Page 235 of American Hellhound
Over in the doorway, Harry hid a smile in his hand.
“Show a lady the proper respect,” Denise continued. “Honestly, you bikers all need to take etiquette classes.” She gave a decisive nod, pleased with her reprimand.
Roman stared at her, dumbfounded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Kristin popped to her feet, cheeks scarlet, and hurried to the vending machines in the corner. She made no move to buy anything; stood staring at the candy bar selection, hugging herself.
After a few minutes, Maggie let go of her mother’s hand and stood. “Be right back.”
She watched Kristin’s reflection in the glass as she approached, saw the pinched brows, the lip drawn between her teeth.
“Candy craving?” Maggie asked, drawing up beside her, a dollar held out in offering.
Kristin didn’t take it. Low, forcing Maggie to lean in close to hear, she said, “It’s my fault.” Her face was a jumble of guilt, fear, and sadness. “I’m sorry.”
“What’s your fault?”
“Why we’re not…” She bit her lip so hard it went white. “I know Roman wants…but I’m not…”
“Honey,” Maggie said, filled with sympathy. “That’s not something you need to feel sorry about. You don’t owe a man that. Nobody does.”
“I care about him,” she whispered.
“Of course you do.” Maggie her arm across her shoulders; they were shaking. “He’s been really good to you.” And hehad; she didn’t like him, but she gave Roman credit for getting Kris and Reese away from the Saints. He couldn’t be irredeemable after something like that. Unless…
“He’s not pressuring you, is he?”
“No,” Kristin said. “No, he’d never. He’s…” She sighed. “I don’t know,” she said, miserable. “I want to make him happy. I know he’s not.”
Maggie wanted to tell her that Roman Mayer had never been happy, probably not at any point in his fifty-plus years of life. She said, “Is that why you came today? You wanted to make him happy?”
Her eyes cut over, white-rimmed, frightened. “I’m afraid Badger’s gonna attack the clubhouse. I didn’t want to be there.” Shame-faced, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”
Maggie sighed. “You don’t have to be sorry for that either.”
~*~
Three trucks full of Dogs pulled up to Ian’s funeral home headquarters to find the parking lot full of vans and bikes, with not a customer in sight. That at least was a blessing.
A loose knot of men stood inside a ring of vehicles. Even before he got out of the truck, Ghost could see Alec, the standout figure, in stylish shirt and slacks, his hair shiny with product, his glasses reflecting the afternoon sun. One glimpse of his face was enough to feel his terror, feel a sympathetic lurch in his chest.
“Shit,” Ghost said. Then, to the others in the truck: “Priority one is getting this kid away from them. After that, anything goes. I want Badger. I wanna watch him kick off myself.” And get him to explain why the hell he was doing all this.
“Yeah,” Walsh said.
Michael cracked his knuckles.
~*~
The shame of it was, once upon a time, Vince had loved his job. The idea of it, at any rate. He’d come from a kind family, if not a wealthy one. A law-abiding, play-by-the-rules family. College was never an option with his budget, but law enforcement had called to him. His city, though beautiful and bountiful, had a dark element. A seedy underbelly that grew, unchecked and violent, beneath the city’s football-loving, college-bound surface. A dark element he’d witnessed firsthand on a sidewalk outside Bell Bar, when a sly and wicked biker stole Maggie Lowe right out from under him. A biker who continued to haunt his every step.
There hadn’t been a single night since it happened that he hadn’t dreamed of the day he shot Amy Richards. He saw it vividly, the way she crumpled, heard the startled, breathy gasp as the bullet pierced her body. Not dreams, but nightmares, the kind that sent him lurching awake in the dead of night, nauseous, sweaty, heart trying to beat its way through his ribs. Nightmares that had him reaching for the bottle again and again.
He was Ghost Teague’s bitch these days. That in and of itself wasn’t the shameful part – it was the fact that hedeservedto be. He’d toed the line every step of the way, his whole life, justified in his sense of superiority. Every day…until that day with Amy.
Turned out he was just as fallible and wicked as the rest of the world. Knoxville was crumbling, diseased at the roots. There was nothing he could do at this point, save try and tamp down some of Ghost’s collateral damage.
At least, that was what he’d told himself yesterday, deep in the bottle. Ghost being a righteous prick, like he had any kind of moral credibility.
