Page 17 of American Hellhound
Last night was a blur. Somewhere between his fifth and sixth shot, one of the groupies had stood up on tiptoes to whisper “so my friend’s new around here” into his ear. It was all one whiskey-soaked orgy after that.
Now, faced with what was going to be yet another epic hangover – his third of the week so far – he wanted nothing more than to burrow his face down deeper into the pillow and return to oblivion, even as he felt himself growing more and more awake. Damn it.
He heard footsteps coming down the hall. A scuffle. And then a voice cut through the door like a buzz saw. “Look at you, standing here knocking like a pussy. That’s not how you do it,” Duane griped. “Here.” Another scuffle. And then the hammering sound grew louder, faster, more insistent. Knocking. No,poundingon the door. “Kenny!” he shouted, and Ghost groaned. Hishead.
The knob turned with a click and the door swung open, letting in light that burned Ghost’s eyes through the back of his skull.
“Rise and shine, dumbass!” Duane shouted, laughing. “We got work to do!” The door started to close again, but paused. “This is your first wake-up call. If I have to come back, I won’t be so goddamn sweet about it,” Duane warned, and slammed the door loud enough Ghost felt it in his teeth.
“Fuck you, Uncle Duane,” Ghost muttered into the pillow. Then he willed his stomach to stay where it was, braced his hands on the mattress, and forced himself upright.
He was never drinking again, he decided. The bed tilted and the room swirled and the light coming in through the window stabbed his eyes. “Jesus. Fuck.” He clapped his eyes shut, fought down a horrifying wave of sickness, and eased back onto his heels. He breathed shallowly through his mouth, taking inventory of the headache, the crick in his neck, the taste of metal and cardboard in his mouth. The headache defied all plausibility; he felt his skull expand and contract, his scalp crinkling over it like cheap wrapping paper.
The only thing that propelled him to open his eyes again was the knowledge that Duane would be back soon, and there would be more terrible door pounding to listen to. He cracked them, just a slit, and hissed at the pain. Then worked them open, slow, fraction by fraction.
Shit, he was so hungover.
So were the girls, he guessed, as he spotted them naked and tangled together on the bed beside him. One was Maria, who’d been around about a year now, but her friend, with the died hair and recent boob job – he couldn’t remember her name. Sucked cock like a champ, though. He wished he could remember the experience better than he did.
He heard footsteps out in the hall again – tentative, and definitely not Duane’s – and forced himself to his feet with a growl. Fucking hangover. Fucking job. Fucking Duane. Fucking divorce. Fuckinglife.
There was a hesitant knock. “Sir?”
“I’m up, prospect!” he snapped, bending down to grab his jeans. It made his head spin and he had to shut his eyes and grope across the floor for them. “What?”
“The president–”
“I know what that asshole wants! Tell him I’m coming.”
“Yes, sir.” But the footsteps didn’t retreat.
Ghost stepped into his Levi’s and pulled them up; they felt gritty against his skin, even the insides. He hadn’t showered in…a while. And it had been longer since he’d done laundry last. He zipped them, but left the halves of his belt dangling, and dug his smokes from the back pocket. “Babe.” He shook one out and turned toward the bed. “Maria,” he said, louder, and lit up.
“Hmm? Huh?” Maria shifted up onto an elbow, peering at him through half-open eyes. Her dark hair was wrecked and her voice came out a croak. “What?”
“I’m gonna need you to do laundry for me later.”
“Uh…yeah.” She flopped back down. “Sure.” She sounded asleep already.
The cig was good. The nicotine was the first in many steps of getting rid of his hangover.
“Prospect,” he called, cig clenched in his teeth as he did up his belt. “Why are you still there?”
“Um…” The kid sounded nervous.
Ghost’s shirt was tangled up in the sheets at the end of the bed. He extricated it, gave it an experimental sniff, and tugged it on. “Prospect.”
“He’d like to know the name of your blonde…lady friend.”
Ghost snorted. “Can’t get his own pussy, huh?”
“I was told to ask, sir. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine, grunt. Hold on.” Ghost leaned forward and snagged the blonde’s foot, gave it a shake.
She startled awake, eyes flipping open, jacking upright. She had a hickey on her collarbone that Ghost didn’t remember giving her, and in the daylight he saw she was younger than he’d originally thought. Hopefully she was legal.
“Hey.” He squeezed her ankle. “What’s your name?”
