Page 13 of Claimed By The Club
I shift my weight. “Yeah, well, sometimes fear is the only language people like that understand.”
She studies me for a moment. “Thank you. I know you didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s my job.” The words come out clipped, but I see the relief in her expression. I can’t deny there’s a certain satisfaction in knowing I kept her safe—at least for tonight.
I glance at the boxes stacked by the wall. “You need help unloading anything else?”
She shakes her head. “I’m mostly done. Just have to figure out where to store my clothes.”
My gaze sweeps over the small living area. A plain table with two chairs, a worn rug, and a faded couch. “This place isn’t exactly glamorous,” I remark.
She follows my line of sight. “No, but it’s safe. That’s all I need right now.”
I stiffen at that word, safe. She’s counting on me. On us. And I’m not entirely sure she won’t stab us in the back, intentionally or not. But for now, she’s under our roof.
Stepping away from the couch, I tug the chain on the overhead lamp, dimming the light. “Keep your doors locked, windows shut. If you see anything suspicious, call me, Frost, or Viper. We’ll get here fast.”
She stands, brushing invisible lint off her jeans. “I understand.”
A twinge of guilt pricks me for the blunt tone I’m using, but I can’t relax my guard. Not yet. “All right,” I say, walking to the door. “Sleep well.”
She follows me to the threshold, holding the door in one hand. The warm desert breeze ruffles her hair. “Ghost,” she says softly.
I pause, turning slightly. “Yeah?”
Her lips part, but she hesitates, maybe searching for the right words. Then she forces a small smile. “Thank you again.”
For a beat, something in my chest shifts. Her gratitude isn’t empty. It carries a weight I recognize— relief mingled with vulnerability. I nod once, then step outside, letting the door click shut behind me.
Night has fallen fully, and the compound sits in shadow. Security lights shine in the corners, illuminating the perimeter. I move along the fence, checking for any sign those thugs doubled back. It’s quiet, the only sounds crickets and an occasional distant howl from a coyote.
My head buzzes with conflicting thoughts. On one hand, I’m wired from confronting trespassers. On the other, I’m unsettled by Sierra’s desperation. She’s strong, that much is clear, but her problems could spiral out of control and drag us down if we’re not careful.
I pass by a cluster of bikes, each with its own personality. My bike is sleek and subdued, the dark gray paint designed for stealth. I run my palm over the seat, taking comfort in the familiar lines. That machine has carried me through some rough nights. If danger escalates, it’ll carry me again, hopefully with a better outcome than last time.
Crossing the yard, I slip into the clubhouse through a side entrance. The corridor is dim, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Axel—our road captain—is sprawled on the couch in the lounge, flipping through a magazine. He glances up.
“You’re late for the meeting, Ghost,” he says.
“I’ll fill Frost in later,” I reply, not slowing. “We had company outside the safe house.”
Axel blinks, sits up. “Serious?”
“Two men. Looking for Sierra.”
He exhales, tension lining his face. “Damn. You send them packing?”
I nod. “They won’t be back tonight. But we better stay alert.”
“Got it,” Axel says, and I sense him reaching for his phone. He’ll likely text Viper or one of the other members to step up security.
I keep walking, heading toward my room at the far end of the hall. Unlike Frost, who sometimes sleeps in an army cot or stays at his own place, I bunk here most nights. Living on-site ensures I’m always available if trouble strikes. The door to my room creaks, and I enter. It’s bare bones: a narrow bed, a small desk, a closet with a few changes of clothes. Perfect for me.
Locking the door behind me, I switch on a single lamp. The faint glow lands on a photo pinned above the desk—my younger brother and I, years ago, when we thought the world was full of possibility. He died in a random act of violence while I was off training with the Marines. That loss shaped me, taught mehow fleeting life can be and how betrayal or tragedy can strike without warning.
Sierra’s situation threatens to revive the old bitterness I still carry. I don’t want to see another person destroyed by the cruelty of others, but I also can’t afford to let her manipulate the club. Pushing that thought aside, I unbutton my shirt, letting it slide off. The overhead fan buzzes, stirring warm air around me.
I grab a towel from the desk chair and head to the small bathroom, flicking on the light. The cracked mirror reflects the worry lines etched into my features, a few faint scars across my torso. Each mark tells a story, a reminder of the violence I’ve survived.
