Page 5 of Ghost's Revenge
This feels different. This feels like someone standing guard so I can sleep without checking the locks three times.
Tyler stirs on the couch, blinking up at me with sleepy eyes. "Is it time for snacks?"
"It's time for whatever you want it to be time for," I tell him, smoothing his dark hair away from his forehead. "We're not in a hurry anymore, remember?"
He considers this with the seriousness of a judge. "Then it's time for snacks, and then playground, and then maybe we can read the book about the dragon."
"That sounds like a perfect plan."
As I help him up and we head toward the kitchen together, I find myself thinking about tomorrow. About meeting the man who's been assigned to protect us. About looking into those cold, dark eyes I glimpsed from across the street and trying to figure out if Sarah is right to trust him.
I've been wrong about men before. Catastrophically wrong. But Tyler deserves to grow up somewhere safe, somewhere he doesn't have to worry about angry voices and slamming doors and the sound of his mother crying in the bathroom at two AM.
Maybe it's time to take a leap of faith. Maybe it's time to trust someone besides myself.
Even if that someone is a man they call Ghost.
Chapter 3 - Ghost
Next Day
The coffee in my cup has gone cold while I've been sitting here, staring at the yellow house across the street like it holds the answers to questions I'm not sure I want to ask. Seven AM, and I've already been parked outside the Pine Haven Women's Shelter for twenty minutes, working up the nerve to walk across the street and introduce myself.
Derek "Ghost" Sullivan, VP of the Outlaw Order MC, afraid to talk to a building full of women and children who need protection.
The irony isn't lost on me.
My hands are steadier than they've been in days, which should be a good sign. No nightmares last night, no three AM wake-up call from memories that won't stay buried. Just eight solid hours of dreamless sleep that left me feeling almost human for once. Maybe it's the mission focus, the sense of purpose that comes with having someone to protect. Maybe it's knowing that for however long this takes, I have a job that doesn't involve violence or intimidation or any of the other things that come naturally to a man like me.
The front door opens and she steps out with her son, both of them bundled up against the morning chill. She's wearing the same jeans from yesterday and an oversized cardigan that looks like it's seen better days, but there's something different about her this morning. Less haunted, maybe. Like she got some sleep too.
The boy—Tyler, I heard her call him—is chattering excitedly about something, his small hands moving in animated gesturesas he helps her carry what looks like a bag of trash to the bin at the side of the house.
This is my chance. I should get off the bike, walk over there, introduce myself professionally and establish the parameters of the protection detail. That's what any rational VP would do. That's what the mission requires.
But then Tyler notices me. He tugs on his mother's cardigan and points in my direction, just like he did yesterday. She follows his gaze, and when her brown eyes find mine across the street, I see the exact moment she recognizes me. Like she's been expecting this.
She says something to Tyler, too quiet for me to hear, then guides him back toward the house. But instead of disappearing inside like I expect, she settles him on the front steps with what looks like a coloring book and walks to the edge of the porch. Still keeping distance between us, still making sure she can grab her son and run if necessary, but not hiding anymore.
She's giving me an opening.
I swing my leg over the bike, immediately aware of how every movement makes me look bigger, more threatening. Six-foot-four and built like a tank doesn't exactly scream "harmless," especially when you add in the leather jacket and the scar through my eyebrow that marks me as someone who's seen violence up close.
But I cross the street anyway, stopping at the edge of her property line. Close enough to talk without shouting, far enough away that she won't feel cornered.
"Ma'am." I keep my voice low, non-threatening. "I'm Derek Sullivan. Ghost. I believe Sarah Patterson spoke with you about the security arrangement?"
Up close, I can see the exhaustion in her face more clearly. The way her shoulders hold tension like they're expecting a blow. The way she positions herself between me and Tyler, even though he's twenty feet away and focused on his coloring.
She's been hurt. Recently and badly, if the way she moves is any indication.
"She mentioned it." Her voice is softer than I expected, but there's steel underneath. "You're the one who's been watching the shelter."
It's not a question. "Yes, ma'am. Making sure everything stays quiet."
"Why?"
The simple question catches me off guard. Most people don't ask why when it comes to MC business. They either accept it, or they don't, but they rarely want explanations.
