Chapter 2
Caleb
""You gonna tell us what the hell that was?" Havoc’s voice cuts through the laughter rolling through the Damned Saints' lair.
He pushes off the bar and makes his way to the back table, beer in hand, one dark brow raised. Havoc's our club president, a former Recon Marine built like a battering ram.
His hair's cropped military short, his beard longer, and he treats the men under his command like brothers. Which means he breaks our balls often and without mercy.
I drop into a chair, stretching my bad leg out under it. The ride back from the square was short, but the old injury flares every damn time the weather shifts or I spend too long on my feet. Today was both.
Spent half the day staking out the festival crowd, watching for a handoff tied to a cartel shipment we’ve been tracking. I had just decided to plant myself for a bit when she showed up.
Nya.
Sunshine, as I called her. As I’ll keep calling her.
She was all curves and calm chaos. Apron full of flowers. Hair full of wild curls. Hips like a prayer, sway like sin.
I’d seen her before in town. Moving like she had a different rhythm than the rest of the world. She never looked at me twice. Not that I blame her. Most women give me a wide berth.
Not that I would have let them close anyway. But with her, it was different. She felt like something I shouldn’t want. Too innocent. Too soft.
But today, she sat down beside me without hesitation. And when her head dropped against my shoulder and her breathing evened out, like she trusted me, I didn’t move a muscle. Not even to shift my weight. Like if I breathed wrong, she’d vanish.
"Explain what?" I say, already regretting not walking straight up to my room.
"Explain why the girl from the flower shop is claiming you in front of half the town," Havoc drawls. "Then you claim her right back."
Viper, our road captain, slides into the seat across from me, grinning. "Never thought I’d see the day the Ghost puts on a show."
I grunt.
The clubhouse is buzzing. Prospects shoot pool under flickering lights. Country music hums low from the jukebox. Smoke curls up from cigars. The scent of leather, sweat, beer, and barbecue clings to the walls.
Earlier today, we wrapped a meet with an informant about a cartel shipment coming through the mountains next week. But, somehow, me pulling a woman into my lap is tonight’s headline.
"Woman leaned against me and fell asleep," I say finally. "Her sister showed up, started running her mouth. Girl panicked, told everyone I was hers. I rolled with it."
"You kissed her," Havoc points out, smirking. "In front of that sister of hers, what’s her name? Jessica. The one who thinks she runs Lovestone Ridge. She looked like she swallowed a live grenade when you pulled the quiet one into your lap."
Funny thing is, I never noticed that other woman before. Not really.
Just my Sunshine.
“She looked like she was going to cry,” I mutter. I run a hand down my face, over my beard.
Truth is, seeing her close to tears cracked something open in me. I’ve been shot, stabbed, seen hell up close. Nothing hit like the look in her eyes when her own sister tried to tear her down.
“So you kissed away her tears?” Viper laughs. “That’s some fairytale crap, brother.”
“Watch it,” I warn, voice flat. No heat, but they know the edge.
Havoc raises both hands. “Easy, Ghost. We’re just giving you shit. None of us begrudge you a little... fun.”
“It’s not like that,” I snap, sharper than I mean to.
Fun is disposable. Fun fades by morning.
This felt like... claiming.
When she curled her fingers into my cut, something primal lit up in me. A man like me doesn’t get soft. Doesn’t get sentimental. But I’ve killed men for less than the things that sister said to her.
I spent almost two decades slipping in and out of warzones. Navy SEAL before the ink, before the bike. Damned Saints patched me in two years ago.
I didn’t survive what I have to play games in a hay bale. I stepped up because something in me wanted her. Like I wanted air after drowning.
Havoc’s expression shifts. He may be the loudest man in the room, but he reads people better than most therapists.
“You good?” he asks, voice low.
I stare into my glass of iced tea, jaw tight. “She’s young. Too young for me.”
There’s at least fifteen years between us. I’ve got a body full of scar tissue and a head full of ghosts.
She grows daisies and knits scarves and wears cinnamon in her damn hair. She smiles like the world hasn’t touched her yet.
Viper shrugs. “She’s grown. And so are you. Age don’t mean shit when fate’s got its teeth in you.” He claps my shoulder. “Besides, you deserve something good. And you know we’ve got your back.”
“I don’t think I ever seen you smile, Ghost,” Havoc adds. “If she can get you to lighten up, hell, I’ll bake her a cake myself.”
Then his voice hardens. “But don’t screw it up. And don’t bring her drama unless you’re ready to handle it. We’ve got our own war coming. Cartel’s already breathing down our backs. We can’t afford sloppy.”
“Understood,” I reply.
It’s not a promise to stay away.
It’s a promise to protect her.
The cartel won’t touch her. Not while I breathe.
After the meeting breaks, I climb the stairs to my room. The second floor smells like pinewood and old tobacco.
It’s quiet here. Safe, in a way nowhere else is.
My space is bare. A bed, a dresser, a chair by the window. My cut hangs on a hook.
There’s a photo taped to the mirror. Me at seventeen, arm around my baby sister Cassie. She had pigtails and no front teeth. I was shipping out to boot camp the next day.
Cassie’s got her own life now. Found her peace in our hometown, Jackson Ridge. Married Reaper. Had a baby.
She told me to find something of my own. Said even haunted men deserve light.
I told her I wasn’t built for softness.
Then a woman with flower petals in her hair leaned against me like I was her safe place.
And I stayed still.
Because maybe I wanted to be. Just once.