Chapter 2 Carter
CARTER
I scared her.
Damn it.
It never even occurred to me that this could happen, not like that.
Talk about a first impression. I really messed up.
And to think I’ve been watching her for months, keeping my distance, always staying away because I knew one wrong move would be enough to frighten her.
But this? Finally getting the chance to speak to her, and making her hands shake.
.. That was never what I wanted. It was a mistake. All of it.
I should have seen that the guy was bothering her.
I should have stepped in before he crossed that door.
Then I could’ve left, and she would’ve never known I was there.
She wouldn’t have looked at me like she was trying not to flinch.
She wouldn’t be afraid of me. I just wanted, damn it, I just wanted to try.
To try something real. Something outside of my world.
I wanted her to see me, not the version folks warn each other about.
Not the man they expect to hurt them. And now, it’s too late; it can’t be undone.
Even from three feet away, I could smell her scent mixed with soap and honey. Even without touching her, I could feel the softness of her skin. And her brown eyes, damn, those eyes, light and sparkly, filled with intelligence and yet so fucking terrified.
I mean, I guess they were terrified.
If I remember the last movie I saw, she had the same look as the actress before seeing a spider. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated, hands flexing, and voice faltering.
That’s fear.
Well, I am pretty sure it was fear. I can’t be a hundred percent sure ‘cause my fucked-up brain can’t process people’s emotions, but after years of therapy and watching as many films as I could to study humans’ reactions, I’m getting better each day at reading them.
She was scared, and I never, ever wanted that.
What the hell do I do now?
Now I’m going to have to live with the fact that this angel, this breath-taking woman with a voice like silk and eyes like gems, will always remain out of touch.
She’s in my head, and I can't shake her away. I was supposed to stay cold, keep my distance. I knew she wasn’t just any girl, and now it's ruined. So much so, I don’t know what to do about it.
So I ended up in the club basement, slamming my fists into the concrete floor like it could knock some sense into me.
I exhale hard, dragging a hand down my face, shaking my head.
How the hell am I supposed to think about anything else now that I’ve met her?
My knuckles answer before I can. Blood stares back at me, bright, angry streaks blooming across my swollen skin.
The cuts are raw, the flesh split, crimson seeping through in slow, deliberate lines. And yet...I feel nothing.
Some say pain is a construct of the mind, but to me it's a way of letting out whatever’s stuck inside me.
I've tortured many men in my short twenty-five years, hundreds, if not more.
Most of them were more afraid of the potential pain I would make them endure than the pain itself.
Could see it in their eyes when they heard the drill or the sound of the electric peeler.
I didn't even have to touch them; they were already there, fighting to flee the hurt.
To escape the inevitable. Yet to me, physical injuries weren't really painful.
To some extent, I would feel someone digging their fingers in a wound, of course, nerves and all.
But I had found that with time, I'd only truly suffered when my mind was the target.
Safe to say that my reputation had prevented even the bravest of our enemies from coming and taking their shot at me.
They knew I was the kind to sew back a wound to keep on with the torture.
And here I fucking was, back in the basement of the club after promising myself to never come back here. Hell, at least I had held my promise to myself. I wasn't here to torture but to get a bit of peace and destroy my fists.
It wasn't completely all about her.
Watching women get hurt, assaulted, or mistreated is triggering to me.
I have seen too many things too fucking young, and now, the sight of a man twisting a woman's hand into compliance is unbearable to me.
Like an urge to act, correct, and protect.
To take control back of what I had been unable to do fifteen years ago with my sisters and mother.
So when I saw this guy enter her home, I didn't think twice about it.
After months of watching her, I had never seen him.
Never. And if that guy was in the picture, they must have held their encounters in other places, ‘cause her home was hers and her kid’s only.
I had seen a couple with two girls enter it once and figured they were family, but other than that, that woman had made her space her own heaven, and I couldn't let that guy destroy her peace.
You destroyed her peace.
You were the one watching her.
I reach the door and grab my cut before sliding my arms in it—the letters, Ghost, dancing over the back; my nickname outside of the club.
Here, my brothers always call me Carter, but to the world, I’m Ghost. Vox, my VP, chose it.
Said I was barely alive when they found me at fifteen, that I was always drifting away, couldn't carry on with small talk and all.
He said each guy I was taking care of in the basement was more terrified than he had ever seen.
As if they were doubting my humanity, my lack of empathy.
As if I wasn't really human after all. So Ghost it was.
Taking the stairs to the main hall, I bump into my prez, Ares.
“Shit, Carter, what’s it about?” He motions his chin to my hands.
“A setback.”
He frowns. “That chick again?” I know he gave hell to Vox when he started stalking Rose, but he's different now. Guess he figured there’s more to life than the club since marrying Mia.
Not that I'll ever get something like that, but I get it, especially since being the bodyguard of his Old Lady.
I see their banter, the way they look at each other like characters in movies, the way his tone hardens when he talks about her as if he were guarding the most precious treasure any man could ever have.
I'd never get that, being a sociopath and all that; sometimes in life, you have to be realistic.
And I know men like me, twisted, borderline psychopaths, aren't getting a happy ending.
I had watched enough films to know that the hero got the girl at the end. And I was no hero.
I stared at him. “I talked to her.”
His jaw ticked as one corner of his mouth lifted. That was a slight smile. I think.
“Okay, that's good, kid, huh? It was time, don't you think?” he says, patting my shoulder.
I had told him about her months ago when I asked to stop being the enforcer of the club and become one of his wife's bodyguards.
I knew I couldn't keep on doing what I was doing if I wanted a chance at talking to a girl like her.
Couldn't put her in a risky situation with me being an enforcer.
