Page 48 of American Hellhound
“Ghost–” she started.
“You’resixteen?” he hissed.
Somehow, her face went paler, chalky-white.
“I–”
Ghost tore his gaze away from her; it felt like a physical effort. “Ma’am,” he addressed the mother. “I’m sorry. I won’t bother you anymore.” And he spun around and marched for his truck, heart threatening to beat right out of his chest.
~*~
Denise didn’t start truly yelling until they got inside, behind locked doors and windows, so none of the neighbors could hear. Maggie thought they could probably hear anyway.
The thing about her mother’s yelling fits was they were impossible to pay attention to. All the words – all the claims to morals and values and family pride – ran together after a certain point, and it was just white noise. The yapping of a neurotic dog.
She sat on the couch with her hands linked together in her lap, nodding at intervals, eyes glazed over. Her mind wasn’t here, in yet another denigrating moment, while her father sat in the next room and did nothing. No, it was with Ghost somewhere, back at his tiny apartment where he’d returned with Aidan. Where he probably didn’t want her to ever be again.
The way he’dlookedat her. Like he hated her. Like he couldn’t get away fast enough.
“…are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Honey,” Arthur said, easing his way into the threshold. “Maybe–”
“No!” Denise rounded on him, hair flying at crazy angles. “Did you see that man? The cops knew him by name!” She turned back to Maggie, eyes flashing like something out of a horror movie. “That is not some-some…some bad boy from school, Margaret. He’s acriminal!”
Maggie strove to keep her face neutral. Technically, yes, Ghost was breaking the law, what with the drug-selling and whatnot. But she couldn’t make herself call him acriminal, not even in her head.
“Do you understand that?” her mom demanded.
She let out a deep, shaky breath. “Yes, Mom, I understand.”
Eleven
Now
“Do we still have his credit card on file?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Holly said from the doorway, bright autumn sun highlighting her hourglass shape.
Maggie nodded. At the moment, nausea wasn’t crippling her and she was cramming in as much office time as she could muster. “Go ahead and charge him, then, and we’ll–”
A hand landed on Holly’s waist, just as a shadow blotted out the sun. And judging by the terror that overwhelmed Holly’s expression, it wasn’t Michael.
“Hey there, darlin’,” an unfamiliar voice said. “Mind if I slip through?” The shadow shifted, crowded a petrified Holly against the jamb, and stepped into the office. That was when Maggie realized the voice wasn’t so unfamiliar after all.
Roman was older – they all were – but his hair was still that shaggy, sandy lion’s mane, and he still had those sharp, coin-worthy features. Where Ghost had been dark and dangerous, Roman had always been charming; he could smile the panties off a girl in five minutes flat.
Not that it had ever worked on Maggie, though.
Her stomach tightened, and she wondered if it was her morning sickness rallying, or just nerves. Guess she’d find out if she had to heave over the wastebasket.
“Roman,” she said, coolly, giving him the look that sent prospects scrambling to open doors and carry groceries for her.
Roman propped a shoulder against a filing cabinet, folded his arms, and got comfy. His grin was still lazy and cutely crooked. “Well, Miss Maggie. Look at you. All grown up finally.”
In the doorway, Holly lingered, a white-knuckled hand gripping the doorframe, eyes darting between the two of them. She made no move to leave, though, concerned about this stranger’s intentions. Maggie almost told her to go – almost. And decided at the last second that a witness wouldn’t be a bad idea.
