Page 21 of American Hellhound
“He’s your son, Kenny,” she said, and hung up.
Ghost stared at his phone a moment, its grimy white mouthpiece. Then he jammed it back onto its base. Fuck that bitch. Fuck her for real.
When he returned to the living room, Aidan was staring at the TV, which wasn’t on, still curled up like a shrimp. “We don’t have any red stuff,” Ghost told him. “Can’t you try the pill again?”
In answer, Aidan squeezed his eyes shut and tears slipped down his face.
“Fuck,” Ghost whispered. “Alright. Okay…”
His only course of action, he decided, was to call the clubhouse and get one of the prospects or groupies to run get some Children’s Tylenol and bring it to the apartment.
He dismissed the idea as soon as he thought it. Prospects and groupies were designed for running errands, doing members’ bidding, but Duane would know that Ghost had used one of them to fetch medicine for his kid, and Duane was nothing if not perpetually disappointed.
He hadn’t always been. Once upon a time, he’d thought Ghost was the most promising young member, headed for an officer position on an advanced track. But then he’d married Olivia. Joined the Army…Duane hadn’t stopped being disappointed since. No, Ghost decided, he had to deal with this himself.
The phone rang, and he was glad for the distraction, going into the kitchen to answer the second landline.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me,” Collier’s familiar voice greeted, and Ghost felt some of the tension leave his body. “Duane said you left early. Aidan’s sick.”
“Yeah. And I don’t even have the medicine he needs.”
“Ah shit. Hey. Jackie and I could–”
“I’d hate to–”
“What do you need?”
“Someone to sit with him while I run to the pharmacy?” he asked, wincing.
“Done. We’ll be there in five.”
“Christ, you’re a life saver. Thank you.”
“You can always pay me in whiskey,” Collier joked, and hung up.
Ghost sighed and slumped sideways against the wall. One of these days…one of these days, things had to turn around. Right?
~*~
Once upon a time, a princess named Denise Camden Lowe birthed a daughter who was destined for an elegant life.
Once upon a time, said daughter, Maggie Lowe, decided she favored rebellion.
“Margaret,” Denise called. “Where are you?”
Maggie didn’t answer right away, turning one way and then the other in the floor-length mirror inside her room. Her outfit was cobbled together, but she didn’t think anyone would be able to tell. The jeans were her own, but the rest was borrowed, mostly from her friend Rachel. The black boots were scuffed, the white tank top frayed at the hem, and the jacket had belonged to Rachel’s ex-boyfriend: black leather that swallowed her whole.
It would have to do.
She zipped the jacket up to her chin, tucked her lipstick and a twenty into her back pocket, and gave herself a stern look in the mirror.
“I’m going out,” she practiced. “I’ll be back before dark. Yes, I have money, and yes, you know who I’ll be with. Rachel’s mom’s number is on the fridge.”
Like the outfit, it would have to do.
This was the first Saturday in over a month that she didn’t have a commitment. When she wasn’t doing charity work for Future Business Leaders of America, she was tutoring elementary school children, or attending dreaded cotillion classes. Her calendar was a carefully crafted whirlwind of social (and therefore political) ladder-climbing. From the moment of her birth, her entire future had been planned out. Denise would accept nothing less than a surgeon, a lawyer, or a banker for a son-in-law. Her vision for Maggie included a mini-mansion, a new set of pearls each Christmas, and an unimpeachable reputation amongst the city’s elite.
