Page 66 of American Hellhound
The sheets rustled as he shifted up onto an elbow, and then over her, bracketing her with forearms and thighs. He had a crease on his face from the pillow, his eyes still heavy-lidded and sleepy. Maggie loved him like this, shirtless and warm and easy.
His mouth hovered over hers – sour morning breath – and then his cellphone rang.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “It’ll keep.”
Maggie leaned upward into the kiss, mouth open against his.
The phone rang again.
“Jesus,” Ghost muttered as he pulled back, looking thoroughly aggravated.
“Twice in a row,” Maggie said.
“Yeah, yeah.” He rolled off of her to answer it. “Yeah?” he answered.
In the silence that followed, Maggie felt the first stirrings of unease.
“Yeah. Be there soon. No, don’t call the cops,” Ghost said, and hung up.
Maggie turned her head on the pillow and watched the muscles ripple in his back as he took a deep breath.
“Get dressed.”
~*~
Ghost didn’t want her to come in, but like hell was she not going to see it with her own eyes. Rottie and Carter shifted to let her through, and then the nausea she hadn’t felt all morning crashed over her, hard.
Her office had been trashed.
Everything on the desk had been swept to the floor, including the phone and computer. Each drawer had been upended: thumbtacks, staples, pencils, loose change, and granola bars were everywhere. The wastebasket was kicked over. The file cabinets were locked, thankfully, so the customer information was safe. It was a mess, but like all messes, could be picked up.
What bothered her the most – frightened her – were the words spray-painted across the blank stretch of wall where her calendar had hung:Lean Bitch.
Walsh and Ghost stood in the center of the small room, hands on their hips, surveying the damage.
“Mostly superficial,” Walsh said, and then eyed the spray paint. “I’ll get a hangaround to cover that up.”
“I don’t get it,” Maggie said, and they both looked up, startled. Why, she didn’t know – Ghost shouldn’t have expected her to actually stay outside.
Ghost lifted a questioning eyebrow.
“It’s stupid,” she said, willing her heartrate to slow. In her experience, getting mad was a whole lot more productive that getting scared. “Look at that. Lean Bitch. Like I’m a groupie? Throw my shit all over the place and call me a slut? That’s what high school girls do, not rival clubs.”
“She’s got a point,” Walsh said.
“There’s not even a threat in all this.” She waved to the office around her. “It’s just inconvenient.”
Ghost made a face. “Security cameras?” he asked Walsh.
“Ratchet’s already pulling the footage.”
With a sigh, Maggie set her purse on top of a file cabinet, crouched down, and began gathering scattered printer paper.
“Babe, don’t do that,” Ghost said. “I’ll have one of the guys do it.”
“It’s my office. I’m the one who knows where everything goes,” she reasoned, even as her stomach rolled in protest. “Did whoever it was pick the lock?”
“Kicked in the door,” Walsh said. “I got the call from the alarm company after midnight, but decided not to bother you guys.”
