Page 2 of Haunting Phantom
“If you won’t leave, then all I can do is drink you away.” He tips the glass toward me. “Happy birthday, you undead bitch. Now fuck off and leave me alone.”
Chapter Two
Phantom’s fingers dig into the side of his head, pressing against the temples as he groans in utter vexation. He didn’t sleep well at all, tossing and turning as memories of our last moments together filtered through his head on repeat.
This is his morning ritual, exercising his grief mentally like a strenuous morning workout. It’s why I stick around. The poor guy can’t live without me.
“Why can’t I just let you go?” His voice, thick with that sexy husk that lured me to him in the first place, dominates the room, even though it comes out an incoherent whisper for my ears only.
His long auburn locks, disheveled and matted with ratted bedhead, cover his beautiful face. The once flawless complexion is now infected with a depressing scruff that’s on the verge of multiplying and growing into a typical biker beard.
I hate beards; they’re so filthy.
Bottles litter the floor, painful remnants of just how fucked up he truly is. But what did he expect? Losing me was a pinnacle point in his life. Letting me go was never an option, not for the man responsible for my death.
“Fuck!” he shouts when he realizes he drank all his stash from the night before. It was surprising he even drank at all. When we were younger, he barely touched the stuff, stating that he didn’t like how it made his head feel or how much he felt like his father every time he drank. I still remember the conversation we had about his dad like it happened yesterday…
“He was nothing but a sperm donor to me, Eve. The man was a ruthless son of a bitch, and the only thing that he ever loved was the bottom of a goddamn bottle. I hate that man, even though calling him that seems a bit far-fetched. A man would’ve stood up for his family, not fucking tear it apart from the inside out.”
Comfort’s never really been my strong suit, so besides a massage of his shoulders and an encouraging pat on the back, I stayed silent, allowing him to vent.
Maybe that’s where our downfall started? He wanted more empathy than I could give, and I just wanted to be named his Ol’ Lady.
That’s what every good or, in my case,badLittle Annie wants. To become an Elm Street Rider’s Ol’ Lady and not just a girl he casually fucks when he’s in the mood.
Most motorcycle clubs call their club women either club whores, club bunnies, or sweet butts, but not the Elm Street Riders. They stick to their horror themed motorcycle club in every aspect, from the street the clubhouse was built on to the club names throughout the club—club whores included. So, that’s what they call us—their Little Annies. Apparently, there’s some movie about a crazy reader who kidnaps the author of her favorite book and then tortures him to rewrite it. Her name was Annie. I’ve never seen the movie myself, but I heard it was pretty good. I guess the name fits though; most of the women who live in the clubhouse are goddamn headcases, and all of them need toget it through their thick skulls that Phantom is mine. Not theirs. Not anyone else who dares to look his way. He’s fucking mine.
A loud knock berates the wooden door before Voorhees marches in, shaking his head in utter disappointment when he sees the mess all over the floor.
“This shit draws ants. Pull yourself together, Phantom, and clean this shit up.”
Phantom steals a glance his way and sighs.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Voorhees bellows. He can’t hide his disappointment. It’s apparent in the way he clenches his jaw and glares at Phantom from the doorway.
Phantom slowly lifts his head, shrugs, then goes back to his typical sulk. “You know what’s wrong with me. Everyone knows what’s wrong with me. I’ve fucking lost my mind. That’s what.”
“Is this about Eve?”
Aww, they’re talking about me again. How sweet.
His shoulders lift slightly, but everyone in the room knows he’s referring to me. Everything is always about Eve.
“She’s gone, man. She’s been gone for months.”
Clenching my fists, I march right up to Voorhees and wave my hands in his face. The prick ignores me, like always.“I’m right fucking here, asshole! Don’t act like you can’t see me.”
He shifts on the balls of his feet, but doesn’t say a word, just folds his arms and leans against the door as he scolds Phantom with his crummy blue eyes.
“You don’t get it, Voorhees. Nobody fucking does. I still feel her like she’s right here. You can’t tell me that no one else notices the weird shit that goes on around the clubhouse. She’s still here. She’s fucking pissed. And she wants to make my life a living hell.”
Ugh, that’s so not true. I just want to make sure he knows who he belongs to. And it’s definitely not a fucking club, Annie. Unless that Annie is me, of course.
“She’s dead, Phantom. It’s time to move on.”
Dead?
Did he just call me dead?
