Page 203 of American Hellhound
Maggie sat down on the edge of the bed, beside the arsenal he’d laid out and was methodically strapping to his person. “I’m armed. And dangerous now,” she teased. “We’ll be okay here.”
He settled his .45 into his shoulder holster. “You just don’t wanna spend all night with Bonita, huh?”
She groaned. “Not really.”
“There’s safety in numbers, babe. I don’t want to take any chances. And it’s only one night.”
Her smile was tight. “Yeah.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“Yeah.” She didn’t sound convinced.
“Just to be sure…”
She leaned down and scrunched up the leg of her jeans, flashing her new harness boots…and the knife tucked inside the left one.
“Gun too?” he asked.
It rested on the comforter beside her hip. She patted it. “Gun too.”
He guessed that would have to be good enough.
~*~
It was a cool night, but the air held faint stirrings of spring, the scent of frost replaced by hints of growing grass and pear tree buds. Bonita had screens on the windows in her living room, so she’d cracked the sashes open a few inches to let the freshness in. She didn’t seem at all nervous about a possible security breach, so Maggie decided not to worry about it.
“Does this sort of thing happen a lot?” Maggie asked the room at large.
Bonita, Nell, and Jackie were all tucked comfortably into the wingback chairs around the artfully rustic plank table arranged in the dining area of the large room. They were playing poker, which Maggie didn’t fully understand yet, a pitcher of margaritas and tall blue glasses spread among them. Aidan was watching TV, looking bored and sleepy. Maggie could relate.
“Nah,” Nell said. “Things’ve been pretty quiet around here lately.”
“You showed up just in time for things to get crazy,” Jackie said, with what may or may not have been a pointed look.
Ugh, screw her. Maggie refused to be blamed for the club’s problems. The Lean Dogs were afflicted with a cancer that had been growing slowly but surely, undetected for years, everyone content to live in uproarious debauchery until it all fell down around their ears.
Idiots.
There was aslightchance she was turning into her mother.
The timer dinged in the kitchen.
“Cookies,” Bonita said with relish.
Maggie was the first one out of her chair, grateful to escape their curious/accusatory gazes a moment. “I’ll get them.”
“Gracias,chica.”
Maggie breathed a sigh of relief as she headed around the corner, toward the droning buzzer.
Bonita’s kitchen had a certain Texas flair: bold travertine floors, Mexican tile countertops, walls a deep gold and hung with festive décor. All the appliances were state of the art, including the big six-burner stove…
In front of which stood Duane Teague. Aiming a gun toward her.
~*~
Ghost wanted to throw up. He didn’t, and he thought that was what counted. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, letting it blow out across his dry lips. His heart pounded in his throat, his wrists, his ears, his temples, a tight band of pressure around his head.
