Page 224 of American Hellhound
Reese looked at him, really looked, made eye contact, fine tremors moving through his body, making the limp ends of his hair dance across his forehead. For the very first time, emotion broke through his mask, and it broke Ghost’s heart just a little. “I can do it myself, sir,” he offered, voice just a low rough scrape. “You don’t…you don’t have to get your hands dirty.”
“Son.” Ghost offered him a smile.It’s okay, he thought toward him.You’re here with us, and it’s alright. “Everybody in this room has dirty hands. We’re not worried about that.”
Reese took a deep breath and let it out in a rush, shoulders slumping. It was the most relaxed Ghost had ever seen him. “Okay,” he said, nodding. “Understood, sir.”
~*~
Badger had been in the wind for nine hours. Not one of Ghost’s contacts through the club had any usable intel as to the Midwest Saints mobilizing. No one had seen anything, heard anything. Nada.
“And so you’ve come to me,” Ian said with an expansive, self-congratulatory wave of his hand. “On a Saturday, no less.”
“Sorry about that,” Ghost said, not meaning it. His entire club was in the process of moving their families into the clubhouse, full-on lockdown mode. “Life or death situations don’t care about weekends.”
“So dramatic.”
“I’m gonna remind you that you’ve got skin in this game too.”
“Yes, yes, I do.” Another gesture, this one almost apologetic. He had slender, long-fingered hands, and Ghost suspected he liked watching them move when he talked, and that was why they were always so animated. “Give me a moment, if you will.” He rose from the chrome-armed, gray leather chair he was seated in and walked out of the room, around the corner and into the kitchen.
Ghost heard muffled voices: Ian talking with his boyfriend. He didn’t try to eavesdrop, stared instead through the floor-to-ceiling window out at Knoxville.
The gorgeous, modern apartment wasn’t a surprise,per se, but it was more luxurious than Ghost had been able to imagine. Like the yacht, it was tricked out in muted furniture and accessories in soothing grays, creams, and pale blues. Ghost knew nothing about brands and designers, but he could tell that everything from the chandeliers to the rugs dripped money. It suited Ian – in a way. In another way, it seemed too spare. Ghost thoughts of the rich warmth of Baskerville Hall in London, and wondered if there was a part of this London boy who didn’t long for dark wallpaper and tufted velvet furniture.
Or maybe he was just a tasteless Tennessee boy projecting onto others. Who knew.
The soft scrape of shoes announced the boyfriend’s approach before he stepped into the room carrying a glass of what looked like sweet tea. He came to the end table at Ghost’s elbow, pulled a crystal coaster from a stack, and set the drink down within easy reach. It was a heavy, expensive glass, full to the brim with ice, a lemon wedge bobbing in the dark tea.
Ghost recognized the man from Ian’s office, over a year ago. He’d been an assistant then, fine-boned, dark-haired, glasses. Pretty in the way that would attract Ian, but not flamboyant. He couldn’t remember his name.
“Thanks,” he said. He had no idea if this kid was like Maggie, if he’d been told all sorts of things he shouldn’t know.
“You’re welcome,” the boyfriend said, stepping back, smiling tightly. “Ian’s calling his contacts in Chicago. He thinks they’ll know something.”
And that answered that question.
“I’m Alec, by the way,” he added, when Ghost didn’t respond.
Shit, he guessed he was rude.
“We met before.”
“Yeah,” Ghost said. “I remember.”
“Do you need anything else?”
“Nah. I’m good.”
Ghost found he was searching for traces of Tango in this boy’s face, some hint of trauma, sharp edges, broken foundations. He didn’t find them, and he guessed, like looking at Whitney, it was a relief. Two broken boys stood only to drag one another down.
Fuck the club, but he would have let Tango go back to Ian if it had been for the best. It hadn’t been, though, and he was glad – even if he wouldn’t admit it out loud – that Ian had found someone new, too. It was better this way. Healthier.
“Well,” Ian said as he came back into the room. “Apparently, yourBadger” – he said the name with contempt – “is pulling as many men as he can to Knoxville. Forty-strong so far.”
“Shit.”
“Yes, indeed.” Ian sat down, hands clasping together over his stomach. “It would appear your plan to let the law handle things has, as they say, backfired.”
“Shut up,” Ghost said, without any feeling. Forty. Forty was a lot. Not impossible, but definitely not easy.
