Page 39 of American Hellhound
“Kill or be killed?”
“Yeah.”
Ghost took a deep breath that did nothing to calm him. The worst part? Roman was right.
In theory, the club was built on the pure ideals of brotherhood, loyalty, and freedom. But in reality, the US mother chapter of the Lean Dogs was run by a tyrant who ruled with an iron fist. Duane had no old lady, no children, and no patience with family problems that interfered with club business. In some families, Ghost might have benefited from nepotism. But if anything, their blood relationship made Duane even more demanding. He didn’t hide his disdain for Ghost’s shortcomings in front of the rest of the guys, and it was no surprise some enterprising jackass like Roman was trying to take advantage of the situation. And why wouldn’t Duane love the kid? He was handsome, competent, bold on the back of a bike, handy with a gun, and first off the block when helpful suggestions were in order.
Ghost didn’t have the time, patience, or willingness to worry about rising in the club ranks. But he hated Roman’s guts, and the way the guy egged him on always left him feeling inept.
“It takes a majority vote to make someone an officer,” Ghost said with a sneer. “Maybe you ought to try and win the other guys over before you start gunning for me.”
Roman snorted. “The funny part is you think I haven’t already done that.”
“Fuck you,” Ghost said, because he was too exhausted and stressed to come up with anything better.
Roman grinned. “Back at you,brother.” He slipped his sunglasses down from his tawny hair and over his eyes. “Oh, and Duane wants to talk to you, by the way.”
“No he doesn’t.”
“Yeah. He sent me out to get you.”
And Roman had wasted a good half-hour of his time needling him.
“Fuck you,” Ghost said again, threw his rag down and stalked into the clubhouse.
He heard Roman chuckling behind him.
A part of him – as he made angry progress through the common room – thought Duane might actually be in the chapel for once. Ready to talk business in a businesslike setting. But no, of course not. Ghost found him in one of the first few dorm rooms, the door wide open.
Duane sat at the end of the bed, legs spread, a topless blonde groupie kneeling between his knees. She had her hands on his thighs, and given the way her head was bobbing – and the blissful expression on Duane’s face – Ghost knew what was happening.
He rapped loudly on the doorjamb as he entered, drawing Duane’s glazed, pleasure-heavy gaze.
“Uncle,” Ghost said, formally. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yeah,” Duane huffed. “Here, hold on, honey.” He pushed the girl back, but made no move to cover his shiny saliva-coated cock where it thrust from the vee of his unzipped jeans.
The girl shuffled around until Ghost could see her profile. It was the new, possibly-underage groupie he’d spent the night with that once, Jasmine. She wiped delicately at the corners of her mouth with a fingertip, gaze downcast, and stayed on her knees.
Ghost felt his lunch turn over in his stomach.
“I’ve got a job for you,” Duane said, pulling his attention. “You and Roman both, actually.”
Ghost tried not to make a face, but Duane’s chuckle told him he failed.
“Ah, come on. You’re gonna have to learn to get along with him eventually. No time like the present.”
“I work better with Collier,” Ghost said, unnecessarily.
“Yeah, but we’re all a part of the club. You can’t go playing favorites.”
You sure don’t, Ghost thought.
“You and him are gonna make a drop tonight,” Duane continued. “Wildflower Lane. Ten o’clock. I already gave Roman the address.”
“I can’t do ten. Aidan–”
“Get someone to watch the kid,” Duane said with a dismissive wave.
