Page 154 of American Hellhound
Denise smiled, a cruel lifting of her mouth. “Three. Don’t be late.”
~*~
Duane didn’t “clock in” for the day until after nine, which ordinarily wasn’t an issue since none of the rest of the guys ever dragged themselves to awareness before then anyway. Ghost didn’t care, though. He walked straight past the empty office and opened up Duane’s favorite dorm without knocking.
The smell hit him hard, sex and weed and unwashed clothes. The blinds were drawn, and it was dark as evening. He could just make out two figures in the bed, Duane and Jasmine, no doubt.
The sheets rustled and Duane pushed up on his elbows, squinting at Ghost. “Wha…?”
Ghost waved his loan paperwork. “I’ve got the money. I already called the construction company and they’re breaking ground Thursday, eight a.m.”
“Fuck,” Duane said, voice a croak. He sat all the way up, scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. His black dog tattoo was on his chest, stretched all the way across, like it was about to dive under his arm, faded gray from time and sun exposure. A tired old dog, just like the man who wore it.
Supercharged by anger and grief, high on coffee, Ghost felt as fresh and black as his own inked dog, the superior monster in this battle of wills.
Duane blinked a few times and stared at him, bleary-eyed. “What time is it? What are you doing?”
Ghost waved the papers again; they crackled. “Loan. I got one. Breaking ground Thursday. It’s ten ‘til nine now.”
Duane kept staring.
Beside him, Jasmine stirred with a groan, rolling onto her side, curling up in the fetal position. Her hair was fanned across the pillow and Ghost could see its dark roots showing through the bottle blonde.
“Who the hell gave you a loan?” Duane asked, frowning.
“The bank.”
“Bullshit.”
Ghost tossed the paperwork on the bed. “No. For real.”
Duane pretended he could read in the dim room, and finally shoved them back toward Ghost, scowling in earnest now. “You’re really doing this?”
“You said I could if I got the money together, and I did.” Ghost smiled. It was humorless, because he hurt too bad to smile for real, but satisfying nonetheless.
Duane fumbled for a pack of smokes and a lighter on the nightstand, lit one up. The sharp cigarette smell was a welcome mask for the room’s other scents. “I’m not gonna help you with this,” he finally said. “If it fails, I won’t bail you out.”
“I never expected you to.”
He nodded. “Alright.”
“What’s going on?” Jasmine mumbled, and Ghost took the chance to slip out, relief pounding through him like a second pulse.
He’d been so afraid Duane would try to shut him down again, rip up the papers Ghost now clutched to his chest like a lifeline. Petrified that he’d lost Maggie for nothing.
Not lost, she’d said. Just a temporary separation.
But that was a child’s naïve hope. Separations were never temporary.
He walked out of the clubhouse all juiced up with adrenaline with nowhere to go. Without the day’s roster, he couldn’t make any drops, and with the garage still just a paper concept, he had nothing legitimate to do.
He was just starting to think he ought to go home and bust out the vacuum when a bike pulled up beside his: Roman.
“Hey,” Roman said, and it wasn’t so much a greeting as a question.
“Hey,” Ghost said, reaching for his helmet.
“You’re here early.”
