Page 205 of American Hellhound
“No, you don’t know,” he said. “You don’t know shit. But you’re gonna learn. Bitch.”
“Duane.” She was panting, her heartrate soaring now, a high staccato beat in her ears. “Please.”
He smacked her once, across the back of the head. “Shut up.”
The slap rang through her like the toll of a bell, an echo inside her skull. She staggered a step, and he grabbed at her arm to force her forward, toward the truck parked at the curb in front of the house.
She wasn’t going to go quietly after all, she decided.
Maggie ducked and twisted at the same time, sliding out of his grip so she faced him. He was shocked – eyes suddenly wide – and that bought her a fraction of a second.
She bolted. Toward the street, where the neighbors could see her if she screamed and put up a fuss. She was no athlete, but she pushed herself as fast as her lungs and legs would allow, arms pumping, lungs screaming, thundering across the lawn.
Duane tackled her.
His weight knocked her down and crushed her into the grass, forcing all the air out of her lungs.
“No!” she gasped, squirming. “No, please!...”
Pain blossomed at the back of her head, and then everything was black.
~*~
When Maggie was five, she had a pink and white dollhouse shaped like a castle, with dolls dressed up as a prince and princess. Her mother came to sit on the edge of her bed and picked up the prince doll, smoothing his gold cloth epaulettes.
“One day,” Denise said, “you’ll meet a prince of your very own. He’ll be handsome, and rich, and he’ll buy you your very own castle.”
What she’d meant was that Maggie would meet a smooth-voiced, blond Southern boy with a law degree who could buy her an antebellum mansion and all the Jimmy Choos she could ever want.
What Maggie had found instead was a biker prince, dark-haired and dark-eyed, broke, dressed in leather, offering her an outlaw empire…and nothing but a promise of a better future.
He had dragons to slay, too. That was her first thought when she groaned and blinked herself awake: Duane was a dragon. Greedy, violent, unpredictable, and so, so dangerous.
She cracked her eyes to find a dimly lit room. Hard concrete floor beneath her, corrugated steel walls around her. Her head was pounding, a steady bass thump in time with her pulse, but she could smell fresh-cut wood, the crisp scent of newly soldered metal.
She blinked through a film of tears and grit and realized she was in the garage. Ghost’s brand-new, almost-finished garage.
Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic.
She sucked in a low, quiet breath. Wherever Duane was, she didn’t want him to hear that she was awake.
Sensations filtered into her awareness. The bitter coldness of the floor and the air, and the steel wall at her back. She was seated, slumped back against the metal. Her left hand was caught in some sort of binding – she turned her head and saw police-issue handcuffs chaining her to a length of exposed water pipe. She felt the lump coming up on the back of her head where Duane had hit her. Felt myriad bruises on her arms and legs and torso; he’d manhandled her into the truck, and into the garage.
With her right hand, she felt along the floor, found nothing but cold concrete. Nothing within reach, but at least she had a hand free.
And she still had the knife in her boot. She felt the sheath digging into her ankle; he hadn’t patted her down. His first mistake.
She froze when she heard footfalls, shutting her eyes and slumping back down. She listened, breath catching in her throat, as Duane walked to stand in front of her.
He kicked her boot. “I know you’re awake.”
She opened her eyes and looked up at him. His handsomeness was overshadowed by the harsh tube bulbs overhead, the way they carved out all his lines and wrinkles and gray hairs. He looked old and tired, less like Ghost and more like the worn-out biker he was, something skeletal about his cheekbones and temples, the too-harsh cut of his jaw and the dark bags beneath his eyes. He didn’t appear confident and in-control, but nervous, on-edge and feral.
He wasn’t a president, in that moment, but a king with a price on his head.
“He thinks he’s real smart, doesn’t he?” he asked.
She had to wet her lips and clear her throat before she could force out the words. “Who?”
