Page 115 of American Hellhound
Ghost head-butted him. Which gave him just enough time to take a firmer hold of his gun and smash it down across Neil’s face once, twice, three times. Then he went limp beneath him.
He sat up on his knees, side blazing with pain, and felt the warm touch of a gun muzzle against the back of his neck. “You started this,” he said, proving to himself that he wasn’t willing to beg, even in the face of death.
A gunshot exploded, echoing off the walls. But Ghost was still alive, still on his knees, his breath caught in his lungs. Roman stood in front of him, his gun still aimed over Ghost’s head.
There was a muffled thump as the man behind him hit the ground.
“One got away,” Roman said, and Ghost heard an engine turn over outside. The Jeep, by the sound of it.
Justin sat up and said, “Uh…what just happened?”
~*~
All the windows were lit up at James and Bonita’s place, a cozy glow that striped the lawn. It didn’t look like the sort of house where a Lean Dog would live – at least not a Lean Dogs of today. It was Ghost’s dream to see the club as something vital and important in this city. But they’d have to become something besides unsuccessful drug dealers first.
The slice on his side had managed to clot on the ride from the factory, but he felt it open back up when he swung off the bike. A sharp pain, a well of hot blood that began a slow trickle down his stomach. Damn – he was lightheaded, too. He clapped a hand to the wound and headed up the sidewalk, staggering like a drunk.
James answered the door in a robe and slippers. Arobe and slippers. Ghost stood there with his blood seeping through his fingers and goggled.
James’s gaze swept him head to toe. If the numbness in his face was anything to go by, his bruises were already impressive.
“Jesus, son, what happened?”
Ghost opened his mouth to answer and a grunt came out instead. Oh. His side hurtbad. And…yeah, he was passing out.
“Shit,” James said, and Ghost felt a strong pair of arms around him before his vision went black.
He didn’t lose consciousness completely, was aware of being shuffled down the hall, managed to take a few steps of his own, albeit leaning on James. When his vision cleared, he was stretched out on a bed, Bonita standing over him, brows knit with concern.
“Pobrecita,” she lamented, clucking. “What happened?”
She was in high-waisted slacks and a pristine white shirt with the sleeves folded back, hardly a nursemaid candidate. Even on a relaxed evening at home, her makeup was flawless, her dark hair a shimmery curtain down her back. He couldn’t tell if she was more concerned for him, or her furniture.
“Shit,” Ghost said, with every intention of sitting up, not wanting to bleed all over her fancy bedspread – she was definitely more worried about the furniture, he decided – but pain lanced through his midsection, and he wasn’t going anywhere.
“No, no.” Bonita waved him back down with a scowl. “Stay.” Over her shoulder: “James!”
“Here I am.” He entered the room carrying a first aid kit with a red cross on the side. “You dying?” he asked Ghost. Coming from Duane, the same question would have been sneering, condescending, maybe even hopeful. But from James it was only kind, concerned, meant to make light of the scenario as a means to take Ghost’s mind off the pain.
It worked. Ghost forced a grin. “Not yet I don’t think.”
James set the kit down on a desk that looked decorative, with its dainty chair and crystal drawer-pulls. The kit’s lid clattered against the wood, the sound out of place amidst the silk lilies and vanilla candles.
“Shirt off,” Bonita instructed.
Which proved more difficult than he thought, what with not being able to sit upright and all. At one point, the collar got stuck on his ear and Bonita nearly ripped it off.
James crammed a wadded-up towel against his injured side to staunch the blood flow. “Honey,” he addressed Bonita, “why don’t you go get Ghost one of those pills and something to wash it down with?”
She harrumphed, but complied, high-heels clipping across the floor as she retreated.
When she was gone, James sat down at his hip, alcohol and cotton balls in-hand. “What happened?”
Ghost winced at the feel of the first dab. “Deal gone wrong.”
“I figured.”
“It was the Ryders.”
