, or about one-upping each other in a quest for power. The club was about freedom, first and foremost. Freedom from society, from government, from the stifling constraints of the life you were born with…and that you had the power to change.
The wind teased his face, fresh-smelling, still crusted with frost. The bike ate up the pavement, Knoxville flashing past him, a Southern city that couldn’t hope to push back against the outlaws that called it home.
This. He had to rememberthis.
His apartment was in a seedy section of town, two bedrooms and a tiny cramped bathroom, windows in serious need of reglazing. He wasn’t sure the building’s furnaces could keep out the chill when winter finally set in, and he wasn’t looking forward to finding out.
He left his bike in the parking space next to his truck and jogged up the stairs. His hangover was lifting – he felt more alert – but the headache was here for the duration. There were two ways to get rid of it: sleep it off, or imbibe in a little hair of the dog. He’d decide which after he saw what sort of shape Aidan was in.
His neighbor, Mrs. Simms, opened the door before he could fit his key in the lock. She wore a pink terry bathrobe cinched tight around her ample waist, her hair tied back in a sloppy bun. Like she’d been dragged out of bed – which she probably had. There were bags beneath her eyes, but her gaze was sharp. And very angry.
“Jesus Christ,” she hissed. “Where’ve you been?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Simms. You been here long?” He shouldered past her and stepped into the apartment. If possible, it looked messier than when he left yesterday.
“Long enough,” she huffed, following him. “I have a job,Ghost.” She said his name with contempt; she clearly didn’t approve of it as a name at all. “Unlike you, I have to get up and go to work every morning.”
“It’s Saturday,” he reminded, gaze falling on the sofa where Aidan was curled up, sleeping fitfully.
“I work on Saturday! And I can’t have your ne’r do well babysitter dragging me out of my apartment just because you can’t–”
He whirled to face her, startling her silent. “Thanks, Mrs. Simms. I got it. You go to work.” He gave her the same smile he’d given Roman earlier.
She drew herself up with an indignant mutter and spun away from him. “Get your shit together, Teague,” she said, and slammed the door behind her.
The sound woke Aidan, and he stirred with a groan, shifting onto his side and clutching at his stomach. His eyes opened a fraction. “Daddy?”
“Yeah, bud, I’m here.” Ghost crossed the room and dropped down to his knees beside the sofa, pushing the too-long dark curls off Aidan’s forehead and feeling for his temperature. He was burning up.
