Page 76 of American Hellhound
“It’s fine,” he said, and walked through to the kitchen.
By the time he had a beer in his hand, and was flipping through the mail, silently panicking, she’d joined him.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, still miserable. “I know this is presumptuous. I was going to go to my friend Rachel’s house, but her mom heard about what happened.”
“What happened?”
She stared out through the cloudy window above the sink, arms banded tight around her middle like she was in pain. “Stephanie – the blonde from yesterday? – she told her mom some sob story about me hijacking our manicures so we could go buy weed off you guys. Said it was all my idea.”
“Fucking bitch.”
An unhappy smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “And then her mom called my mom. And.” Her voice quavered. “Of course my mom believes I’m the dope-smoking, biker-fuckingcommon slutof the neighborhood.”
The way she said it, Ghost knew her mother had used those exact words: common slut.
He’d never wanted to hit a woman so badly. “She threw you out?”
She blinked furiously and dabbed under her nose with a knuckle. “I threw myself out. I couldn’t…” She turned to him then, tears standing in her eyes. “I’m sorry I came here. You don’t need my problems. I just didn’t know–”
“Come here.” He set his beer down and gathered her in his arms. She tucked her face into the hollow of his throat and sagged against his chest. So easy, so willing to trust him and lean into him. “Don’t be sorry. It’s good you came here.”
“I should have–”
“No, sweetheart. You did perfect. I’m glad you’re here.”So I can make sure nothing else happens to you, he added to himself.
She shuddered hard and burrowed in even closer. He felt her fingers curl into the front of his shirt; felt the knobs of her spine against his palm as he rubbed her back; felt the warm rush of her breath across his collarbone. She was soft, and vulnerable, and so very alive in his arms, battling the tears she didn’t want to cry, shivering and clinging to him. It was the most perfect sensation – but hehatedthe reason she was here.
“Fucking bitch,” he said again, tightening his hold on her. Her parents could come pounding on his door right now and they’d have to crowbar him off their daughter. “You don’tdothat.” He was surprised by the anger in his voice. He was mad as hell. “You don’t throw your kid out. Not just her kid –you. Like you’ve ever done shit wrong in your life.”
She sniffled against his shirt. “Threw myself out, remember? And Ididget you to buy me beer.”
“That ain’twrong.”
To his delight, she laughed a little, her ribs jumping under his hand. “I think we might have different definitions of wrong.” She pulled back a fraction, which he hated, but she looked calmer, which pleased him. He’d made her laugh, helped her feel better. That was without question his biggest accomplishment of the past week.
“Yeah, we do. But you don’t treat family the way your mom treats you.” The way his own father, and now Duane, had treatedhim.
Maggie smoothed her hands down his shirt, reaching to finger a damp patch near the collar where her tears had soaked through. Whatever previous objections she’d had about touching him had vanished. Fatigue, defeat, and heartbreak had seemingly pushed her past the point of propriety.
“I can find somewhere else to go,” she offered.
A lock of hair had fallen down against her face and he tucked it back. “Absolutely not.”
She smiled up at him, and he was doomed.
~*~
Maggie offered to cook dinner. Given the state of the pantry, that ended up being mac & cheese with cut-up hotdogs. Aidan asked for seconds and took forever to go to bed, too excited to admit he was tired. Ghost finally got him tucked in at ten ‘til ten, and realized he was exhausted. As usual. And usually, he would grab another beer, his smokes, and settle in to stare blankly at the late night shows until it was time to move to his bed and stare up at the ceiling until just before the alarm sounded.
Tonight was different, though.
There was a beautiful, golden-haired girl at the kitchen sink, washing the dinner dishes. It struck him as odd: the way she dove right into things – feeding them, plunging her hands into his dirty old sink – when she was so superior to him in every way. Her breeding, her home life, her education, the expectations placed on her – she would have been within her rights to call him trash. But she didn’t; he didn’t think she was capable of such a thing.
“You don’t need to do that,” he said, propping a hip against the counter beside her.
“I don’t mind.” She reached to push her hair back with soapy fingers; it kept falling over her shoulders and obscuring her view of the dishes. Such a small, feminine gesture, and it drove him nuts.
“Here.” Before he could question his actions, he reached out and gathered the thick mass of her hair in one hand, held it in a loose ponytail at her nape. A few stray tendrils slid loose and he smoothed them behind her ear with a careful sweep of his thumb.