Folks in our world could have talked and tried to hurt her to get to me.
And there was no way I was going to let that happen, especially since she has a kid.
So I switched from killing to protecting.
And even if I knew deep down I'd never have a shot at a normal life with a woman, at least I had tried to better myself for her. I could say I tried.
“It didn't happen the way I wanted it to.”
“Yeah, well, that’s life, Cart. Not everything happens like you plan it, trust me, I know.”
I look at him, deadpan. “I don't know how not to scare her. She's…normal.” Hell, she’s anything but normal. That woman is the sun and the stars bound together into the most spectacular galaxy of charms and beauty. But normal means that she isn't from our world.
“You should talk to Shadow ‘bout it, he's good at giving advice,” he pats my shoulder again, pointing his finger at me, “just no fucking gifts, alright?”
Gifts.
Yeah, I already knew that, but still, it was a reflex for me to think about them each time I wanted to please someone.
Parts of bodies, blood, organs, and ears.
Little gifts I had left on some girl's doorsteps back in the days.
Gifts I had put so much fucking effort into foraging myself.
And still, I was always met with a slap in the face and threats of restraining orders.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, boss.”
“Don’t want to spend the whole night up the valley cleaning your fucking treasure hunt like last time,” he grunts, reminding me of three years ago.
I stare at him, trying to convince him I’m done with them, even though they’re still scratching at me.
After that night, where I had tried to organize a date night for a chick of the strip club across town, ended in having to ask Vox and Ares to help me find the pieces of body I had hidden in the woods, ‘cause the girl threatened to fetch the police to see it. I have no issue with the police, but I didn’t want it to be such a big deal.
It was a fucking shit show. And I knew I had disappointed my bosses that night.
Felt like a failure. I just wanted to seduce the girl…
After that, Ares and Vox found me a shrink.
The guy was covered with debt and his only way out, Ares said, was helping me.
I knew I was lucky to spill my guts out without having to kill the guy after or wonder if I’d ever go behind bars for what I had confessed to him.
Anyways, three years of weekly therapy had helped me to understand the words boundaries and empathy.
Not to say that I had become a saint, but I was finally feeling more like a human than a machine.
And for that, I was glad to have put the work into it.
I nodded to my prez and watched him leave for his office.
Saturday is my day off, and Ash is on duty.
I’d only come if Mia was going to a big event with more risk.
So I have the whole day to myself to think about the one thing that’s pulsing under my forehead.
The obsession I know I can’t erase even if I try.
The indisputable fact that I need to see her again.
But how?
LANA
I tried journaling again. Sitting at the edge of my bed, I stared at the blank page, trying to put into words how I felt after what happened this morning.
A therapist I saw a few times last year, before it got too expensive and I had to stop, once told me journaling might help.
That it could release some of the mental weight and maybe even bring clarity when I’m overwhelmed.
I’m trying. I really am. But it’s not easy.
The blank page stares back at me, silent and empty, like it’s daring me to be honest. Noah’s little voice pulls me out of my thoughts.
“And Ava said I could have the dino but Chloé—” Noah is so excited about his morning with his cousins, he can’t stop bouncing on his little feet, his nose scrunching adorably each time he smiles.
Despite being four years old, my little man is as curious and talkative as a full-grown adult.
He needs to question and investigate everything he sees, understand why the water is coming from the shower drill, and why the sky is blue like his favorite T-shirt.
Although I’d enjoyed my time alone at home this morning, it was never truly complete without my Noah running around and filling the room with his golden laughter.
“That’s great, Noah. Alright, now go wash your hands. Lunch is almost ready,” I say as I finish making his tuna sandwich, or twunish as he would call it two years ago when his language skills were just starting to form.
“It’s already clean, Mama. I did it at Autie’s!” he shouts, hurrying to climb on the dining room chair, fidgeting impatiently.
“Promise?” I arch a brow and try not to fall for the toddler trap.
“Pinky promise, Mama. Now, can I have it, please?” he pleads, putting his little hands into a prayer under his chin.
I shake my head with a smile and put the plate in front of him, noticing the little dirt from my sister’s garden under his nails.
Whatever, it’s not that important. Since becoming a single mom, I’ve learned that my energy is limited, so I pick my battles, and this one isn’t worth the drama.
I take the seat in front of him, eating the same sandwich and thinking of that strange morning.
Why did Ben think he could burst into my life like that? And who was this man who had come to rescue me?
Noah and I ate and talked about bouncy castles and why we absolutely needed one in our garden.
We played for a while before I put him down for his nap.
Even as I cleaned up the dishes and tidied the living room, my mind kept circling back to that tall blond man.
He had the face of a Greek God and the eyes of someone who’d seen too much, like a prisoner on death row.
There was something unsettling in the way he carried both elegance and danger, like he didn’t quite belong in the daylight.
He scared me.
That’s the truth.
But any sane woman in my situation would have been. The first thing I did after he left was make the appointment to have the locks changed. After what happened in my marriage with Ben, I’d always have to be cautious. I’d always have to keep my guard up and my walls high.
I’m not naive. I can’t afford to be. But what unsettles me most is…I was curious, too. He didn’t feel like a threat. Not really. In fact, something about him felt protective, almost purposeful. Like he had shown up for a reason. He felt like a walking contradiction.
Now, sitting at the living room table with my coloring book and pencils, I’m sketching absentmindedly.
Flowers spirals, little patterns, anything to soften the tension still coiled in my chest. Watching Ben force his way into my space this morning left a bitter taste behind.
And when I compare that to the quiet intensity of the stranger… It’s night and day.
It was a strange encounter, no doubt about that.
And still…a part of me hopes to see him again.
But how?