Page 50 of American Hellhound
Ghost lifted an eyebrow.
“I’m not. I know, alright. I know you got no reason to trust me, or listen to me, or anything. We’ve got a shit past, you and me. But it’s just that – thepast. I want to be a Lean Dog again. And I’m trying to show you that I’m looking out for the club. So I got the Saints president to agree to a meeting.”
Ghost took a long swallow of his coffee. And another. Added more whiskey. “You understand there’s no precedent for that. Taking back an excommunicated member.”
Roman shrugged. “The Lean Dogs are the most powerful outlaw MC in the world. And this is the mother chapter in the U.S. You don’t need precedent. You can do whatever you want.”
“Why would I want to bring you back into the fold?”
Roman leaned in even closer. “You’re not your uncle. You care about your brothers.”
“You’re not my brother.”
Roman’s grin tugged to the side, wry and unhappy. “Do you know how hard it was back then? To be the best, the fastest, the strongest, andknowthat none of it mattered because I wasn’t blood?”
“So hard you betrayed your own club, apparently.” Ghost felt a stirring of long-buried rage in his gut, the rusty, poisonous anger he’d never been able to purge. His current club brothers knew that Duane had been his uncle and president – but they didn’t know how much he’d hated the man. How much he still did.
“I made a mistake,” Roman said. “And I’m trying to make amends.”
Slanted amber sunlight fell in through the gaps in the blinds, and it lit up Roman’s eyes like jewels. His eyes had always been his tell; it was why he liked to avoid gazes and smirk down at the floorboards. Whatever he was thinking, whatever he was trying to hide, a little sunlight in his eyes and you could see straight through him, into the dark, twisted inner coils of his mind.
Ghost looked at him now, the blue and green and hazel striations of his irises, and though he didn’t know what Roman was being honest about, he could see an honesty there. This whole scenario might be an elaborate trap, but he wanted something. Badly. He wanted the club back.
And Ghost, damn him, had always had a soft spot for someone caught up in the wicked gears of his uncle’s outlaw machine. Roman was an asshole and a traitor, but who was to say Duane hadn’t made him that way?
Shit.
He said, “Remember that night you got shot?”
Roman nodded. “The drug drop out in the sticks.” He had the good grace to look sheepish. “Um…”
“Call your contact. I’ll take that parlay, but we do it today, and we do it on my turf.” Ghost felt a smile threaten. “And I’m bringing my boys.”
~*~
Michael piloted the boat with an expert hand. It was a recent acquisition: a MasterCraft with an inboard motor and a diving platform off the back. It cut through the dark river water like a blade, its wake a tumble of froth. Late afternoon sun glinted off the water, unbearable without sunglasses. The dock that was their destination lay just ahead, the pontoon boat tied up at the end already populated with bodies.
Ghost smiled to himself as he faced into the wind.
So far, taking Roman’s hair-brained plan by the horns and redirecting it was the second most satisfying moment of his day, the first being witnessing Roman meet Mercy for the first time.
Back at the clubhouse, Ghost had fired off a group text to Mercy, Walsh, and Michael, telling them to finish up for the day and come over ready to ride. Roman had looked at Walsh with dismissal, and then a grudging respect when scrutiny proved he wasn’t to be mocked. Michael had earned yet more reluctant respect – and then…Mercy.
“Jesus. Supersize Geronimo,” Roman had said, and then looked like he wanted to take the words back.
“Meet my son-in-law,” Ghost had said, smug. “Mercy.”
Mercy had extended one of his giant, bear-paw hands for a shake, smiling in that way that made neighborhood kids scared to trick-or-treat at his house. “Geronimo. I like that.”
Roman hadn’t accepted the shake. Smart man.
Michael slowed the boat when they neared the dock, sending it into a slow turn that brought them up to the edge. Water slopped and the motor growled low and deep.
Rob Goodwin of Goodwin’s Boat Rentals, and the owner of this particular dock, stood waiting for them, and tossed a length of rope that Ghost caught and used to tie up the MasterCraft.
“Ghost!” Rob greeted the second the motor cut out, in his jovial, booming voice. He had a twist of tobacco in his lower lip and his forehead was red and leathery from a lifetime on the water. “What’re you boys up to this evening?”
“Oh, you know.” Ghost stepped out of the boat and onto the dock, clapping the old man on the shoulder. “Just boring old club business.”
