Page 27 of American Hellhound
By the time he got home from his pharmacy-errand-turned-impromptu-makeout-session, Aidan had been in worse shape, fitfully dozing on the couch, his fever raging. He’d thrown up again, Jackie said, and Ghost had felt immeasurably guilty that the poor woman had been the one to hold a bowl for the kid. Though, thankfully, that meant there was no mess to clean up. They’d roused Aidan long enough to dose him with Tylenol, and Jackie had used a flashlight and a lot of coaxing to show Ghost Aidan’s inflamed tonsils.
“I think he’s gonna need to go see the doc,” she’d said, an apology in her voice. “It might be strep.”
Ghost spent an hour going back and forth with the nurse at the pediatrician’s office, being told the doctor was all booked up for the day and that they couldn’t see Aidan until in the morning.
Around three, Aidan managed another dose of Tylenol, some heated up tomato soup, and the Skittles Ghost brought. When he threw up fifteen minutes later, he left a multi-colored stain of Skittles barf on the carpet that no amount of Resolve had been able to remove.
At eight, Duane called to both demand where he’d been all day, and insist that he had a job tonight.
“My kid…” Ghost started.
“I’ll send someone to watch him,” Duane said, and hung up.
Which was why an airhead chick who went by Juicy Jeana around the club was currently babysitting Aidan, and Ghost had a pocketful of weed when he pulled up to Hamilton House.
What was his life these days?
There was a party in full swing, battered cars – and a handful of sweet rides – were parked at odd slants in the driveway, poised for a quick getaway. The sagging porch was host to two tapped kegs, colorful plastic cups lined up along the railings, waiting to be filled. The windows shone a dim gold, the house lighted by the usual assortment of lanterns and Kliegs; there hadn’t been electricity in the falling-down antebellum house for a generation.
When he cut the FXR’s engine, he could hear the murmur of voices coming from inside, shrill laughter and excited shouts. He felt ancient, suddenly, standing here tired and grouchy, the only adult on the premises. It seemed like only yesterday that he’d been sixteen and swigging beer in the mildewed rooms of this house, totally careless. And now his mind was filled with worry, his shoulders sore beneath his current weight of responsibility.
He took a deep breath through his nostrils – smell of mold, of old plaster, of water damage, of the sharpness of night – and let it out through his mouth, breath pluming white. The sooner he dealt out his stash, the sooner he could collect Duane’s money and get back home, he reasoned. With that thought, he climbed the porch steps and entered the party.
~*~
Given her mother’s penchant for running her life, Maggie hadn’t been to that many parties. So she wasn’t one to judge, but, well…as far as parties went…this one waslame.
The Peterson brothers were Knoxville High seniors who lacked enough credits to graduate. Knowing they’d be stuck in the city at least another year, they’d given up all hope of turning into responsible young adults and thrown all their efforts toward smoking as much weed as possible. At least, that’s the way it looked from an outside perspective. Maggie thought her own mother-planned existence was extreme, but this one was too. Only…much less productive. The Petersons liked to have parties, but lacked the mental faculties to plan or carry out good ones. This one had beer, some stale Cheetos no one could pay her to touch, and old construction lights set up in the living room that threw spooky shadows up onto the second-story ceiling above the double staircases.
Maggie trolled the lower level of the house with her hands in her pockets, unimpressed with the night, with the way Rachel had abandoned her in favor of a “cute boy,” and with being sixteen in general. She actually wished she’d stayed home.
That was until…
“Alright, you little shits,” a familiar, gruff voice announced from the center of the living room. “Who’s got my money?”
Maggie whirled around, and there was Ghost, backlight by the Kliegs, his silhouette harsh and handsome. He was dressed the same as before, in a black shirt with the sleeves pushed up, his cut, and tight jeans. He had a brown paper bag in one hand, and scanned the faces around him with a scowl.
Maggie couldn’t look away from him, assaulted by a tangle of confusion, curiosity, disapproval, and doubt. Why was he here? Was this going to turn into a Lean Dogs party? And if it did, how wild was it going to get?
When his gaze landed on her, she saw a little jolt move through him, a flicker of tension in his arms, his neck. His brows jumped. But then he moved on, eyes moving to the next face, and the next.
She let out a slow, shaky breath, and she swore the whiskey in her jacket grew just a little heavier. Like it recognized its master and wanted to return to him.
Or maybe she was projecting her own thoughts onto a damnbottle.
“Guys,” Ghost barked. “I don’t got all night. If you want the shit, I need the cash. Plain as that.”
Jacob Peterson coughed, and stepped forward, digging into his back pocket. “Yeah. I got the money.”
The shit. Drugs, then.
So Ghost was a drug dealer.
Her stomach soured.
Not wanting to stay and watch the transaction, or partake in what was to follow, she ducked out of the room, down the hallway and into the kitchen.
The entire house was a ruin, but in some ways the kitchen seemed the saddest. Rather than an empty shell, like the other rooms, the kitchen still bore the cabinets, island, and long plank table that had once served as the heart of the great house. Most of the cabinet faces had come off, or hung by a single hinge. The tile countertops had been busted up with crowbars, hammers, baseball bats, and whatever else teenage boys liked to smash things with, only a few scraps remaining to cover the plywood bases. Every surface was coated in dust, grit, and bits of ceiling plaster that had crumbled and fallen. The floor was littered with cigarette butts, crumpled plastic cups, beer cans, crunchy leaves, syringes, and a broken lighter or two. The room was lit with candles tonight, and the flickering light only furthered the haunted atmosphere. More than any other room, this was the one that felt full of ghosts to her.
