Page 211 of American Hellhound
It was so unexpected, Maggie felt the burn of sudden tears in her own eyes. She cleared her throat. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Denise nodded and glanced toward the window, sunlight turning her skin papery and pale, aging and fragile. A woman whose dreams had always lay in other people and superficial qualifications, who didn’t know how to reorder her priorities and live the life she’d been dealt, rather than the one she’d planned. “I’m trying,” she repeated. And then: “Congratulations. I’m happy for you.”
It was a start, and to be honest, Maggie had never even expected that much.
~*~
Mild for late January was still mid-forties at night, butthisnight, the chill was held at bay by the crackling warmth of the drum fires, their woodsy smell mixing with the tang of the pork shoulder in the ceramic egg smoker over in the corner of the pavilion. The party lights were on and the music – Skynyrd, of course – was a low pulse beneath the murmur of conversation.
Ghost had a plastic cup in his hand and it was full of…water. He hadn’t had a smoke in two days. This atmosphere, surrounded by drinking, smoking, laughing brothers lit up a craving inside him, but he was committed to living better. Livinglonger. He had a baby on the way, and he wasn’t anywhere close to ready to step aside and let someone else run his empire, even if Aidan was throwing himself wholeheartedly into learning the ropes.
He’d make a good president one day. One dayfarin the future.
“Old man!” Candy shouted, stepping through the crowd like the others were children to get to him. He had a cup in his hand too, and Scotch on his breath as he leaned in close to talk above the music. “Congrats, Papa Bear!” Though he seemed more suited to that title, clapping Ghost on the shoulder with one of his big paw hands. “How’s it feel to be a daddy at one hundred?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Ghost shot back, grinning. “How’s the kid?”
On anyone else, the delighted look that overcame the man would have been chalked up to alcohol, but as big as Candy was, there was no way he was buzzed yet. He looked absolutely reverent. “Amazing. He’s just…wow, incredible.”
Then his expression shifted. “But what’snotamazing.” He moved around to Ghost’s side and pointed through the crowd to Roman, currently propping up a support column and burying his face in his cup. “What the hell’s that motherfucker still doing around here?”
Son of a founding president, Candy of course recognized the guy. And of course knew most, if not all that had happened in the past.
Knew about Roman, anyway. He didn’t know that Roman had wandered over from the barn the night Maggie and Ghost buried Duane; that’d he’d watched them tamp the earth into place. That Ghost had sworn him to silence. Candy knew that Ghost had excommunicated Roman because he was two-faced and untrustworthy…but not that Roman was one of three people who knew exactly what happened to Duane.
Ghost winced. “I dunno. I’m getting soft or something.”
“Tell me you’re not patching him back in.”
“I’m not. Nah. His boys are hangarounds and he, well.” He shrugged. “There’s no harm in him stopping by a party now and then.”
Candy had a disagreeing face. “He’s lucky he didn’t show up in Texas. He’d be underground by now.”
Ghost sipped his water. He didn’t know how to explain the ways Duane had ruined them both, the way that, despite their mutual hatred, a bond existed, one Ghost had always been oddly hesitant to break. Keep your enemies closer, and all that.
~*~
In the months that she’d been living at the Lean Dogs clubhouse – she had her very own dorm, with a door that locked, her own bathroom, toothbrush, collection of towels and toiletries, a fluffy fleece blanket she’d bought herself at Target – Kris had learned some very important things about the way the Dogs operated.
For starters, theypaidtheir groupies. Not much – most of them had regular jobs as well – but enough for her to scrape by. Secondly, they all wanted to hang around the clubhouse. No one was raped, or beaten, or used for dart practice – she’d witnessed that firsthand in Denver. The girls here were employees who slept with the single guys when they wanted to. If they hopped on a table and started dancing, it was their choice.
Secondly, Ghost ran a tight ship. He wanted floors clean enough to eat off of, and a spotless, well-stocked kitchen.
Kris was…well, she wasn’t sure she knew what happy felt like. But her constant, stomach-grinding fear had lessened. She was learning that the Dogs weren’t going to rescind their kindness, that they weren’t going to hurt her.
She thought this must be what real people felt like.
Roman didn’t seem so happy about her new life, though.
She was bartending for the party tonight, sliding shots and beers across the polished bar top, trying to smile, and being unfailingly polite. Some of the out of town boys from Texas had flirted a little, but the Knoxville crew were distant and polite, the way she preferred it. Roman had been by twice already for drinks, brooding and unsmiling, looking at her like it pained him to do so.
He climbed onto a stool across from her now and slid his cup over.
“You should eat something,” she suggested. “You make bad decisions when you drink too much.”
He ignored her. “You seen the boys tonight?”
“They’re working.” Boomer and the boys were stepping and fetching, carrying drinks, lugging kegs, moving chairs, making sure the bathroom stayed stocked with TP. Normal hangaround activities.
