It seemed to take forever to get there, but with Ghost driving, it was only a few minutes. He ground to a halt in front of Jared’s neighbor’s house, behind one of several other cars parked haphazardly in the yard. Great. There would be an audience.
“I don’t see his Mustang,” Ghost said, sounding as if he were chewing on the words. “Son of a bitch.”
“What, do you think Gus was lying?”
“No, I think Max is hiding it.” Which would mean their theory was correct. Of course the guy would lay low somewhere no one expected to find him. Shit! He should have insisted they check here from the beginning. He could have checked here himself, since he drove past the place at least twice a day. Jared wondered if he needed to give Ghost the same talk he’d received himself moments ago.
Despite neighboring it for years, Jared had only been on the property twice before. Once when he pulled in and yelled at them to turn their damn music down, and again when he rescued Starla’s purse. Ghost, on the other hand, didn’t even bother to knock on the front door, instead barging in with Jared on his heels. Inside was a den of stale cigarette smoke and the reek of even staler beer—and perhaps a few other fumes he didn’t care to identify.
The people scattered about the living room—four guys and a couple of girls lounging on shabby, mismatched furniture—greeted Ghost but stared warily at Jared. One of them, a guy with lank blond hair and a goatee, jumped up and exchanged backslapping hugs with Ghost. This must be the one they called Swat. “Long time no see, man. Ol’ ball and chain keeping you down?”
Jared cocked an eyebrow and watched for Ghost’s reaction to that. Indeed, he seemed to bristle, his jaw pulling tight. “No. I’d just rather look at her than your ugly ass.”
“I hear ya, man, I hear ya!” Tipsy laughter permeated. Swat extended his hand to Jared. “You look familiar, guy, but I don’t think we’ve met.”
After a meaningful pause, Jared shook it. “I’m your neighbor.”
Swat’s bleary eyes widened slightly. “Oh shit, dude! Are we being too loud?”
“Usually, yeah.”
“I’m sorry about that, bro, you know how it is—”
“Cut the bullshit, Swat,” Ghost cut in. “Where’s Max?”
Swat swayed on his feet with the effort to extract the proper response to that question from his muddled brain. “Max? Ahh…haven’t seen him.”
“Don’t dick me around. He’s here. You can tell me where or I can find him myself, but you might not like my methods.”
“Hey, man, don’t come in here harshing—”
“Fuck out of my way.” Ghost shouldered him aside. Swat stumbled and almost fell. While ordinarily Jared wouldn’t dream of barging uninvited through someone’s house, he followed Ghost’s dark silhouette down a hallway with his heart racing in his ears, drowning out the sound of protests coming from the living room. Too late. Ghost threw a door open at the end of the hallway. While Jared couldn’t see inside the room from his angle, the way Ghost surged through the door told him they’d found their target.
Sprawled facedown and sideways across a narrow, bare mattress on the floor was a shirtless guy with longish black hair and a torso full of tattoos. “Max!” Ghost called, sliding a boot under the guy’s body and forcing him over on his back. The smell of alcohol and weed coming off him in waves could have given them a contact high. Ghost even coughed. “Jesus Christ.”
This was Max?
It was too dark to see very well, so Jared went to locate a light switch, for all the good it did. Only one light bulb worked in the ceiling fan kit, but it was enough.
“Oh, look at this gentleman.” Ghost snapped his fingers several times in Max’s face. “Hey. Hey!” When the snaps didn’t work, he slapped him lightly on both cheeks, then grabbed him by the chin so that he and Jared could plainly see his crooked, purple nose and black eyes. Yeah. He’d taken a hell of a shot. “Hey!” Max’s eyes opened groggily. “Who gave you that love tap, sweetie, huh? Fucking asshole.” Ghost grabbed the guy mostly by his hair and hauled him up off the mattress. Max slurred a protest, the first sound he’d uttered, his knees almost buckling under him, but he managed to use Ghost as leverage and shove himself to his feet.
“The fuck you want?” he demanded, spit flying from his mouth with the f. He wiped an inked forearm across his mouth, glaring at Ghost with pupils blown so wide, they obliterated his irises. True to Starla’s description, he wasn’t a big guy. Less than six feet tall, no bulk. A wormy little shit. Smaller than Jared or not, though, whenever he thought of Max shoving Starla out of his car that night, thought of him putting his hands on her in any way whatsoever, he wanted to finish the job Brian had started and pummel his face to an unrecognizable pulp. He’d take great fucking joy in it.