Page 7 of Ghost's Revenge
"Derek," I hear myself say. "You can call me Derek."
Something that might be a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Debbie. Wilson."
"Debbie." I test the name, like I'm trying it on for size. It fits her. Simple and honest and stronger than it sounds.
She heads back to Tyler, scooping him up in a hug that makes him giggle and squirm. As they disappear into the house, I catch a glimpse of the woman she must have been before whatever happened to bring her here.
Younger. Definitely happier. But still carrying that core of steel that's keeping her going now.
I walk back to my bike, but instead of calling Reaper like I should, I find myself heading toward the front door of the shelter. I need to understand what I'm walking into here, need to know what Sarah Patterson expects from this arrangement. Need to know if she has any idea what she's in for when a man like me is in charge of protecting women who've already been hurt by men they trusted.
The front door is painted cheerful yellow to match the house, with a small sign that reads "Pine Haven Women's Shelter - A Safe Haven for New Beginnings." There's a doorbell, but also a heavy deadbolt and what looks like a security camera tucked discreetly under the eaves. Sarah Patterson might radiatewarmth and compassion, but she's not naive about the kinds of dangers her residents face.
I press the doorbell and wait, aware of how I must look standing on this porch. Six-foot-four of leather and scars, the kind of man these women have probably been taught to fear. When the door opens, Sarah's face appears, and I see her take a quick assessment before stepping back to let me in.
"Derek. I was wondering when you'd stop by." Her voice is calm, professional, but I catch the way her eyes flick toward the hallway behind me. Checking to make sure we're alone.
"I wanted to introduce myself properly, discuss the parameters of the protection detail."
"Of course. Come into my office."
I follow her down a hallway lined with children's artwork and motivational posters, past a living room where two women sit quietly with cups of coffee, past a kitchen where someone is making what smells like pancakes.
The whole place feels lived-in, comfortable, like a home instead of an institution. But there's an underlying tension too, the kind that comes from housing people who are always looking over their shoulders. The kind that I felt every single day when I was younger.
Sarah's office is small but organized, with filing cabinets that probably hold more tragedy than anyone should have to carry. She settles behind her desk and gestures for me to take the chair across from her.
"I saw you talking to Debbie outside. How did that go?"
"Better than I expected. She's not comfortable with the arrangement, but she's not running either."
"Good. She's been through more than most." Sarah leans back in her chair, studying me with the kind of direct gaze that tells me she's used to reading people. "Can I ask you something, Derek?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"What do you see when you look at the women here?"
The question catches me off guard. "I'm not sure I understand."
"Some people see victims. Some see damaged goods. Some see charity cases or problems to be solved." She pauses. "What do you see?"
I think about the women I glimpsed in the living room, the way they held their coffee cups like they were ready to bolt at any second. About Debbie standing on that porch, meeting my eyes without flinching. About voices I can hear now through the office door. Women talking, children laughing, the sounds of people trying to rebuild their lives from nothing.
"Survivors," I say finally. "I see survivors."
"Good. That's what they are, you know. Every single one of them made the hardest choice of their lives when they decided to leave. They walked away from everything familiar, everything comfortable, because they knew they deserved better. That takes courage most people can't imagine."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Some have been here months, some just days. Some have family support, others have no one. But they all have one thing in common. They're learning to trust their own judgment again after being told they were wrong about everything for years." Sarah's voice takes on a protective edge. "Your presence here... it could be healing or it could be retraumatizing. That's why I need to know you understand what we're asking of you."
"What are you asking of me?"
"To be different. To be the kind of man who keeps his word and respects boundaries and never, ever makes them feel unsafe." She pauses. "Can you do that?"
The question should be insulting. I'm a grown man, a veteran, the VP of an MC that prides itself on protecting the innocent. Of course I can control myself around traumatized women and children.
But Sarah isn't questioning my ability to behave myself. She's asking if I understand the weight of what she's placing in my hands. These women's trust, their safety, their belief that maybe not all men are dangerous.
