Page 45 of American Hellhound
He arrived in sweats and the sort of elaborate, rubber-soled slippers older generations called “house shoes,” his bag clutched in one hand, a travel mug of coffee in the other. He looked like he’d rolled right out of bed, his hair a mess and his glasses perched on his nose – he normally wore contacts, Ghost knew.
“Ah, Jesus,” he muttered when he saw Roman’s arm. He dropped his bag on top of the pool table and started unpacking things. “You need painkillers?”
“Already got some,” Roman said with a grin, lifting the bottle of Jack.
“Great,” Fletcher said with a deep exhale.
Ghost left them to it. It was after eleven, and he had no idea what sort of scene awaited him at home. He just prayed Aidan hadn’t relapsed, and that he’d behaved for Maggie.
Hound caught him in the parking lot, just as he was swinging a leg over his bike. “James gets back from Texas tomorrow.”
“Yeah, and what’s that gonna do?”
Hound stared at him a moment. In a quiet voice, he said, “James thinks like you do. A lot of the boys do, these days.”
Ghost traced the ridges of a handlebar with his thumb. “What good does that do anybody?”
He started his bike before Hound could answer.
~*~
Maggie glanced over at Aidan again, the blue flickers of the TV highlighting his small face, the way it was soft and babyish in sleep. His bed time was, according to Ghost, “just whenever, but before ten.” He’d crashed out suddenly at nine-fifty, his illness and the excitement of playing with Matchbox cars hitting him all at once. She’d wondered if she should try to move him to his bed, but she didn’t think she could carry an eight-year-old boy, and she didn’t want to wake him. She’d leave that task for his father.
Speaking of which…
She heard the scrape of a key in the lock and the door eased open. There was no exterior light, and for a moment, the broad-shouldered silhouette in the threshold could have been anyone. Maggie felt her throat tighten on instinct. But then the figure stepped into the room and the TV’s glow hit his face. It was Ghost, looking exhausted. She didn’t think it was a trick of the light.
“Hi,” she said, quietly, so she didn’t wake Aidan.
“Hi.” He shrugged out of his jacket and cut and hung them both up by the door. “He asleep?”
“Almost two hours now. I didn’t want to wake him up.”
Ghost nodded as he moved toward her. “That’s fine. I’ll carry him to bed in a little while.” He paused when he stood beside the arm of the couch, swore softly and passed a hand down his face. “Shit, I forgot I gotta take you back.”
Maggie hadn’t forgotten; she’d been wondering how they were going to manage it. But she said, “That’s fine, don’t worry about it. I can call a cab.”
Even in the room’s dim light, she could make out his withering look. “I amnotcalling you a cab,” he said. It wasn’t a tone she felt like arguing with.
“What, then?” Because shedidneed to get home.
“I…just…” He sighed. “Hold on.” And walked into the kitchen, where the fluorescent tube over the kitchen sink slanted white and unforgiving down the back of his neck as he bowed his head over the ceramic basin.
The rigid line of his spine looked vulnerable to her; cracked armor held in place by sheer dint of will. It was amazing, really, to think this was the same man who’d kissed her outside the liquor store. She didn’t really know him – and God knew he was making some bad decisions dealing weed for this uncle – but she ached for him, staring at the tense set of his shoulders.
She went to him. As she drew alongside him, she saw a muscle in his jaw clench, but he didn’t turn toward her. Maggie braced her hands on the edge of the counter and said, “Bad night?”
“Shitty,” he confirmed.
“I’m sorry.”
He breathed out a low, humorless laugh.
“What?”
“That’s what a guy wants to hear – the hot girl telling him she’s sorry.”
Being called “hot” stirred heat in her cheeks. “I am sorry, though,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “It’s pretty obvious that you and Aidan…” Crap, she couldn’t finish that sentence.
