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CHAPTER 1

GHOST

And… she’s gone.

Present day…

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I slow my steps and turn around to face Crow, my president, and the tension in my body intensifies almost painfully. He’s wearing a scowl that no doubt matches my own but for a very different reason.

“What does it look like?” I snap, momentarily having a lapse in judgment and forgetting who I’m talking to.

He narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?”

Heaving a sigh, I force my posture to relax. “Sorry, Pres. I, uh…” I scrub my hands down my face. “Another one quit.”

Immediately, his anger deflates. “Jesus, I’m sorry. That makes what, four?”

I huff out a humorless laugh. “Five.”

“Have you talked to Addison?” he asks.

Addison is Crow’s old lady, and she’s also a cop with deeper community ties than Soulless Kings MC. He’s been telling me for months to ask her if she knows any home health nurses that would be good for my mom.

“Haven’t had the chance.”

“Look, go do what you have to do,” he orders. “You’ve got a pass on church. But dammit, talk to Addison when you get back. She can help.”

“Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me shit,” he scoffs. “But next time you have to bail on church because of something to do with your mom, let someone know.”

“Yeah, okay.” I turn to walk out the clubhouse door but glance over my shoulder. “Crow?”

“Huh?”

“Thanks. I mean it.”

He nods once and spins on his heel. I continue outside to my Harley, mentally preparing myself for what I know is going to be a rough interaction.

As I ride across town, I let my mind wander.

Excitement buzzes through my system as I climb the concrete steps to a porch I’ve missed since I’ve been in Oregon. It’s been almost a year since my last visit, and I miss my mom. Her neighbor called me a week ago to tell me she was worried about her, so I made the trek for a visit.

“Mom!” I call out after stepping into my childhood home, a wave of nostalgia washing over me. “Hey, Mom!”

The living room is empty, so I make my way to the kitchen, knowing that’s where she has to be with as much as she loves to bake. When I find it empty as well, my stomach knots, and I search faster.

“Mom? Where are you?”

I start to turn toward the hallway when movement outside the kitchen window catches my eye. My mom is standing in the yard, her back to the house, and her shoulders hunched.

“Hey, Mom,” I say when I step through the sliding glass door that sits right off the kitchen. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Slowly, she turns around, and my stomach bottoms out. She’s got dark circles under her eyes, and her skin is pale.

“Pete?” she asks, calling me by my dad’s name… my dead dad.

I shake my head. “C’mon, Mom. That’s not funny.”

Her stare remains on me for the span of a heartbeat, and then she straightens with a smile. “Parker!” Mom hurries toward me, her arms wide for a hug. “What are you doing here?”

The lump in my throat makes it impossible to answer so I simply wrap her in my arms and kiss the top of her head. When she steps back, I could almost convince myself that I imagined the last few minutes.

As I turn onto the street I grew up on, I give myself a mental shake. Holding onto memories—good or bad—has never done me any favors. Pulling into the driveway, a sense of dread washes over me. If Mom is having a bad enough day that the nurse quit, this isn’t going to be pretty.

After parking, I head inside, bracing myself for what’s to come. As soon as I cross the threshold, fury slams through me like a Mack truck. The living room is in shambles. I take in the scene, narrowing my eyes on the broken lamp and shattered picture frames before my gaze lands on a sight that will forever be emblazoned on my brain: my mom cowered in the corner like a child.

Jesus.

As slowly as I can, I cross the room and squat in front of her. It takes her a moment to realize she’s not alone, and when she does, her eyes widen in fear.

“Who are you?” she asks, her voice frighteningly tiny.

“Hi, Mom,” I say quietly. “It’s me, Parker.”

She shakes her head and then glances around frantically. “Where’s my son? I want my son.”

I try to reach for her hands, but she yanks them away. Sighing, mentally count to five. “I’m your son, Mom. Remember?”

“She wanted me to leave. I didn’t want to leave.”

“Who, Mom?”

Since returning to Marble Falls after my mom’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis, I’ve learned a few things. For example, if I repeatedly call her ‘mom’, even when she doesn’t recognize me, the repetition may trigger her mind to remember. So, I say it every chance I get.

“That horrible woman. I told her I had to stay here until my boy gets home from school, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. But I’m here.”

Her eyes find mine, and I can tell the second clarity returns. Her fear diminishes, and she smiles. “Parker, what are you doing here?” She scans the room. “What happened here? It’s a mess.”

I rise to my full height and reach out a hand to help her to her feet. “You don’t remember what happened?”

“Of course, I know what happened?” she snaps. “You and your friends made a mess. I suggest you clean it up if you still want to go to that dance this weekend.”

And… she’s gone.