Page 7

Chapter 7

Mira

I wake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows and my cheeks flush hot as memories of last night rush back—Ghost’s touch, his kiss, the way he made me feel things I'd never felt before. For a moment, panic claws at my chest. Did I dream it all?

But no—I'm still wearing Ghost’s t-shirt, and this is definitely not my flooded basement apartment. The scent of leather and man lingers on the pillow beside me. Ghost's pillow. But the bed is empty now, the sheets cool where he should be.

I sit up slowly, trying to get my bearings. This is Ghost's private room above the clubhouse. His sanctuary that he shared with me. But is it okay for me to leave? He didn't say I had to stay put, but then again, he didn't say I could wander around either.

The faint sounds of life drift up from below—voices, laughter, the occasional rev of a motorcycle. This is a world I know nothing about.

After using the bathroom and finger-combing my hair into some semblance of order, I dig through my damp duffle and pull out a pair of thrift store jeans with a couple holes in not- so-fashionable areas, and slide them on under Ghost's t-shirt, which I can't bear to remove.

Then, gathering my courage, I venture downstairs.

The staircase opens into what appears to be the main room of the clubhouse—a large open space scattered with leather couches and chairs, pool tables, what looks like some kind of shrine of motorcycle parts mounted on a wall to the left, and a massive bar dominating the far wall.

I'm not sure if it's my imagination or if the room actually falls silent as I descend the last few steps. I avoid making eye contact, but I'm pretty sure every gaze turns to me, and I fight the urge to shrink into myself. These people are Ghost's family—his chosen family. I don't want to appear weak in front of them.

A few of the men nod in my direction. I recognize some faces from the diner, and they seem friendly enough, offering small smiles or raised coffee mugs in greeting. But the women...their stares are razor sharp, cutting me to ribbons with unconcealed disdain.

I suppress a shiver. I faced, mean girls before, both in school and the foster families in which I grew up.

They're gorgeous—all of them. Tight clothes showing off more of their perfect figures than I'd ever dare reveal in public, flawless makeup, confident curves. Everything I'm not in my borrowed oversized t-shirt and outdated jeans. One of them, a statuesque blonde with enormous breasts, looks me up and down with a smirk that takes me right back to high school.

"Well, well. What do we have here?" Her voice drips honey-coated venom. "Did the prez pick up a stray?"

I lift my chin, willing my voice not to shake. "Hello, I'm Mira."

"Are you now?" Another woman, this one with fire-engine red hair, circles me like a shark. "And what exactly are you doing here? In Prez’s shirt, no less?"

"I..." The words stick in my throat. What am I doing here? What am I to Ghost? One night of fooling around doesn't make me anything to him. We didn't even have actual intercourse.

"Oh honey," the blonde's laugh is cruel, "you actually think you're special? That shirt you're wearing? Half the girls here have worn it. Ghost likes his...charity cases."

The words hit like physical blows, but I refuse to let them see how much they hurt. I've survived worse. Much worse.

"Nice shoes," Red sneers, eyeing my worn sneakers. "Did you get those at Goodwill? Or maybe dumpster diving?"

The blonde laughs. "My grandmother had a pair just like them."

"Leave it." A commanding voice cuts through their laughter. The man from last night—the one who was at the diner with Ghost—strides over. His cut identifies him as VP. “Get gone,” he commands, and the women scatter like roaches in sunlight.

“I’m Blade," he introduces himself with a nod. "Don't let them get to you. They're just jealous."

"Of what?" I ask before I can stop myself. But really, what do they have to be jealous of? My second-hand clothes? My sleep-rumpled hair? Makeup-free face?

"Of the fact that you're Ghost's ol' lady."

I blink at him, hoping I've misheard him. "His...what?"

"His woman. His ol' lady." Blade's expression is serious, but I know he's mocking me. He has to be. Joining the mean girls in cruelly taunting me. Drilling it in that there's no way someone like Ghost—powerful, dangerous, respected—would want a penniless woman dressed like an old lady in mom jeans and grandma shoes.

"Right," I manage, backing away. "Thanks for the...clarification."

I turn to flee back upstairs, hating myself for running, for not standing up to them, for being the same scared little girl I've always been. The stairs swim before my eyes as spots dance in my vision, but I keep my legs moving as quickly as I can. My chest constricts painfully, and I stumble, my hand flying to my sternum.

Not now. Please not now. I need to get to my prescription bottle.

As I climb the first few steps, the edges of my vision go dark. I'm going to fall. My knees buckle, but instead of hitting the hard stairs, I feel strong arms catch me, lifting me into the air as though I weigh nothing.

"I've got you, angel." Ghost's voice rumbles against my ear as he cradles me to his chest.

"In my bag..." I gasp out. "My...my meds.”