Page 68 of American Hellhound
Her hand moved automatically to shield her stomach.
~*~
Ghost had never in his life seen something like this. He wished he wasn’t seeing itnow; he blinked a few times, hoping it was a mirage that would fade. But no such luck.
Seventeen Harleys sat in front of his clubhouse, parked in a gleaming row. A motley collection of men of all ages – and levels of scruffiness – stood lighting smokes, darting comments to one another, and scrutinizing the compound through the lenses of their sunglasses. Their cuts labeled them as Dark Saints, Colorado chapter.
A man with a tidy salt-and-pepper beard stepped forward; he had a president patch sewn over his breast pocket.
Ghost saw his own men fan out beside him, a human wall blocking the entrance to the clubhouse. Mercy and Michael looked murderous. Walsh looked like he’d just bit into a lemon.
Ghost balled his hands into fists, felt the tendons leap in his arms.
Never, in all his years as a Lean Dog, had a rival club dared to venture onto their turf en masse like this.Never.
The bearded president made it within three feet of Ghost before Michael growled a warning low in his throat – the sound more dog-like than human. The president halted, hands held out to show he meant no harm – for all that that was worth.
“That’s close enough,” Mercy said, just to push the point home.
“Fine, fine,” the Dark Saints president said. “We ain’t here to start nothin’.”
Ghost sent him an unfriendly smile. “You understand, don’t you, that bringing your whole crew right to my front door could maybe look like an act of aggression to some people?”To me, he left unsaid.
The man shrugged. “I got no beef with you.” His expression saidyet. “I’m looking for one of your boys. Roman Mayer.”
“One of my boys? Roman hasn’t been a Lean Dog in over twenty years.”
The man looked like he almost smiled. “Well then. I think he’s got some things to explain to both of us.”
Sixteen
Then
“How’s the arm?”
Roman eased the shoulder of his flannel shirt down with a grunt, revealing the white edges of his bandage. “Better. Still hurts like a bitch.” He shot a grin across the table at Ghost. “It’s sweet you’re worried about me.”
“I’m not. Just don’t want you getting in the way this weekend.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll be there.” He blew a kiss.
Ghost turned his shoulder toward the asshole and caught sight of James walking in the front door. Thank Jesus.
“Hey.” Ghost surged to his feet, nearly spilling his coffee in the process, and headed for the VP. “Hey, can I talk to you a sec?”
James dumped his saddle bags on the nearest table and smiled. “Can’t even let a man get some breakfast first?” he asked in a teasing voice.
At another time, Ghost might have felt guilty, but now he pressed on. “Only a sec. Then I’ll put some waffles in the toaster for you.”
“Chef Teague, here.” He clapped Ghost on the shoulder in the familiar, almost-paternal way he had with all of them. “Alright. Where you wanna do this?”
Ghost turned him by the elbow and steered him back out the door.
“Jeez, you’ve got a hair up your ass this morning,” James said once the door had thumped shut behind them. He reached in his back pocket for his smokes. “Everything alright?”
Ghost heaved a sigh. “That’s a loaded question.”
James lifted his brows as he lit up.
