Chapter 7
SEVEN
GHOST
I don’t usually wake up thinking about bartenders.
Most mornings are simple. My alarm goes off, I take a shower, drink coffee black enough to strip paint, and then head out to deal with work, club business, or whatever problem needs handling that day.
My life runs better when it stays in straight lines that are predictable, quiet, and clean.
This morning I wake up already irritated because the first thing that hits me isn’t the list of shit I need to do.
It’s her. Rae is standing behind that worn bar in my head with her glasses sliding down her nose and that mouth of hers running half a second ahead of common sense.
I stare at the ceiling for a minute with one arm behind my head and the other resting over my stomach. The apartment is still dim, with early light pushing weakly through the blinds. Somewhere outside, a car door slams and the pipes groan in the wall. They are normal sounds for a normal morning.
It doesn’t help.
My brain decides to be helpful and starts replaying every little detail from last night.
I remember the way she leaned into that conversation with those three idiots like she had no intention of backing down.
I remember the way she said, You’ve got a lot of confidence for someone who walked into the wrong bar.
I remember the way she looked at me out in the parking lot after I handled them.
Her expression was curious and amused, but it wasn’t scared.
That last part sticks with me. Most people are at least a little wary when they look at me.
I’m used to that reaction. I’m a big guy wearing a club cut, and I have a face that doesn’t exactly invite strangers over for coffee and polite conversation.
I don’t take it personally, and if anything the reaction is useful.
Rae didn’t seem wary. She looked interested. That right there is a problem.
I sit up with a curse and swing my legs off the bed. “Get it together,” I mutter to myself.
There is no answer. There is only silence and my own bad judgment staring back at me from inside my skull.
The shower helps a little. Cold tile presses under my feet while hot water beats against my shoulders, and the routine is enough to drag me back into my own head. By the time I get dressed and pour coffee into a travel mug, I have myself mostly under control again.
Mostly.
The garage is already alive when I get there.
Metal clanks somewhere near the back and a compressor kicks on. Country music hums low from an old radio perched on a shelf that looks one good shove away from collapsing. The place smells like oil, hot steel, and grease baked so deep into the concrete that it will probably outlive all of us.
Blade is bent over a bike frame when I walk in. One boot is hooked against a stand while he works a wrench loose. He has a toothpick in his mouth and tattoos crawling up his forearms. He glances up once when he hears me come in, and then he goes right back to what he’s doing.
“You look annoyed,” he says.
“I just got here.”
“Exactly.”
I grunt and head for the coffee pot in the corner even though I already have a mug in my hand. It’s a habit. The coffee in the garage tastes like burnt regret and old pennies, but it’s there and that counts for something.
Rev is leaning against a workbench while talking to Jax about something involving a delivery that apparently went sideways because one of the prospects can’t follow directions without turning it into a group project. Rev notices me and lifts his chin.
“Heard you had a fun night.”
That would be Riot.
I look over at him. “You hear everything fast.”
Rev grins. “Occupational gift.”
“More like nosy bastard disease,” Blade mutters without looking up.
Rev ignores him. “So? Did you beat up some wannabe tough guys in Harlan?”
I take a slow drink of coffee. “I handled a problem.”
“That sounds like yes.”
“It is yes,” Riot says from the doorway.
He walks in holding his phone. His dark hair is still damp like he came straight from a shower, and his expression looks alert in that wired way he gets when he’s been digging into something for too long and found more than he expected.
Roman always looks polished compared to the rest of us, like he could step out of a boardroom and into a bar fight without changing clothes or expression.
That alone is unsettling as hell.
He lifts the phone slightly in my direction. “I’ve got names.”
Now everybody looks up.
Blade straightens a little. Rev pushes away from the bench. Jax folds his arms and watches Riot with the kind of expression he gets when he’s already half expecting trouble.
Riot keeps talking.
“The guy in front was named Travis Bell. The two with him are Cory Mendez and Nolan Pike. They’re not locals. They’re out of Beckley.” He glances at me. “And before you ask, no, they’re not independent.”
