Page 155 of American Hellhound
“Yeah.”
Roman stared at him. “Why?”
It felt good to say, “I got the loan,” and be smug with the guy for maybe the first time ever. Ghost had never had anything to gloat about before.
“Youdid?” Roman was shocked. “But…how?”
Ghost smiled. “Don’t worry about it.” He popped his helmet on –
And the clubhouse door opened.
Duane had thankfully put on pants. Shirtless, shading his eyes with one hand, he held out the other to Ghost, fingers flicking impatiently. “Let me see that again.”
Ghost hesitated. Beside him, he felt Roman stiffen, a note of fear that vibrated through the space between them. Poor idiot, Ghost thought – of Roman, and of himself. Everyone in Duane’s sphere was an idiot.
“Come on.”
By the time he reached his uncle, he’d figured out what he wanted. Throat tight, he feigned nonchalance and handed the loan paperwork over. With a clear view in the sun, Ghost knew right where his eyes went.
“Arthur Lowe,” Duane read, pinning Ghost in place with a look. “Who is that?”
“He cosigned.”
“Yeah, I can read. I asked who the fuck he is.”
“Does it matter?”
Ghost didn’t think anyone would have faulted him for wilting under his uncle’s glare. But he didn’t – he stared back, and said, “A friend.”
“It’s that girl of yours again, isn’t it? This is her dad?”
“No–”
“Don’t lie to me, Kenny! I know what her damn last name is. You think I wouldn’t? I knoweverything.”
Ghost ground his teeth and kept silent.
“What I can’t decide,” Duane continued, “is whether you’re stupid, or reckless. It’s bad enough to bring some spoiled civilian bitch around, but then you go and get her country club old man to cosign your goddamn loan.”
“She’s gone,” Ghost bit out, and Duane’s brows shot up. “She left, okay? We traded: Mags went home, and he signed the loan.”
Duane blinked a few times, and then laughed, one sharp, shocked punch of sound. “No shit?”
“No.”
He clapped Ghost on the shoulder. “There ya go. Alright then.”
~*~
“You wanna come over later?” Rachel asked, tentative, as they walked out the front doors of the school. Maggie could hear the reluctance in her voice; the fake-brave Rachel of a few months prior – always pushing Maggie toward boys and stealing her brother’s cigarettes – had been replaced by a girl who was very sixteen, and very uncertain about her friend’s lifestyle change.
“I can’t,” Maggie said, and saw Rachel’s shoulders slump with relief. “I’ve got an appointment.”
“Oh, okay.” Too bright, too hurried. “Maybe next week.”
“Maybe.”
In a different scenario, Rachel would have begged Maggie to go somewhere now that she had wheels. But today, after Maggie had run off and become a biker old lady, and then come back again, she waved and skipped off toward her brother’s car, not looking back.
