Page 93 of American Hellhound
“Uh-huh.”
He showed it to her.
“My apologies, then.” She sat down at the cast iron table.
Aidan shut the lid on the grill and joined her. “How–” he started, then winced and reached back to pull his gun from his waistband.
“Don’t shoot yourself.”
“Way to ruin the night, right?” He set the Smith & Wesson on the table and resettled. “How are you feeling?”
“You know. Kinda shitty. Tolerable.” She shrugged and flicked a fingernail against her Sprite can. “Craving something stiffer.”
“Dude. That sucks.”
She glanced over at him, his sympathetic expression, the little notch between his brows she remembered from his boyhood. She smiled. “It’s well worth it, though,” she assured. “I can’t complain about bringing another Teague into the world.”
He rolled his eyes, but there was color in his cheeks. A pleased sort of embarrassment. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Hey,” she said, sobering. “I mean it.”
“Yeah.”
“Aidan.”
He looked at her then, soft brown eyes and curly dark hair, and the spitting image of his daddy.
“Are you okay?” she asked him.
He made a face. “Yeah.”
“No. I mean.” She ghosted a hand over her stomach. “With having a new sibling, I mean.”
Another face. This one thoughtful…then sweet. “It’s your kid, Mags. I don’t get a say.”
“But.”
“But.” He sighed. “I want Dad to be good to this one. Not like he was with me and Ava.”
“Oh, baby.” She reached to cover his hand with hers.
“I just,” he started.
“I know.” Then: “It’ll be okay.”
“I hope so.”
~*~
“You stole a girl.”
“And her brother.”
Between the cabin’s main living space and the bunk room was a sad linoleum kitchen. A folding table and chairs. This meeting, with two old rivals squared off, echoed that morning’s sit-down with the Saints. But this time, the air smelled of desperation.
Roman was a man undone, hand cupped around the back of his neck, tawny hair falling onto his forehead. He seemed older, suddenly, lined and tired, the stubble on his jaw silver under the dim antler chandelier.
Beside him, the girl sat close enough for their elbows to touch, her thin shoulders hunched, like she was trying to fit inside Roman’s shadow – and hide there. She wasn’t just slender, Ghost saw, but underfed, her face hollow, her eyes slick and frightened.
