Page 2 of Ghost's Revenge
"Ghost?" Reaper's voice cuts through my spiral. "You with us?"
I force myself to focus on his face, on the concern I see there. These men have seen me at my worst. Dragged me out of more than one hospital after the PTSD sent me over the edge. They know what I'm capable of when the darkness takes over. They also know I'd die before I'd let harm come to anyone under our protection.
"Yeah," I hear myself say. "I'm with you."
The meeting continues for another hour, covering patrol schedules and contingency plans, but my mind keeps drifting to that yellow house on the corner. To brown eyes that looked right through me for just a moment before turning away. To the way she pulled that little boy closer to her side, recognizing danger even when it came wearing a leather jacket with good intentions.
Maybe she was right to be afraid.
By the time we adjourn, the sun is high and Pine Haven is fully awake. I take the long way back through town, telling myself I'm just checking the perimeter, making sure everything looks normal. But when I find myself parked across the street from the women's shelter, engine idling as I stare at the front porch where children's bikes lean against the railing, I know I'm lying to myself.
This is about her. About the woman with tired eyes and dark hair who looked at me last week like she could see straight through to all the broken pieces inside me. About the way she didn't flinch when she saw me, just... assessed. Like she was cataloguing threats and filing me away under 'dangerous but not immediate.'
Smart woman.
I'm about to pull away when the front door opens and she steps out, a laundry basket balanced on her hip. She's wearing jeans that hug curves she probably doesn't even realize she has and a faded t-shirt that's seen better days. Her hair is pulled back in what looks like an afterthought of a ponytail, and there are dark circles under her eyes that speak of too many sleepless nights.
She's beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with makeup or fancy clothes. Beautiful in the way broken things can be when they refuse to stay shattered.
A little boy follows her out. Four years old, maybe five, with her dark hair and what I'm guessing are his father's eyes. He's chattering about something, hands moving animatedly as he helps her carry smaller items from the basket. She listens to every word like it's the most important thing she's ever heard, smiling in a way that transforms her entire face.
This is what love looks like, I realize. Not the passionate and dangerous kind that Reaper and Wilder found, but the quiet, fierce kind that would burn the world down to keep one small person safe.
The boy notices me first, tugging on her shirt and pointing in my direction. She follows his gaze and our eyes meet across the street. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then she shifts slightly, putting herself between me and her son, and I see her whole body tense.
She remembers me from last week. Remembers the cut on my jacket, the way other people crossed the street to avoid me. She's doing what any smart mother would do, identifying the threat and positioning herself to protect what matters most.
I should leave. Should put the bike in gear and get the hell away from here before I scare her any more than I already have. But something keeps me frozen in place, caught between the urge to run and the need to somehow show her that I'm not what she thinks I am.
Except I am exactly what she thinks I am. I'm dangerous. I'm broken. I'm the kind of man smart women teach their children to avoid.
So why can't I make myself leave?
The boy says something to her, too quiet for me to hear over the distance and the idle rumble of my engine. She shakes her head and guides him toward the side of the house where clotheslinesare strung between two oak trees. But she keeps glancing back at me, wariness and something that might be curiosity warring in her expression.
I know I'm making her nervous. Know I should go. But I find myself memorizing details instead: the way she moves with unconscious grace despite her exhaustion, the protective curve of her body around her son, the way the morning light catches in her hair and makes it look like mahogany.
My phone rings, jarring me back to reality. Reaper's name flashes on the screen.
"Yeah?"
"Where are you? Home?"
I glance at the shelter, where she's hanging what looks like a child's t-shirt on the line. "Shelter. Making sure the perimeter's secure."
"Uh-huh." There's knowing amusement in his voice. "Everything look... secure?"
"Fuck off, Reaper."
His laugh follows me as I end the call and finally, finally put the bike in gear. As I pull away, I catch one last glimpse of her in my mirrors. She's standing by the clothesline, watching me go with an expression I can't read from this distance.
But I'll be back. Reaper gave me a job to do, and I've never failed to complete a mission. The fact that this particular mission involves the first woman to capture my attention in over twenty years is just a complication I'll have to deal with.
The ride back to my apartment is a blur of familiar streets and racing thoughts. I park behind the auto shop and take the stairs to my place two at a time, suddenly needing the walls aroundme, needing space to think without the distraction of watching her move through the world like she belongs in it.
Inside, I head straight for the kitchen and the bottle of bourbon I keep in the cabinet above the sink. The amber liquid burns going down, but it doesn't quiet the voice in my head asking what the hell I think I'm doing.
I don't get involved. Don't form attachments. Don't let anyone get close enough to see the damage up close. It's safer that way, for me and for them. The last time I tried to have something real with someone, I was nineteen and stupid enough to think love could fix what war had broken in me.
