Page 6 of Ghost's Angel

Mira

I've never been on a motorcycle before. The rumble of the engine vibrates through my entire body as we cruise through the rain-slicked streets. My arms are wrapped around him—my mysterious biker. I can feel the solid wall of muscle under my palms. When we stop at a light, he guides my frozen hands beneath his leather cut to press against the warmth of his hard abs, and my breath catches in my throat.

I should be terrified. Should be questioning my sanity for blindly trusting a man I barely know—a dangerous man who just materialized out of nowhere to threaten my would-be attacker. Instead, I feel...protected. Safe. Safer than I have in a long time. The irony isn't lost on me that I feel safe with someone who radiates danger from every pore.

His muscles flex beneath my fingers as he accelerates, and heat floods my cheeks as my body responds. I've never been this physically aware of anyone before. Never felt this stimulating combination of attraction and security.

But reality has a way of intruding on even the most perfect moments. My thoughts drift to my lost cleaning job, and my stomach knots with worry. I'd been counting on that second income to help me stay afloat. To help me afford my livingexpenses without having to choose between medication, food, or keeping a roof over my head. My finances are already stretched as thin as they can stretch.

I could ask for more hours at the diner, but the thought of spending more time dodging creepy Dave's advances makes my skin crawl. After tonight's scene with the lawyer, I'm starting to wonder if there's anywhere safe for someone like me. I hate that I’m always one missed paycheck away from living on the streets. I hate feeling small and scared and vulnerable, but I don’t know how to get out of this endless cycle.

The bike slows as we approach my neighborhood, and I realize with a start that I never gave him my address. How does he know where I live? Come to think of it, I don't even know his name. I only know by the patches on his cut that he’s the president and that the Shadow Reapers are one percenters—which, according to Wikipedia. means they’re an outlaw club.

We turn onto my street, and my heart sinks at the sight of water pooling at the base of the steps leading down to the door of my basement apartment.

What is it they say—when it rains it pours?

He kills the engine, and the sudden silence feels deafening. "Your place is down there?" His voice is reproachful, judgmental.

"Yes." I slide off the bike on shaky legs, trying to smile through the crushing weight of his disapproval. “I…it…when it rains, sometimes... I should check the damage."

The door sticks when I try to open it—already swelling from the water. He reaches past me, muscles bunching as he forces it open with one easy shove.

Water sloshes around our feet as we enter. The dim overhead bulb reveals the extent of the flooding—at least two inches of murky water covering my entire floor. My secondhand furniture is ruined. Again.

"This happen often?" His voice is carefully controlled, but I can hear anger simmering beneath the surface.

“No.” I shrug. “Well, yeah. Sometimes. Only when it rains hard, though.” As I move through the space, gathering what few possessions I can salvage into my slightly soggy duffel bag, I try hard to keep a positive attitude. Mindset is everything, after all. But I’m just so tired. Tonight..today…this whole week… Nothing has been going my way. Well, except one thing. I glance over at the huge man who seems to be taking up over half the space in my closet apartment. "I'm sorry, I don't even know your name."

"Ghost."

The name suits him—the way he appeared tonight like a phantom, moving as silently as a shadow. I want to ask if it's his real name, but something tells me that wouldn’t be a polite thing to ask at this juncture.

"I'm Mira," I offer, though he probably already knows from my diner uniform name tag.

"I know." His eyes track my movements as I continue gathering my meager belongings. I try not to feel ashamed of my poverty, of the water-damaged furniture and bare walls. Of the life I've cobbled together from scraps and desperate determination.

"Would you...would you mind dropping me at the 24-hour diner on Fifth? I can hang out there until morning.” I hate asking him for another favor, but I'm exhausted down to my bones. "I can walk, but I’m so tired and?—”

"No." He spits the single word out like a curse and I flinch. His eyes are narrowed and a muscle in his jaw is ticking. He’s angry. Oh, god, I’ve made him angry by asking too much.

“Of course. I’ve already bothered you enough. I’ll walk. No big deal.”

"You're coming with me to the clubhouse." It's not a question or a suggestion. It's a statement of fact.

Clubhouse? I open my mouth to protest, but I honestly don’t have the energy to challenge the angry look in his eyes. Besides, what other options do I really have? My apartment is flooded. I have no family, no friends close enough to impose on at this hour. And the thought of spending the night in a diner booth makes my already worn out body want to protest.

"Just until I figure something out," I agree reluctantly.

Something flashes in his eyes—satisfaction maybe?—before he takes my bag from my trembling fingers. "Temporary, sure,” he agrees, but there's an odd note in his voice I can't quite decipher.

As we walk back to his bike, I square my shoulders and lift my chin. I won't cry. Won't complain about the unfairness of it all. Life has taught me that tears don't solve anything, and self-pity is a luxury I can't afford.

Still, when his large hand squeezes my shoulder briefly, the gentle pressure nearly breaks my carefully maintained composure. It's been so long since anyone has offered me comfort, even in such a small way.

He swings onto the bike and helps me settle behind him again. This time when I wrap my arms around his waist, it feels different. More intimate somehow. Like crossing a threshold I can't uncross.

As we pull away from my flooded apartment, I press my cheek against his leather-clad back and close my eyes. I should be worried about where this night is leading, about climbing onto a motorcycle with a man called Ghost, about going to a biker clubhouse of all places.

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