That gets everyone’s attention sharper.
I set my mug down on the nearest surface. “Who are they with?”
Riot’s mouth flattens. “A guy named Lyle Voss.”
“What’s Voss’s deal?” I ask.
Riot steps closer and sets his phone on the bench so we can all see the screen. A picture of a thick-necked man in his forties fills it. He’s wearing an expensive watch, but he has cheap eyes.
“Runs a security company on paper,” Riot says. “Unofficially he’s been leaning on bars, small businesses, and cash-heavy places in a few towns south of here. He mostly targets smaller spots that don’t have the money or the appetite to fight back.”
Jax swears under his breath while Blade’s expression goes flat and cold in a way that means someone is about to have a bad week.
Rev shakes his head. “Protection racket.”
“Looks like it,” Riot says. “He sends guys in first to test the ground with intimidation, friendly offers, and a few little threats. If the owner folds, Voss gets a cut. If the owner doesn’t fold, accidents start happening.”
My jaw tightens.
I picture Wayne behind the register wiping that same stretch of counter while pretending his shoulders weren’t locked tight. Then Rae pops into my head, planting both palms on the bar and telling that asshole he walked into the wrong place.
Mason walks in before anyone says anything else.
The second he crosses the threshold, the room shifts around him like it knows exactly who just stepped inside. He takes one look at our faces and knows something landed.
“What’ve we got?”
Riot repeats the important parts about the names, Voss, the security front, and the extortion pattern.
Mason listens without interrupting. One hand rests on his belt, and his expression stays unreadable until Riot finishes. Then he looks at me.
“They come back?”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
Mason’s gaze moves across the room. “We’re not letting some two-bit parasite put roots down near our territory.
” He looks at Blade. “I want eyes on Voss’s businesses.
” Then he turns to Rev. “Check if anybody in Jackson has had quiet visits lately.” Finally he looks back at me. “Ghost, you keep an eye on Harlan.”
I nod. “I’m on it.”
Mason holds my gaze for another second before giving one short nod. “Good.”
Church doesn’t happen, but the meeting might as well count. Orders have been given, wheels are turning, and men are moving.
It should be enough to settle me.
But it isn’t.
Once the room starts breaking apart again and everyone heads back to whatever they were doing, Rev wanders over with a grin that tells me he’s about to say something irritating.
“Keep an eye on Harlan, huh?”
I stare at him. “That’s what he said.”
“That bar got a name?”
I don’t answer.
Rev’s grin widens. “That a yes?”
Blade walks past us carrying a part in one hand. “Leave him alone.”
Rev points after him. “You hear that? He didn’t deny it.”
Blade doesn’t even slow down. “I said leave him alone, not because he’s innocent.”
Jax laughs from across the garage.
I pick up my coffee again and look at Rev until some survival instinct finally kicks in.
He lifts both hands. “Alright. Touchy.”
But he’s still smiling when he walks off, and I know exactly why.
I’m not usually the guy who volunteers to keep eyes on a town.
I’m the guy who handles the immediate problem and disappears.
This feels different.
That’s the problem.
By late afternoon, I’ve done enough actual work to pretend I’m not distracted.
Pretend being the key word.
I spend two hours helping with a shipment issue that should have taken one.
I check in with Dagger about another matter involving one of our suppliers.
I even go by the lot behind the clubhouse and run through enough drills to get sweat running down my back and my knuckles aching pleasantly from contact.
It still doesn’t fix it. Every time the motion stops, every time the noise dies down and the day finally slows, there’s space for her to slip back into my head like she’s been waiting for the quiet.
Rae laughing across the bar like the world is a joke she’s already in on.
Rae leaning her elbows on the counter while she watches people the way she watches everything, curious and completely unafraid.
Rae telling me with absolute seriousness that Pickle would be very upset if I never came back.
I head home before sunset and tell myself I’m going back to Harlan because Mason asked me to keep eyes on the place.
That part is true. It’s a good reason, a solid one, the kind that fits neatly into the life I’ve built where everything has a purpose and nothing happens without a clear explanation.
