Page 8 of American Hellhound
“Maybe you should–” he started.
She gave hima look. “Stay home? Yeah, no. So everyone can think I’m shaking in my boots after a little police interview? No, I’m going.”
“Nobody’s gonna think you’re scared.”
She snorted and got up from the kitchen table like her bones ached. “Honey, when a woman stays home, someone always think she’s scared.”
“Not my woman,” he insisted.
She patted his cheek on her way to pour out the rest of her Sprite.
He followed her in to Dartmoor, half afraid she’d pull over to throw up. But by the time she climbed out of her Caddy in front of the main office, her color looked better, her game face securely in place.
“You okay?” he asked.
Her nod was firm. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” And she gave him a grin before she let herself into the office.
But because she knew him, she had to know he’d worry about her. The worry was lodged in his esophagus somewhere, like heartburn. He watched the closed office door a long moment, wondering if it was shut because it was too cold outside, or because she just didn’t feel like having a portal open to the whole lot right now. Finally, with a sigh, he walked over to the clubhouse.
Walsh was waiting for him, sitting on top of a picnic table with a steaming travel mug of coffee and what was probably his third cigarette of the day; Walsh chain-smoked when he was worried, the only outward sign that he ever fretted about anything.
“I heard from Dennis,” he said, rolling off the table in one smooth motion and falling into step beside ghost, coffee and smoke balanced in the same hand. “He said he had a visitor a few days ago.”
“What kind of visitor?” Ghost drew to a halt just outside the clubhouse door and turned to his VP, hands on hips and heart feeling its age.
Walsh took a hard drag. “Someone who knew you had hold of his leash, and who was asking about you.”
Dennis was one of their newer dealers, but one of the most trustworthy. He was organized, clean, and ruthless about keeping his underlings on the up-and-up. Well…asupas anyone dealing dope could get. He wasn’t the kind of idiot who’d squeal and get them all busted. So Ghost knew Dennis hadn’t said anything he shouldn’t; it was the idea that anyone was asking in the first place that gave him goosebumps.
“What’d the guy look like?” he asked.
Walsh pulled out his phone and turned a blurry photo toward him. “He managed to take this. Can’t tell much, though.”
It was true; there wasn’t much to tell. Dennis’s phone had been moving, and held in shadow, when he snapped the picture. But to Ghost, it was like looking at a ghost – except, to his knowledge, Roman Mayer wasn’t dead. Roman would be older now, his own age, but the blurred figure in the photo had an unmistakable aura of Roman about him. The shape of his face and eyes, the little smirk tugging at his mouth, like he knew his photo was being taken and he didn’t give a shit.
No, Ghost thought.No fucking way.The TwilightZoneimpossibility of having just thought of the man that morning and seeing what looked like his face now swept over him in a dizzying wave. He’d been on his way inside to grab more coffee, but now he thought a Scotch was in order.
Walsh detected his shift in mood. “What?” he asked, expression unreadable, eyes very blue in the shade.
“I think I know who that is.”
Walsh’s brows lifted a fraction. “Yeah?”
“Old buddy of mine,” Ghost said with a sigh, and opened the door. “Long story.”
Walsh followed him into the clubhouse, and then to the bar, face a mask of blank insistence. Ghost knew his expression:Long story or not, I’m your VP. Try me.
He reached over the bar top and plucked up the Jack, pulled a glass from the overhead rack. Chanel was over in front of the TV, feather duster in her hand. When she saw him serving himself, she turned toward the bar and said, “Oh, I can–”
Ghost cut her off with a firm shake of his head. Sent her a warning look.
“Right.” She rerouted. “I’ll just go check on the laundry.” She swept out of the room with a slap-slap of flip-flops.
When she was gone, Ghost took a long pull of Tennessee sour mash and sighed again, the weight of the years sincethenandnowlanding heavy across his shoulders. He fucking hated when the past came back to haunt him. Story of his life.
“Back when Duane was prez, I wasn’t exactly a…model member.”
Walsh kept a straight face, but he snorted.
