Page 245 of American Hellhound
“I’m not ready,” he whispered, biting his lip hard. “Okay? I’m just…I’m not ready for that.”
“For what?”
Aidan wouldn’t look at him, eyes going to the door, the wall, the flowers on the side table, his own hands, pressed flat to his thighs. “For you not to be around anymore.” His voice shook, dangerously, lashes flickering rapid-fire as he blinked.
“Good thing I’m not going anywhere then, right?”
No response.
“Aidan, come here.”
He shook his head.
“Come here. It’s alright.”
Aidan fought it a moment, running his hand under his nose. And then he shot up out of the chair and came to the bed, leaned down to fall into Ghost’s open arms, face pressed tight into his neck. He took a deep, shuddering breath that was almost a sob.
It was a bittersweet hurt, to know that his eldest baby still needed him, painful to think that he’d squandered so much of their time together, not been fully present as a dad. He was always trying to be Aidan’s president…when he’d always just needed his father instead.
Fuck.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” he said, stroking the strong line of his son’s back, mind flashing back through the years to the early days, colic and crying at night and treating his fevers with red liquid Tylenol. “It’s alright, okay? We’re alright.”
Aidan’s fingers dug into his t-shirt, tight enough to pop seams.
Ghost kissed the side of his head. “Love you.”
Aidan nodded, his tears hot against Ghost’s skin, sliding down his neck and over his chest, his heart.
He felt like he’d been given a second chance, one he didn’t deserve, to finally,finallyget it right with his firstborn. He vowed not to mess it up this time.
~*~
Ghost was going stir-crazy. He was due for release in the morning, but he wanted to go homenow. Sleep in his own bed, gun under the pillow, Maggie at his side, Ash screaming them awake at three a.m.
Every available surface of his room was covered with flower arrangements at this point. In vases, in baskets, in clay pots, one in an expensive crystal chalice signed from Ian and Alec. Why anyone thoughthewanted flowers, he had no idea. (Though the gesture tugged at his reluctant heartstrings.)
Alone for the moment, bored out of his skull, he walked next door in his sweats and flip-flops, knocking once before he let himself in.
By contrast, Roman’s room had one arrangement: a small cluster of lilies in a white ceramic vase.
The man himself was sitting up in bed, dressed in sweats and a faded Harley shirt, watching crap reality TV.
Ghost propped a shoulder in the threshold, ignoring the way the positon pulled at his stitches. “Who’re the flowers from?”
Roman stared at the TV. “Kris. I think Maggie helped her pick them out. So thanks, I guess.” His voice was flat.
“Sure.” Roman didn’t offer any further interaction, so Ghost said, “She been by? Kris?”
“A few times.”
“You ever gonna ask her out properly?”
“No sense bothering her with that shit.”
Ghost sighed. “Roman.” He finally looked over. “Thanks for looking after my old lady. I mean that.”
Roman grimaced. “I oughta be the one thanking her. She’s the fucking Terminator.”
