Page 196 of American Hellhound
Shit. Mags. He couldn’t even fathom how she could still want him, still want to have kids with him. The miracle of his life, that’s what she was.
“Look at that,” Ian said. “I got the last word.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Walsh said, “Jesus,” as he entered, surveying the cabin.
“Like you don’t live in a mansion,” Ghost said.
“Hey,” Walsh said, and then shrugged. “It didn’t come furnished.” Then, growing serious: “My girl deserved that house.”
“Yeah, she did,” Ghost agreed.
Ian tilted the wine bottle toward Walsh in offering. He shook his head.
Quiet descended, broken by the murmur of voices out on the deck.
Ian took a long swallow of wine and said, voice low, suddenly hesitant, “How’s Kevin?”
Walsh, to Ghost’s surprise, said, “None of your damn business,” tone unusually harsh.
Ghost felt his brows go up. Though Tango had relayed his dark life story to the club, he hadn’t gone into any detail about Ian. Walsh was sharp, though, and somehow he knew. There was true anger in his gaze. Ghost had the unsettling feeling that, if not for his insistence, the club would have rejected any and all offers of assistance from the English drug dealer.
For a moment, Ian looked devastated by the response. Then he shook himself off and assumed his mocking little smirk again.
“He’s good,” Ghost said, taking pity on the guy. Most of the time, he wanted to knock the bastard’s teeth out, but he felt some sympathy as well. Anyone snatched as a child and turned into a sex toy deserved some consideration.
“He got married,” Ian said, and the statement seemed carefully void of emotion, like he’d been practicing.
“Yeah. You met Whitney.”
“Lovely girl,” he said, without emotion, then shuddered and moved on. “Your guest is late.”
“We’re early,” Ghost countered.
Mercy stuck his head inside the cabin. “He’s here.”
Ghost nodded. “Show him in.”
Mercy ducked back out, and a moment later Badger entered, looking like he’d been frisked rather roughly, his shirt rumpled beneath his cut. He had dark bags beneath eyes red from sleeplessness. The past forty-eight hours had obviously been stressful for him.
“Welcome,” Ghost said, voice flat. “I take it you found the place okay.”
“This is bullshit,” Badger said, but without energy. “What’s going on, Ghost? Where are they?”
“We’ll get to that.”
“Hello.” Ian strolled forward, glass in-hand. Bruce made a subtle shift closer to his boss, ready to act as human shield if necessary. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. You must be Badger.” His grin was the stuff of Maggie’s gossip set: sugar and acid and almost-professional aplomb.
Badger looked at him – from the long, sleek hair to the shiny toes of his shoes – and then to Ghost, dumbstruck. “Who the hell is this?”
“You may call me Shaman,” Ian said primly. “I provide the Lean Dogs with all of the product they sell. In every state. You, so I’ve been told, are the competition.” He smiled again. “Or so you think.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Badger’s face darkened, going red with anger. “Ghost,” he said, aiming a finger at him. “We were gonna work something out. I came to you in good faith–”
“You,” Ghost interrupted, “brought your entire crew onto my property, right up to my front door. And that was after you’d already started trucking coke into my city and packing it into every goddamn abandoned house and barn you could find. And you’re already selling it, too.” He pulled the envelope Aidan and Tango had intercepted from a customer from his cut pocket and flicked it down to the floor. “Look at that. And before we came to any kind of agreement.”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Badger said. “I can explain everything.”