But it’s not the whole truth. The whole truth is uglier than that, simpler too.
I want to see her again, and that realization sits in the center of my chest like a nail I can’t quite pull out.
I shower, change into clean jeans and a black henley, then stop in the kitchen with my keys in hand and stare at the counter for a second like maybe there’s still time to rethink this.
There isn’t.
Or maybe there is and I ignore it.
Same result.
The ride to Harlan feels shorter tonight.
The sky burns gold at the edges, then purple as the light drops lower. The wind cools against my face while the open road hums under the bike. Farms and dark tree lines slide by on either side of me.
By the time I pull into The Rust Nail lot, there are more cars than there were last night. The Friday crowd is starting early. The neon sign buzzes in the window, and laughter bleeds faintly through the walls.
I kill the engine and sit there for one second too long.
Then I get off the bike and head inside.
The place hits me all at once again. The music is louder tonight, the room is more crowded, and the air carries more heat. Beer, fried food, perfume, dust.
And there she is.
Behind the bar.
Her hair is piled up again, glasses sliding down her nose while she moves between customers like she’s done it a thousand times. Tonight she’s wearing a black tank under an open flannel, and the sleeve has slipped just enough to show more of the tattoos running down her arm.
I didn’t notice those last night.
Or maybe I did and just didn’t let myself think about it.
She’s in the middle of handing over a basket of fries to somebody at the counter when she looks up and sees me.
Her whole face changes when she sees me. Not dramatically, just enough that I catch it. Recognition hits first, followed by a flicker of satisfaction, and then a slow grin that lands a little lower in my gut than it should.
Well, hell.
She says something to Wayne that I can’t hear, wipes her hands on a towel, and makes her way down the bar toward me without hurrying. The crowd shifts around her automatically, customers sliding their stools back just enough to give her space like they’re used to her running the place.
She looks small compared to most of the people in here.
Somehow that doesn’t make her seem less in charge.
I stop at the counter.
She plants both hands on the wood and leans in slightly. The bar light catches in the lenses of her glasses. “Well,” she says. “Look who didn’t disappear.”
I hold her gaze longer than I probably should. “Told you I’d be around.”
“Mm-hmm.” She eyes me over the top of her glasses. “I wasn’t sure if that was a promise or just something you tell all the girls.”
“You worried?”
“No,” she says easily. “Just curious.”
That damn word again.
My mouth twitches despite myself, and she catches it immediately. Of course she does.
Rae tilts her head, peering at me over the top of her glasses. “What?”
I reach for my beer and take a slow drink before answering. “Nothing.”
Her eyes narrow, studying my face like she’s trying to crack a code. “That looked like something.”
I set the bottle back on the bar. “Still nothing.”
The corner of her mouth lifts. She leans her elbows on the counter, clearly enjoying herself now. “You came back.”
I shrug one shoulder and rest my forearm on the bar. “Working.”
“Sure you are,” she says, smiling wider like she doesn’t believe that for a second.
I lean one forearm on the bar. “Voss’s men won’t be the last ones to try.”
Her expression shifts just slightly at that. It’s still light, but now she’s listening. “So Wayne’s right to worry?”
“Afraid so.”
She nods once, serious for half a beat. Then that spark comes back into her eyes. “Good thing I’ve got a terrifying biker lurking around, then.”
“I’m not lurking.”
She glances toward the far corner of the room. “You literally sat in the shadows last night like a grumpy gargoyle.”
I stare at her.
She grins. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s true.”
I should probably be annoyed.
Instead, I ask, “What’s a non-lurking seat look like to you?”
Her brows lift. “Are you asking me where I want you?”
That lands hot and immediate in the middle of my chest.
She sees enough of it to make her eyes flash with satisfaction.
“Seems like you have an opinion,” I say.
Her grin turns slow and wicked around the edges. “I usually do.” She taps the bartop twice. “Sit, Cole.”
I sit, and just like that, it feels like I made a mistake I’m absolutely going to make again.