Page 14 of Ghost's Angel

A knock on the door is followed by a voice that calls out, “Mira? Can “I come in? I've got lunch for you."

It's the prospect who brought my medication earlier—Rash is what Ghost called him, which is a strange name. He's been bringing me snacks intermittently all morning, each time with an earnest, eager-to-please smile. I’m beginning to suspect someone is trying to fatten me up.

"Come in, Rash," I call out, yawning and raising my arms in the air to stretch the sleep from my body.

He enters carefully balancing a tray loaded with a steaming bowl of soup, fresh bread, and what looks like homemade cookies. “I’m supposed to tell you to eat all of it," he announces proudly. “Prez’s orders."

My heart does a funny little skip when he mentions Ghost, one that has nothing to do with my medical condition. "Speaking of Ghost, where is he?" I try to keep my voice casual, but Rash’s knowing grin tells me I'm not fooling him.

“Taking care of club business.” He carefully sets the tray across my lap. “I think something big might be going down. Prez and the club officers have been in church all morning."

“Church?” I gape, unable to picture the hard core bikers on their knees in a chapel.

“It’s what we call members-only meetings.”

“Oh." I stare down at the soup, watching the steam curl upward. "Is everything okay?"

Rash shrugs. “I’m just a prospect. I won't be clued in on the details of club business until I earn my patch. Even then, club business is on a need-to-know basis, and Ghost runs a tight ship. Best president the Shadow Reapers have ever had, from what the old-timers say."

I absorb this information as I spoon up the rich chicken soup. There's so much I don't know. Actually, I know almost nothing about the inner workings of a motorcycle club. Part of me wants to get out of this bed, out of this room, and wander around the clubhouse, maybe find some members and ask some questions so I can learn about this world—Ghost's world, but I’m too chicken shit.

Earlier, I peeked out into the hallway, only to spot the two meanest of the mean girls from this morning—the blonde with big boobs and the redhead—lounging by the stairs. The blonde's cruel words echo in my head.Half the girls here have worn that shirt.

Is that what Ghost expects from me? To become one of them? The thought makes my stomach churn despite the delicious soup.

"Rash is an interesting name,” I say, trying to make conversation. I don’t know what I expect, but it’s not the look of pride that transforms his expression.

"It’s my road name." He straightens, squaring his shoulders. "First week of prospecting, a truck cut me off on the interstate. I had to lay my bike down, and I got dragged a good fifty feet." He pulls up his pant leg to reveal a web of silvery scars. “Doc said it’s the worst case of road rash he ever treated. The name kind of stuck after that."

I wince in sympathy, but he just grins. “Yep, I earned it.”

"Rash, I have a question,” I say hesitantly. "The women here...the ones I saw this morning…”

His face darkens slightly. "Don't pay them any mind. They're just..." He trails off, clearly searching for a polite word.

“They’re what?” I ask quietly.

“They hang around to…uh…” His ears turn red. “To service the patched members.”

My eyes widen. “Oh, they’re…” my voice trails off.

“Whores.” He nods, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Each one is hoping to snag a patch—to become an old lady."

I reel at the term.Old lady?What does that mean? I thought it was an insult when Blade said it this morning, but now I’m not so sure.

Still appearing embarrassed, Rash collects the dirty lunch dishes swiftly and efficiently and before I get the chance to question him further, he’s gone.

After Rash leaves, I curl up in the leather armchair by the window and watch the comings and goings in the compound below. Motorcycles rumble in and out through the gates while big, burly men in leather cuts gather in small groups, talking.

I could get used to being here. These guys might be hardcore bikers, but they seem like a family. The smart thing would be for me to leave now, before I get too attached. But I remember Ghost's words from this morning:"You're mine."

What exactly did he mean? Two simple words that somehow managed to sound like both a threat and a promise.

When the door opens, this time without a forewarning knock, I expect to see Rash again, but it’s Ghost himself who enters carrying a dinner tray. The sight of him filling the room with his commanding presence makes my breath catch.

"You're looking better," he observes, setting the tray on the small table by the window. "The rest and proper medication dosage helping?"

I nod, unable to deny it. "I feel stronger than I have in ages," I admit. "Though I hate being idle."

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