Page 18 of American Hellhound
She blinked a few times, gaze darting around the room, proving he hadn’t been the only drunk one last night. “Um…” She licked her dry lips and frowned. “Jasmine.”
“Thanks.” He patted her foot and stepped away from the bed. His cut was hanging off the back of the desk chair and he shrugged into it, stepped into his boots and left them unlaced.
The prospect was leaning against the door and almost fell inside when Ghost opened it.
“Her name’s Jasmine,” he said, starting down the hall as the prospect scrambled to follow. “Tell my uncle to ask her himself next time.”
The prospect looked stricken. “I can’t tell him that.”
“I told you to, didn’t I?”
His Adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed. “Y-yes, sir.”
The hallway smelled like a bar after last call: cigarette smoke, spilled beer, sex, and sweat. It was a smell that intensified as he neared the common room, and then slapped him in the face.
Early morning sunlight tilted through the gaps in the window blinds, and the scene that lay before him was no less revolting for being familiar. Furniture askew, chairs tipped over, beer glasses and tumblers on every surface, lingering warm inches of forgotten beverages. The floor was littered with crumpled napkins, peanut shells, bits of broken tortilla chip, plastic cups…and things Ghost didn’t care to identify. The boards were matte and sticky with grime. The top of the bar a cluttered mess of bottles and glassware. Justin was passed out on the couch with a groupie. Meat slept on a pile of coats on the floor. A scattering of glass shards proved that someone had broken one of the windows.
“Good morning to the world,” Ghost muttered. He stepped carefully over a discarded pink thong and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray on the bar. Dug out a fresh one and lit it.
“Late night?” a voice asked behind him, and Ghost felt a prickling down the back of his neck. Despite the headache and the uneasy stomach, his mind snapped to immediate awareness. You had to be on your toes around Roman.
“Nah.” Ghost turned slowly, because he never wanted this bastard to think he had any sway over him. Like it was his idea to turn around, and not that he’d felt compelled. “Nothing I can’t handle.” He flashed a tight, mean smile.
Roman’s too-long sandy hair clung to the back of his neck, damp from the shower. His eyes were bright and his skin smooth; no shadows beneath his eyes. He’d kept hydrated and slept well.
Ghost hated him for that. Among other things.
“You’re up nice and early,” Ghost said. “Lots of ass to kiss this morning?”
Roman’s smile held none of Ghost’s projected anger; it was all delight and mischief. “How’s the kid?”
Well if that wasn’t the exact wrong thing to say.
Ghost had to check his initial reaction, the low growl building in the back of his throat. He took a deep breath and said, “Well, he’s not looking at your ugly mug right now, so I’d say he’s doing better than me.”
Roman’s grin widened. “You’re so sensitive, Kenny. You gotta learn to loosen up.”
“Call me Kenny again and see how loose I get.”
Roman didn’t get a chance at another maddening deflection. “Where’s my ghostly nephew?” Duane shouted, coming into the room with his usual tornadic energy. He was a big, solid, fit man for his age, lantern-jawed and iron-haired and wind-scraped, all leather and road dust and charisma. But it was his energy that drew people to him; like there were updrafts in his immediate radius, sucking in groupies, and members, and rivals alike. No one was immune to the powerful hold he had on everyone he ever met.
“Right here,” Ghost said, sighing, tapping ash down onto the floor because…why not? The place was an absolute sty anyway. “What’d you need?”
“Ah.” Duane gave him a close-lipped smile and stepped in close, heel of his boot crushing the lace of the thong on the floor. He clapped a hand onto Ghost’s shoulder and squeezed harder that was comfortable. “I got a call on the main line. Rita.”
His babysitter.
His stomach gave an unhappy rumble. “What’d she want?”
Duane’s smile widened, but not in a good way. “The kid’s sick. Puking his guts up. She says she don’t get paid enough to deal with that.”
“So I’ll pay her more,” Ghost grumbled.
“Apparently, you were supposed to be back at midnight last night. She’s got work; she already left your place, got the neighbor to watch Aidan.”
“What? Which neighbor?”
“Didn’t ask, don’t know. Now.” His hand tightened again. Ghost felt the ball of his shoulder shift in the socket. “The problem here is this: Rita called theclubphone. Calledmy officephone. Aboutyourkid.” His smile flashed teeth. “At eight in the goddamn morning. Does that strike you as something I might want to happen?”
