Page 182 of American Hellhound
Collier threw back the rest of his coffee. “I’m heading home.”
“Thanks, bro.” Ghost said, giving him the most grateful smile he could manage.
“Night. Call if you need anything.”
When he was gone, Ghost slid off his stool – Maggie made a wordless sound of protest and he squeezed her hip in reassurance – and went to lock the door. He even doubled back afterward to check it.
At the island, Maggie had slumped down onto her elbows, one hand holding her wet hair off her face.
“Here.” He put his arm around her again. “Let’s go to bed, babe.”
“Not sleepy,” she protested, eyelids flagging.
“Uh-huh. Sure. You don’t look it.”
“I’m not,” she insisted, but went unresisting when he scooped her up in his arms and carried her down the hall.
For the first time in two weeks, his stomach didn’t flip with dread when he crossed the threshold into his bedroom. Most nights, he’d opted to sleep on the couch, rather than smell the faint traces of shampoo and lotion she’d left on the sheets. But now, he felt a surge of rightness, a gut-deep instinct to wrap her up in blankets and curl himself around her, try and keep out the inevitable nightmares.
He set her down carefully, like she was made of glass. Smoothed her damp hair back off her face. She looked drugged she was so tired, hit hard by shock and adrenaline.
“I’m gonna grab a shower,” he said.
She grabbed a fistful of his shirt. “No.”
“I’m gross.”
“Don’t care.”
He pulled away from her just long enough to strip down to his boxers and slid under the covers with her, letting her settle against his side, her head cushioned on his chest. When he flicked off the lamp, she sighed, sinking boneless, letting him hold her meager weight.
“Holy shit,” she whispered.
“Yeah.”
“How did they find my house?” she asked, hand smoothing tiredly across his stomach. A mindless gesture, something to soothe herself.
He felt his abs clench beneath her touch, stress instead of desire. Guilt. Anger. “They must have tailed you from Hamilton House.” He hated himself for not thinking of that at the time. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
“It’s not your fault.”
He snorted. “It’sallmy fault.”
She didn’t disagree…but she didn’t agree either. Because she was clearly insane. Instead, she said, “What are we gonna do?”
“A lot of things. But for starters, we gotta teach you how to shoot.”
~*~
She slept poorly, mired in nightmares, rolling and twisting, waking each time in a cold sweat and reaching for Ghost. “I’m here, I’m here,” he said every time, and held her, hummed against the top of her head, talking her quietly back to sleep.
It was a relief when the alarm went off. They poured coffee into themselves and started the day with matching bags under their eyes.
They were slow getting Aidan out the door; he was ecstatic to see Maggie again, trying to swipe stealthily at his emotional tears. Maggie packed his lunch while Ghost packed a heavy, bulging, clanking duffel that he toted out to the truck.
They dropped Aidan off at school – “Bye, sweetie,” Maggie said, kissing his cheek as he slid out of the cab – and then Ghost turned the truck toward the edge of town.
“Where are we going?”
