Page 23 of American Hellhound
Two girls stood outside Hiram’s, shoulders braced against the concrete façade, wind playing with their hair. One was brunette, wore too much mascara, and regarded him with sullen defiance. The other one…
The other one was worth a second look.
She was blonde, and had a sweet face. Red lipstick. A too-big leather jacket, white tank top that clung to her breasts, tight-tight jeans. Her boots looked old and beat-up. She was smoking; he caught a glimpse of red nail polish as she lifted her cig and took a drag. In a physical sense, she was just like the groupies at the clubhouse. It was something else, something intangible, some aura she projected that raised the fine hairs on his arms – that was why he slowed down andreallylooked at her.
Her eyes came to his – wide, hazel – and lingered a beat too long. No smile, no wink, no pretend-seductive lip bite. He’d become so immune to the tactics of the groupies that her total lack of flirtation captured his attention. Her gaze swept down to his toes and then back up, lingering somewhere in the vicinity of the little crown patch sewn onto his breast pocket – the one that marked him as royal family. Being Duane’s only nephew had its perks, if you overlooked the burdens.
She was cute. She washot. But like hell did he need another female complication in his life. At least with the groupies there were no expectations. They traded sex for a little security and a place to crash. Real women – and he felt his lip curl when he thought of Olivia –wantedthings. Demanded them, and when they didn’t get them, left you for some other schmuck.
He kept walking.
He was three steps past them when a tentative voice called, “Sir?”
He should ignore her. He really should. But the edge of nervousness in her voice reached straight through his logical side and touched his hindbrain. It had been years since Olivia had spoken to him with anything besides frosty disapproval. The shy, uncertain lilt to this girl’s voice did things to his baser instincts.
“Sir?” she said again, and there couldn’t be any harm in seeing what she wanted, could there?
Ghost halted and turned around. “Yeah?”
The brunette snorted a laugh and turned her head away, muttering something into her hand.
The blonde stuck her cig in her mouth, slid a pair of black Ray-Bans into place, and took the cig back out again, exhaling a long, unsteady stream of smoke. “Can I ask you a favor?” Her voice was stronger this time, but he knew what the sunglasses meant: she was even more nervous now.
He felt one corner of his mouth tugging in a reluctant grin. “Depends on what the favor is. I got somewhere to be.”
She banded an arm across her middle, holding tight, but smiled, lifted her chin, and said, “Oh, it won’t take long. Promise. Just a quick favor.”
Ghost took a step toward her, and then another. Close enough to see the smattering of goosebumps across her chest. Close enough to see her throat jump as she swallowed. Close enough to see her tap ash off her cigarette with a nervous flick of her thumbnail. She was young, younger than he’d first thought. So many of the groupies slathered on the makeup and dyed their hair and tried to reclaim their glory days. This girl had smooth, smooth skin, pale as cream, a faint tracery of blue veins visible at the base of her throat. Her cheeks still had that faint hint of baby fat that meant she was younger than he was.
“Alright,” he said. “So long as it’s quick.”
She let out a breath that said she hadn’t expected him to agree. “Okay.” She reached into her back pocket, overlarge jacket gaping in front so he got a view of her narrow waist, and flared hips. She pulled out a folded twenty and extended it toward him. “We were hoping you could go in there” – tilt of her head back toward the building – “and buy us some beer.”
He wanted to laugh. Instead, he said, “You’re not twenty-one.”
“Not yet.” Her voice grew defensive. “Just…” She sighed. “Look, it’s dumb, okay, but we can’t buy any, and it’s not like there’s any at home for me to nick. So would you mind? Please? Mr…”
“Ghost.”
“Mr. Ghost?”
“Nah, that’s my club name, darlin’.”
The brunette turned around. “So you’re really a Lean Dog?” she asked, and then slapped a hand over her mouth like she couldn’t believe her own boldness.
He chuckled. “Yeah, really. And don’t be calling me ‘mister.’ Makes me feel old.”
The blonde nodded. “Fair enough. So will you do it?” She waggled the money at him. “You can keep the change.”
Ghost had never asked a stranger to buy him beer because he’d never had to. He’d grown up in the club, and alcohol had been available to him from an inappropriate age. He’d never had to leave home to get into trouble – homewastrouble.
But he knew other kids didn’t have it so easy. Strict parents and curfews and the constant threat of being grounded.
“Yeah.” He took the money from her. “What kind do you want?”
She shrugged. “I don’t care. Whatever’s good.”
“You trust my judgement?”
