Page 11 of Ghost's Angel

"I..." The words stick in my throat. What am I doing here? What am I to Ghost? One night of fooling around doesn't make me anything to him. We didn't even have actual intercourse.

"Oh honey," the blonde's laugh is cruel, "you actually think you're special? That shirt you're wearing? Half the girls here have worn it. Ghost likes his...charity cases."

The words hit like physical blows, but I refuse to let them see how much they hurt. I've survived worse. Much worse.

"Nice shoes," Red sneers, eyeing my worn sneakers. "Did you get those at Goodwill? Or maybe dumpster diving?"

The blonde laughs. "My grandmother had a pair just like them."

"Leave it." A commanding voice cuts through their laughter. The man from last night—the one who was at the diner with Ghost—strides over. His cut identifies him as VP. “Get gone,” he commands, and the women scatter like roaches in sunlight.

“I’m Blade," he introduces himself with a nod. "Don't let them get to you. They're just jealous."

"Of what?" I ask before I can stop myself. But really, what do they have to be jealous of? My second-hand clothes? My sleep-rumpled hair? Makeup-free face?

"Of the fact that you're Ghost's ol' lady."

I blink at him, hoping I've misheard him. "His...what?"

"His woman. His ol' lady." Blade's expression is serious, but I know he's mocking me. He has to be. Joining the mean girls in cruelly taunting me. Drilling it in that there's no way someone like Ghost—powerful, dangerous, respected—would want a penniless woman dressed like an old lady in mom jeans and grandma shoes.

"Right," I manage, backing away. "Thanks for the...clarification."

I turn to flee back upstairs, hating myself for running, for not standing up to them, for being the same scared little girlI've always been. The stairs swim before my eyes as spots dance in my vision, but I keep my legs moving as quickly as I can. My chest constricts painfully, and I stumble, my hand flying to my sternum.

Not now. Please not now. I need to get to my prescription bottle.

As I climb the first few steps, the edges of my vision go dark. I'm going to fall. My knees buckle, but instead of hitting the hard stairs, I feel strong arms catch me, lifting me into the air as though I weigh nothing.

"I've got you, angel." Ghost's voice rumbles against my ear as he cradles me to his chest.

"In my bag..." I gasp out. "My...my meds.”

Chapter 8

Ghost

I meant to return to the room before Mira woke up.

Watching her sleep this morning was surreal. Her features softened in slumber, all that battle armor she wears finally lowered. I felt the irrepressible urge to annihilate anyone who'd ever hurt her. Starting with those fucking foster parents.

So, with dawn barely breaking, I dragged Cipher and Saint into an early meeting while my angel slept upstairs.

"Mark and Linda Peterson," Cipher, the club’s tech genius,mutters, as his fingers fly over his laptop keyboard. "They've been fostering kids for fifteen years."

I lean forward, every muscle in my body coiled tightly. "How many?"

"Thirty-seven kids total." Cipher's eyes narrow at the screen. "And get this—looks like they pulled the same identity theft scam on at least twelve of them. Credit cards, loans, the works. But Mira got hit the worst."

Red clouds my vision. "How much?"

"Over fifty grand in her name alone." He looks up at me. "These shitstains knew exactly what they were doing, Prez.Waited until each kid was eighteen, aged out of the system, and about to leave their house, then opened accounts using the kids’ social security numbers. As of this date, I don’t see that any of them have filed fraud or identity theft charges against the Petersons.”

My fist slams into the wall before I even realize I’ve moved. The drywall crumbles, but I barely feel it. "These motherfuckers have been systematically destroying kids' lives for over a decade?"

Saint nods grimly. "Gets worse. They're in deep with Kovalev."

“The loan shark?” That’s an interesting twist. Ivan Kovalev is a seedy, small time Russian gangster. Disorganized, hasn’t stirred up too much fuss around here, so while he’s been on our radar for a while, we haven’t looked too closely at him. “How deep?"

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