Page 8 of Understanding Fate

If I had a dollar for every vague-ass remark this man makes…

I scowl—a memory resurfacing.

“You told me once not to run from my Fate. How did you know what I was, or better yet, how did you know what would happen?” I ask, tilting my head and raising an eyebrow at his back, my tone accusatory.

“You know exactly how I knew what you were—the same way as everyone else in your circle. As for your Fate, this here sure looks a lot like running. How’s that going for ya?” he asks.

He’s an Alpha and an asshole too.

“Where is your pack? How come you aren’t annoyingly in their business instead of here?” I sass.

“Haven’t had one of those in a long time,” he says, his voice low, almost somber, as he rummages through his bag methodically.

Why doesn’t he lead a pack?

Dante told me about the dynamics in the Vegas Pack back when I was in the hospital. He told me about Cain’s choice to be Second, about how most packs can’t function with more than a few Alphas, but that Alphas are drawn to pack life, drawn to lead. He said their wolves push them into that role. I never thought to ask about Ghost after Dante said he wasn’t in his pack.

“I prefer to be alone,” he finishes, interrupting my speculation before crossing the room. “I’m going to shower. Try not to die until I get out.” His eyes finally meet mine, and his charming Southern mask is back on—a smirk planted on his face.

I mirror his expression, no sweetness behind my snark, before pulling out my charger to revive my lifeless phone. I’d attempted to text Ethan from the car, but my signal wouldn’t go through, and then it died from attempting.

This battery is on its last leg. Maybe if I take this job, I will splurge on a new phone.

My eyes glance over to Ghost’s bag, nestled neatly in the corner. It’s no larger than a carry-on and looks well used. The sound of the shower starting gives me the confidence to scramble quietly off the bed.

Tiptoeing across the floor, I put my ear to the bathroom door, attempting to verify he is actually in the water before I hustle over to the bag. Before I touch anything, I take a minute to ensure I remember its exact position on the chair.

All zippers are in the middle. Every clip fastened, every snap snapped.

With extreme care, I pull on the tab of the main compartment zipper, hoping to minimize the noise. It slides easily to the opposite side, and I let out my breath as I peer inside. It’s filled to the top, and I gently remove things to dive in further. I find neatly folded shirts, shorts, boxer briefs, andjoggers, a book that looks like it’s seen better days, a wallet, a grocery bag containing his shredded shirt and bloody gloves from the car, a small utility bag stuffed full, and several pairs of black utility gloves.

I investigate the wallet and find several driver's licenses, all with Ghost’s face and description, but from entirely different states around the country. The names on each are distinct: Todd McNulty, Arkansas; Brian Hasterly, Montana; Dominic Miles, New York; Evan Green, Oregon; William Sharington, Colorado; and Robert Fredrick Rutherford III, Pennsylvania. In addition to his multiple identities, he has a wad of cash, business cards for each, and a single receipt from a gas station for two cokes from over a decade ago.

Weird.

Everything else is meticulously organized, so holding onto an old receipt makes zero sense.

Closing the wallet, I pull the book out to look at the cover—The Adventures of Sherlock Holmesby Arthur Conan Doyle. The edges of the detective novel are slightly curled up, and a crease is etched in the spine. I notice a bookmark halfway through, and I open to the page he is reading. Before I can look at the words, I gasp as I recognize Ghost’s smiling face looking up at me.

His bookmark is actually a picture, worn out over time, of two smiling teens, a boy and a girl, standing outside a building labeled Bridgestone Arena. A banner behind them boasts ‘Nashville Rising Benefit Concert.’ The girl looks about sixteen and wears a sky-blue summer dress with embroidered cowboy boots. Her jet-black hair is wavy and falls to her shoulders. Her eyes are exactly the same color as his, and they have an air of mischief.

Next to her is a much younger and more carefree version of Ghost. He stands a whole foot taller than her and has his armdraped over her shoulder. He appears to be almost laughing at something she just said, as his smile lights up his whole face, making him even more handsome than I could have imagined. The sun reflects off his pure white hair, which he has grown long, almost like a surfer, and his skin holds a golden tan. He, too, is wearing cowboy boots but pairs them with stiff-looking blue jeans and a navy button-down short-sleeved shirt.

I never would have pictured him in jeans.

My eyes scan the picture, trying to find the story and the truth behind how the boy in this photo became the man I know today. The Ghost I know is the cranky, lonely, strong-silent type with a strategically flirtatious mask that seems like a form of distraction rather than interest. He’s bossy, vague as shit, and incredibly infuriating.

The boy in this picture looks relaxed, happy, fun.

“Find what you were lookin’ for?” his voice behind me causes me to yelp, dropping the picture and the book.

Well, shit.

I spin, apologies loaded on my tongue, when I realize he’s standing in nothing but a towel, water still beading off his chest and shoulders. He catches my attention, and his damn lopsided grin slides into place as he repeats his words but puts them into a very different context.

“Find what you were lookin’ for?” His eyes glance down to his body and the towel wrapped around his waist before slowly returning to me.

“I’m sorry,” I finally sputter before doing the only thing I can think of and spin completely around, giving him my back. My skin’s hot from the flush creeping up my neck, and I move as far away from his bag as I can without facing him.

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