Page 34 of American Hellhound
He almost didn’t recognize her. Almost. She wore khaki slacks and loafers, a red sweater and a wool coat that had to cost more than his entire wardrobe. Her golden hair was pulled back in the front, and fell in loose waves down her back. Diamonds glittered at her earlobes. The rebellious girl in her scuffed boots had been replaced by a respectable, wealthy socialite, and the transformation hit him hard, harder than he wanted to acknowledge.
He glanced down at his grease-spattered jeans, his cracked harness boots. He’d tugged on a semi-fresh sweatshirt that morning, but over the same t-shirt he’d had on yesterday.
Beside him, Aidan dragged his little sneaker-clad feet, breathing raggedly through his mouth. His hand felt sticky inside Ghost’s, clammy with sickness sweat.
Last night, inside the shell of Hamilton House, fueled by whiskey and the vivid black of her eyeliner, Maggie had seemed somehow attainable. He’d felt like themanin that situation, totally in control, worldly, superior even.
But now, with her dripping money and him dripping kid germs…he felt like something she might scrape of the bottom of her expensive shoe.
She stood in the middle of the sidewalk, arms folded, in their way. There was nothing to do but walk on and go around her.
Like a coward, he kept his head ducked until the last minute, only meeting her gaze when they were almost on top of her.
“Hey,” he muttered, and wanted to leave it at that.
But up close, he could see that Maggie didn’t look disapproving or superior. Same as last night, she looked concerned, her gaze flicking from his face down to Aidan.
“Hi,” she greeted. “You guys okay?”
Aidan tipped his head back – Ghost saw the sheen at the end of his runny nose – and looked up at Maggie. If there was such a thing as love at first sight, it happened to Aidan, though his eyes retained that careful, shuttered look that children of divorce perfected.
“Yeah,” Ghost said, hating the embarrassed roughness of his voice. “Just leaving the doc in a box.”
“Oh no,” Maggie said, and she sounded sincere. “What’s the verdict?”
“Strep throat.”
“Ugh. I’m sorry,” she told Aidan. “You must feel crummy.” Then to Ghost: “They write him a prescription?”
“Yeah. On the way to fill it now.”
“Good.”
So awkward.
For him, anyway. Maggie looked gorgeous, and worried, and perfectly lovely in all ways. He had no idea what to do with that.
Ghost told himself that he needed to say something else, something polite, some kind of small talk shit. But his tongue glued itself to the roof of his mouth.
Maggie, though, had no such problem. She smiled down at Aidan and said, “Hi there. My name’s Maggie.” She didn’t crouch down to his level, didn’t baby-talk him. Just looked right at him like he was a person, instead of a kid. He’d never seen anything like it. On the rare occasion he had Aidan at the clubhouse, the groupies wanted to pet him, and coo at him, and pull him into their laps. Like he was a Chihuahua instead of a little human.
Once again, Maggie sidestepped his expectations when it came to women.
Aidan sniffled and said, “Hi, I’m Aidan.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Aidan. I hope you start feeling better soon.”
“Thanks.”
Ghost finally peeled his tongue loose and said, “What are you doing?” Like a dumbass.
She lifted her brows in question.
He gestured to the street around them. “Here,” he added, still like a dumbass.
She understood, though. “Oh. I was shopping with my mom.” She made a face, nose scrunching up. It was cute. “I needed a break. Gonna go grab a Coke.”
“Mommy issues again,” he said, and felt something inside him unclench, his nerves dissipating.
