Page 44 of American Hellhound
The prospect’s eyes went to the bloody bandana tied around Roman’s arm. “Um…”
“Go get him. And then find someone who can patch him up.” He inclined his head toward Roman.
“Yes, sir.” He scampered away toward the back.
When they were alone again, Roman collapsed onto a bar stool with a groan. “Shit.”
“Hurts?” Ghost asked, and couldn’t bother to sound like he cared about the answer.
“What do you think?”
Ghost went around behind the bar, found the Jack…and not a clean glass in sight. He took a swig straight from the bottle and then slid it across the bar toward Roman, who took three long swallows and nodded his thanks.
The slow thump of footsteps announced someone coming down the hall – but not Duane. Duane was silent as a cat, and had a knack for walking in on his boys slacking or shit-talking or doing any number of things that displeased him.
Hound appeared, scratching a hand through his sandy hair, eyes taking in the scene without any outward interest. A veteran Dog, their tracker, he had long ago learned not to let his thoughts show on his face. He would walk into a scene of mayhem the same way he’d walk into his own kitchen at home.
“Y’all’ve been out late,” he commented as he joined them at the bar. He lit a smoke and reached for the whiskey. Roman took one last sip before he handed it over.
“Business went a little south,” Ghost said. “We needed to check in with Duane.”
Hound snorted. “Last I heard, he was enjoying that new blonde groupie.”
Ghost couldn’t contain his sneer. “She’s young enough to be his kid.”
“Big surprise,” Duane’s voice said from the mouth of the hallway, and Ghost forced himself not to jump. “Kenny doesn’t approve of something. You didn’t seem to give a shit about propriety when you had her in your bed.”
On another night, Ghost would have averted his eyes and kept quiet. Challenging Duane never turned out well for anyone. But Ghost was tired, and he wanted to go home, and a part of him wished (evilly) that Roman’s GSW had been a little less benign. He also didn’t wish that at all, because it would have forced him to call 911.
So he said, “Yeah, well, I’m not an old creeper.”
It was silent a beat, and then Roman hissed a shaky laugh through his teeth that could be blamed on being in pain.
Duane shrugged and stepped deeper into the room, face giving nothing away. His eyes, though, when they flicked up briefly to touch Ghost’s, were murderous. It was the most disconcerting thing about the man, the way he could wear two expressions at once.
Hound cleared his throat, injecting himself into the tense moment as a buffer. “The boys ran into some trouble tonight, it looks like.”
Ghost snorted.
“Looks like,” Duane agreed, gaze going to Roman. “The bullet still in you?”
“Nah. Don’t think so.”
“Call the doc,” Duane told Ghost. “Where’s the stash?”
Ghost patted his pocket. “Still got it. The buyer didn’t show. Or, if he did, he shot at us.”
Duane lifted his brows expectantly.
“He’s dead.”
“Huh. Guess you owe me a customer, then.”
Ten
Then
“The doc” was Dr. Fletcher, a local GP whose son had found himself in deep drug debt with the club. Duane had turned up on the good doctor’s doorstep one night to explain how much he was owed…and to suggest that, as payment, Fletcher would make himself available as the club’s medic whenever needed, free of charge. It had turned out to be a good bargain – for the Dogs, anyway. Ghost had a feeling Dr. Fletcher was slowly going insane.
