Page 30 of American Hellhound
“Gladly.” He took another swallow, straight back, like the stuff was water. “You just gotta get used to it is all. ‘Cause you look like the kinda girl who drinks whiskey.”
The comment startled a laugh out of her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Dunno. It’s just the impression I get.” His gaze narrowed as he studied her, and his smile tweaked to the side. “You don’t look like a wine coolers and hunch punch kinda woman to me.”
“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment.”
“Oh it is, trust me.”
A wall she hadn’t recognized or understood seemed to have come down from between them. She didn’t feel nervous, suddenly, only curious. Maybe a little magnetized, if she was honest. He looked handsome in the candlelight; better than that, he lookedinteresting. The way his eyes shone, the way he was quick to smile, or frown. He seemed, in that moment, more alive than any of the nervous boys her own age she’d ever interacted with.
They were standing closer together than she’d first realized; their knees almost touched.
“Did you really just come here to sell the Petersons weed?”
One dark brow lifted. “You gonna call the cops on me?”
She shook her head.
“Yeah, that’s why I came. That’s what the boss sent me to do.”
“And you just… did it?” Her tone was curious, but not accusatory. At this point, she just wanted to know. He seemed too self-possessed to be the kind of man who did what someone else told him to do.
“That’s how it works, darlin’. I’m not an officer, so I don’t make my own to-do list. When the president says, ‘jump,’ I say, ‘how high.’ See.” He leaned toward her, voice dropping to a conspiratorial volume. His breath was warm and whiskey-scented against her cheek. “I’ve got uncle issues.”
“Your uncle’s the president?”
“Yes, ma’am. The most powerful man in the city.”
She gave him a doubtful look.
“What, you thought it was the mayor? The police chief?” He shrugged but didn’t elaborate.
Maggie wanted to press the issue – were the Dogs really as powerful as rumor made them out to be? – but decided that wasn’t her concern.Shecertainly wasn’t going to get caught up in biker politics.
And she had better questions to ask, anyway, because now that she was in this conversation, she didn’t want to get out of it anytime soon. Ghost was by far the most interesting thing – human or otherwise – to cross her path all week.
“Why is your club name Ghost?”
“You’ve got a lot of questions, don’t ya?”
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s alright. Just…it’s a story, is all.”
“I don’t have anywhere to be,” she prodded.
He gave her a look.
“Okay, well, nowhere Iwantto be.”
He smiled, a different smile from the ones he’d shown her before, this one smaller, softer. “Alright.” He patted the table beside him, wanting her to sit.
She sat, despite the dirty table, despite the danger of proximity. He was solid and warm beside her, and she fought the momentary urge to lean against him. She rested her hand next to his on the edge of the table, marveling at the stark difference between them: her skin soft and pale, his tan and rough from work, and riding.
“You don’t get to pick your own club name. Uncle Duane started calling me Ghost when I got back from the Army. I thought he wanted me to go – he said it’d be good for me. I think maybe it was.” He shrugged. “But when I got back, he said I’d disappeared on the family. I’d ghosted.” He shrugged again, like he didn’t care, but his frown told her his uncle’s accusation had affected him deeply. “And by family I mean club,” he said. She could hear him swallow, a quiet gulp. “The club is family.”
She glanced down at their hands again, and without stopping to think about it, shifted her fingers over the top of his. A soft touch, almost hovering.
