Page 24 of American Hellhound
“I figure a real Lean Dog knows plenty about drinking,” she shot back. “Yeah, I trust you.”
He had the sudden, inexplicable urge to make her regret that statement.
“Go around the side,” he said. “Wait for me there.”
“Okay.”
He entered the store grinning to himself. There were days – a lot more days than he liked to admit – that he wished he could rewind his life and go back to the time when getting beer was his biggest worry of the day. Those two girls would have larger problems soon enough; he wasn’t going to be an adult about this. Let them drink, let them have a little fun, he thought.
He grabbed a six-pack of Bud Light – because they didn’t need to havetoomuchfun in the middle of the day – and a bottle of Jack for himself. He didn’t have any at home, and he figured he’d need it by the end of the day.
Bobby was working the register, and he greeted Ghost with familiarity. “Heard it was a hell of a party last night,” he said with a suggestive eyebrow waggle.
“Now where would you hear that, Bobby?”
“I got my sources.”
“You should come one night.”
Bobby laughed. “Nah. My girl would kill me.” He bagged the six-pack and bottle and pushed them across the counter. “You have fun, though.”
“Always do.”
Ghost pulled to an abrupt halt in front of the glass door on his way out. Caught off guard by his dim reflection.
He carried a bag in each hand. In one: whiskey and beer. In the other: his sick son’s medicine. The sad absurdity of his life hit him anew. Twenty-seven and divorced, a single father, an angry Army vet with a drinking problem, a shitty apartment, no future prospects, and a bad habit of falling into bed with women whose names he didn’t know. When he woke up each morning, it was with a sick ball of dread lodged at the base of his throat. He looked forward to nothing but the next toke, next drink, next release. He couldn’t remember what happiness looked, sounded, or tasted like.
It was a waste of a life.
And staring at his own pathetic reflection, he was furious about it.
He shoved the door open too hard, so hard it swung back on its hinges and nearly collided with the brick that served as a doorstop in the warm months.
“Hey,” Bobby protested.
The little blonde was waiting for him, as instructed, around the end of the building, leaning back against the cinderblocks with one booted foot braced behind her, a fresh cigarette burning between her fingers.
Stupid little bitch, he thought, viciously. Standing there in the middle of the damn day, ruining her lungs, giving money to total strangers. She was young, there was nothing wrong with her life, and she was already trying to fuck it up. What a waste. What a goddamnwaste.
“Hey,” he said, sharply, and her head snapped around. “I got your beer.” He set the bags down and reached into the Hiram’s one for the six-pack. “Where’s your friend?” His voice was rough. He sounded like an old man, like his father, like Duane. He was just soangry, suddenly.
“A cop drove past and she got spooked,” the girl said with an airy shrug. But Ghost could read the tension in her shoulders. She was spooked too, but was pushing through. Proving something to herself, or some shit.
“Not you, though, huh?” Ghost stepped over the bags and into her personal space, right up close. She had to press her back to the wall and tip her head back to look up and meet his stare. All he saw were the lenses of the Ray-Bans…and the trembling, red bow of her mouth. She was spooked alright…scared to death. “You’re the brave one, right?” he pressed, leaning in close enough to smell the smoke on her breath.
“I…” she started, half-indignation, half-fear.
He reached up, one fast move, and pushed her sunglasses into her hair. Beneath them, her eyes were wide, shocked, a warm green-brown shot through with gold. They flicked back and forth across his face, trying to get a read on him. He could smell her shampoo, lotion, the faint chemical tang of her lipstick: feminine smells. He saw her pulse flutter at the base of her throat. Saw her nostrils flare as she took a deep breath.
There were a dozen things he could have said to her. But what came out of his mouth was: “What’s your name?”
~*~
One of the things Maggie had never understood about her friend Rachel was the way she seemed to be indiscriminately attracted to every man alive. Maybe it was hormones, or maybe it was a ruse in order to appear older and worldly, but she flirted shamelessly with everything male on two legs. She was always saying things like “isn’t he cute?” and “you should ask him out.” There appeared to be no pattern of age, looks, fitness level, or style. And when Maggie refused to “ask him out,” Rachel would shrug, tug her shirt down, and say, “Well then I will.”
If she was being honest, Maggie didn’t really give a damn about boys right now. Her whole life was locked down by her mother’s plans and expectations; the last thing she wanted was to trade her mother’s ideals for some boy’s. It was just another form of subjugation. She didn’t go on dates, didn’t make eyes at anyone, and shuddered when her cotillion class dance partners put their clammy hands on her waist. Maybe some day she’d feel a stirring of attraction for someone, but it hadn’t happened yet.
At least…it hadn’t happened prior to today.
