Page 99 of American Hellhound
Ghost swallowed with difficulty. “No.”
“Then what is she? Your live-in maid?”
“No.”
This time the sigh slipped out. “Ghost.”
Ghost raised a finger. “No. Don’t ‘Ghost’ me. It’s fine.”
“What’s gonna happen when she has to go back home?”
He took another aggressive bite of sandwich. The idea made him furious. Go home? To her bitch mother and spineless father? Where no one told her how gorgeous and good and wonderful she was? Where he couldn’t pull her down into his lap on the couch, and climb over her in bed? Unthinkable.
But it was logical. And inevitable. Because he knew that what they were doing, playing house and pretending that it was normal, couldn’t last. Something would have to change.
“I don’t–” Collier started, and the door flung open behind them, cutting him off.
“Kenny, get in here.” Duane wasn’t a yeller. He never shouted, red in the face, veins popping in his temples. He didn’t have to.
Years ago, Ghost had watched him confront a prospect about product that he was supposed to sell, and instead smoked. After the kid blubbered his confession in front of everyone, Duane put a hand on his shoulder and forced him down to his knees. “Please,” the prospect said, tears filling his eyes. Duane had unzipped his jeans, pulled his cock out, and pissed all over the boy’s face.
There were so many ways to break a man. Ghost’s father had used his fists; his uncle was more creative.
Ghost crammed the last bite of sandwich into his mouth and turned to face the man.
Duane beckoned him with a hand.
There was nothing to do but wave toward his lunch, a silent request for Collier to watch it, and follow.
The clubhouse was cool and dim, sour-smelled, and trashed, like always. Duane seemed unbothered by this, stepping over a mess of spilled peanuts and a flurry of white cocktail napkins. Ghost was shocked they even had napkins, if he was honest.
They bypassed the hall and headed for the office. Ghost’s stomach tightened when he realized what was about to happen.
He lingered in the doorway, hand catching at the jamb, while Duane went around the desk, swung open the framed photo of the original London chapter that hung there, and spun the dial on the wall safe behind it.
It was a big safe, lots of shelf space. Stash on the lower, cash on the upper.
Duane ran a finger along the edge of the top shelf. “I was counting the money,” he said, voice untroubled. “And I came up two-hundred short.” He turned, shooting Ghost a deceptively mild look, finger still hooked on the shelf. Without inflection, he said, “Explain it to me.”
Ghost swallowed. He wanted to lie. A dozen, half-believable fibs built in his throat, crowded together on his tongue. The truth could be a very dangerous thing when it came to Duane.
But he had to tell it.
“I took it. I had to pay Ma–” He caught himself. “It was personal. I’m sorry. I’ll replace it as soon as I can.”
“The girl,” Duane said, and Ghost broke out in cold chills. “The one you gave the car to.” His eyes took on a frightening shine. “Heard she got picked up and you had to bail her out.”
Duane had never met Maggie, and Ghost had been careful to never speak of her in his presence. The Monte Carlo was parked out back, sure, but Duane shouldn’t have known any of the details.
Roman.
Ghost’s hands curled into fists. “Yes,” he said, because the gig was up. And because he might be stupid, but he didn’t have a death wish: “It won’t happen again.”
Duane let his hand fall to his side. He stepped away from the wall, turning back toward Ghost. A slow, nasty grin broke across his face.
Ghost hated that smile; gooseflesh rippled down his arms.
“I heard she’s just a kid,” he said, leering now, enjoying himself. “Still in high school.”
