Page 28 of American Hellhound
And then a real Ghost joined her.
She heard the crackle of debris under his boots and spun around to find him filling up the doorway, all shoulders and dark eyes, most of his face cast in the dancing shadows of the candlelight. She recognized him, but he scared her all the same. He looked demonic in that moment, blocking her in and staring at her with unreadable intent.
“Hi again,” she greeted.
“Hi yourself.” He was neither the flirtatious cad, nor the embarrassed mystery he’d been earlier that morning. This was a third, inscrutable version of the man. He smelled like, and looked like, and projected danger.
He didn’t walk, but prowled into the room. Maggie’s instinct was to shrink away from him, but she resisted it, holding her ground as he brushed past her – scent of motor oil, of fake cherries, of smoke again – and moved deeper into the room, toward the table. The way out was clear now, but she turned around, watching him as he went.
“So you’re a drug dealer, then. That’s why you tried to scare me before.”
He smiled, a quick mean flash of teeth in the low light, and turned to lean back against the edge of the table, hands braced on it. “No. I’m not that.”
“Then what would you call someone who sells drugs?”
“Keeping his president happy.”
“President?”
“That’s the club boss. The president.”
“Learn something new every day.”
His grin widened. “Stick with me and you’ll learn a lot.”
“Yeah. Like how to make a graceful exit,” she said with a snort.
The smile slipped off his face. His jaw clenched. His body tightened all over like he was preparing to get up. “Yeah, well…”
For reasons she didn’t want to examine, Maggie didn’t want him to leave. Not yet. “Oh,” she said, and unzipped her jacket. Even though he looked angry, his eyes followed the path of the zipper. “I’ve got your whiskey.” The bottle caught the glow of candle flames as she withdrew it, trapped them in the glass.
“You’ve got my whiskey,” he said back, without inflection. His gaze fixed on the bottle a moment, and then shifted to her face. “The seal doesn’t look broken.”
“It’s not.”
His brows lifted. “You didn’t even have a sip?”
“No.”
“Did you want to?”
“I was curious. But it wasn’t mine to open.”
“Curious.” The corners of his mouth twitched, a smile threatening. “You’ve neverhadJack before?”
“It smells like lighter fluid,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the memory. Her dad kept a bottle stashed behind his garage workbench at home, in a place where Denise would never find it. Wine, cocktails, and cognac were served at every Lowe party; Denise thought sour mash was vulgar. Sometimes, Maggie would venture out into the garage with her dad. He wasn’t very handy, but he enjoyed puttering around with tools, sanding wobbly chair legs and assembling the occasional bird house. He would pour Jack into a coffee mug, and he’d always offer Maggie a sip. Up until now, she’d never been willing to let it touch her tongue.
But now she was standing across from a scruffy no-good biker, who’d doubtless seen and done things she couldn’t hope to imagine. She wasn’t about to play the blushing child in front of him.
She’d never been any good at resisting a challenge.
“I’ll try it now, though,” she said, and then, thinking better of it, “if you’re offering, I mean.”
He opened his hand, his grin wicked, and she put the bottle in it. “Oh, I’m offering.” He twisted the cap off and took a hard slug for himself, neck strong and golden in the candlelight, rippling as he swallowed.
He dashed the back of his hand across his mouth, licked his lips. Offered the bottle back. “Here. Go on and have that taste.” He laughed at his own suggestive tone. “Unless you don’t wanna swap spit with a drug dealer.”
She gave him an unimpressed look and took the bottle. “I thought you weren’t a drug dealer.”
