“I don’t know how you boys have any stomach left, all that acid you choke down.”
Ghost said nothing, sitting silently as a waitress arrived with steaming coffee and a plate of food, as if she’d been waiting on standby for his arrival. Grits swimming in butter stared up at him, link sausage, steaming biscuits.
“I took the liberty of ordering for you,” Shaman said. “I didn’t figure you’d want yogurt parfait with honey,” he said of his own plate.
“Definitely not.” Ghost’s stomach growled and he unrolled his silverware grudgingly. If nothing else, he’d get a decent meal out of this meeting. “So,” he said, forking up grits. “What do you want?”
Shaman set his spoon down, wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. His sigh was delicate. “I’ll never get used to the way you Americans bulldoze your way through every conversation.”
“You gonna get to the point?”
“Yes.” He sipped his tea, folded his hands together on the table, and drew up stiff and tall in his chair, long straight hair rippling behind his shoulders. “What I want. It’s quite simple, actually. I want Kevin.”
The grits turned to sawdust on Ghost’s tongue. He swallowed with effort. “Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry. Does that ruffle your very straight caveman feathers? Apologies.” He grinned tightly. “Yes, Kevin.”
Ghost took a deep, steadying breath through his nose. “You’ll remember that the first time I ever saw you, you were twirling around a pole like a bitch, right? You still got the feather boa? Or is that just for special occasions?”
Over against the wall, Shaman’s security detail started to close in.
Shaman lifted a hand, staying him. “No,” he told Ghost calmly, “I’m afraid there’s not room in the closet for it.”
“Hmph. Spare me the accusations, princess. These aren’t the good old MC days, and I’ve got no problem with whatever or whoever Kev wants to do. I don’t care where my guys put their dicks, just where they put their loyalty.
“But you,” Ghost continued, with emphasis, “are some kinda supervillain motherfucker, and you’re not good for my boy, so like hell am I steering him toward you.”
Shaman opened his mouth –
“Also, I don’t give people away. Not ever.”
“Finished?” Shaman gave him a mild look, brows raised. When Ghost nodded, he said, “While it’s lovely you’ve decided not to take an antiquated stance, you’re missing my point. I knowexactlyhow clubs work. I know there’s only two ways out:” – he held up a finger – “a body bag” – another finger – “or in a bloody disgrace, with the tattoos cut off your body. I also know,” he continued, voice tightening, “that ‘the life’ as you people call it, is killing Kev. Slowly, surely, killing him. He doesn’t belong in your hypersexualized, violent den of monsters.”
“Last I checked, dealing drugs puts you in the criminal category too.”
“I can insulate him from it. I can keep him safe. He won’t ever have to worry about his next meal, or the roof over his head, or whether the next trip out on his bike might be his last. Can you promise those things to him?” The ever-composed Brit was on the brink of being violently angry. His hands were shaking as he smoothed them through his hair.
“I didn’t think so,” he murmured, sinking back in his chair. “So yes, that’s my favor. I want you to turn Kevin loose of your club, no knife, no fire, no shame. I want you to let him walk away. Do that, and I’ll consider us even.”
~*~
The local legend,thehaunted mansion of Knoxville, Hamilton House, was more than a little terrifying after dark, with its gaping black windows and its shadowy expanses skittering with the sounds of rats, the wind shrieking in the eaves. In the daylight hours, the place was more sad than anything: its sagging porches, peeling paint, the creepers and vines overtaking its once-majestic columns. The front door refused to close all the way, and it swung inward with a light press of Aidan’s fingertips, squealing and stuttering across the old warped boards.
They entered a wide foyer flanked by mildewing parlors, making their careful way across the rotted floor into what had once been a grand ballroom, its double curving staircases leading up to a gallery above. This was the place where parties and all sorts of other, more heinous gatherings were conducted. The second floor support beams were sketchy. And the first floor wasn’t much better. The abandonment had taken hold here, was warping the house into something sinister and ugly, so that not even the bones of the place echoed lost glory.
Tango let out a soft whistle. “Just when I think I remember how spooky it is, I come back in, and it’s like walking into a horror movie all over again.”
“Totally haunted,” Aidan agreed. He paced slowly around the massive space, eyes scanning the floor. “You’d have to be some kinda moron to sell outta here. The cops are always coming through.”
“Not sure IQ’s a drug dealer requirement, bro.”
“Unless you’re British and super rich.” Aidan regretted the words the moment they left his tongue. He glanced across the dusty room toward his friend.
Tango ground to a sudden halt, expression arresting. His eyes snapped across the distance between them, pale and terrified.
Aidan sighed, crammed his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, I fucked up last night. But a couple of years ago? You wouldn’t have even let me in the room, and you damn sure wouldn’t have let me in on the action. And Carter?” He made a scoffing sound. “You let him in? We all know Jazz likes to get around, but that’s always bothered you. You wanted her all to yourself….up until Ian came to town.”
Tango stood up taller, the rigidity of his spine highlighting his thinness. “I’m–”
