Chapter Ten
GHOST
The Next Day
The mine report sits in front of me on a single sheet of paper, but it took Millie three weeks to build the numbers behind it from nothing.
I know because I watched her do it, hunched over her laptop at the clubhouse counter until two in the morning, more nights than I can count, muttering about depreciation schedules as if they’d personally offended her.
She isn’t allowed in the Chapel. Club rule, older than any of us, and not one Sin is inclined to bend even for the woman who just turned an illegal hole in the ground into something that pays taxes.
So I’m the one standing at the head of the table with her slide show pulled up on the screen behind me, and I make sure every man in this room knows exactly whose work they’re looking at.
“Millie built this,” I say before I say anything else. “Every page of it. I’m reading it out, but it’s hers.”
Sin gives a short nod from his seat and lets it sit before he speaks, “Mine numbers.”
That’s my cue.
I pull up the numbers on the screen at the end of the room, the updated figures from Millie’s accounting, cross-referenced with the operational log from the site manager. The room settles. Even Deek, who has the attention span of a kid in a candy store, goes quiet.
“Month on month, production is up nine percent,” I say. “Operating costs are down because the secondary shaft is running clean now. No structural issues since the lining repair.” I advance the slide. “Net income for the last quarter came in at approximately thirty-two thousand above projection.”
Bear lets out a low sound that is essentially his version of a whistle.
Nitro leans back in his squeaky chair, arms crossing over his chest, something satisfied and quiet in his expression. “That’s legitimate income. Taxable, documented, above-board income.”
“Millie’s done her job,” Sin says.
“Millie’s done more than her job,” I say, which is the most complimentary thing I will say about anyone in this room today, possibly this week, and the brothers know it, so a beat of mild amusement moves around the table.
Sin’s mouth lifts at one corner. Even Koa grins.
I don’t acknowledge it. The numbers are accurate, and accuracy doesn’t require celebration.
“What’s the longer-term picture?” Anchor asks from down the table. He doesn’t say much, but when he does, it’s worth listening to.
“If the current rate holds, the mine covers a significant portion of club overhead in twelve months. That changes our operational exposure. Less need for certain arrangements. More flexibility in others.”
Sin nods. He’s been wanting that for a long time, not necessarily for comfort but for leverage. Clean money doesn’t just pay the bills, it makes you harder to touch. I don’t say that out loud because it doesn’t need to be said.
“What I’m saying…” Deek announces, apparently unable to let the silence stand, “… is that we are now legitimate businessmen. I feel like we should mark this with some kind of ceremony. A fruit platter, maybe?”
“A fucking fruit platter?” Nitro scoffs.
“Or a cheese board. I’m not precious about it.”
“If someone brings a cheese board into Church,” Koa says, “I’m changing the fucking locks.”
Sin lifts a hand into the air, and the conversations die almost instantly. Deek cuts himself off halfway through a sentence, Koa drops back into his chair, and by the time Sin speaks again, every set of eyes is on him.
“Millie did all that?” Sin leans forward, elbows on the table.
“Yeah, she’s great with the details.” I don’t add anything to it. The numbers speak clearly enough on their own.
There’s a beat where nobody says anything, and then Deek breaks it, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. “Somebody needs to make sure that woman never leaves this club.”
Anchor takes a sip of his beer. “Wasn’t planning on letting her.” It’s said so matter-of-factly that nobody smiles straightaway.
Sin closes the folder in front of him, and that’s the signal that this part of the meeting is done. He dismisses Church, and the room comes back to life. Brothers peel off in different directions, and I head for my workstation before anyone can decide they have got five spare minutes to kill.
I’ve barely got my second monitor awake before Sage wanders over.
She drops into the chair opposite my desk like it’s belonged to her for years instead of a handful of months, then reaches into the pocket of her jacket and pulls out a packet of beef jerky.
She tosses it onto my desk. It skids across the timber and comes to rest beside my keyboard. “I come bearing peace offerings.”
I look at the packet for a second before sliding it toward me. “You stole my lunch.”
“I replaced your lunch,” she corrects. “That’s completely different.”
I turn the packet over. “Teriyaki?”
“It was all they had.”
I look back at her. “That’s unfortunate.”
The laugh that escapes her is quiet, but it’s real, and I catch myself listening to it longer than I should.
She folds one leg underneath herself and gets comfortable while I go back to the monitors.
I don’t remember when that stopped feeling unusual.
“You know…” she says, “… one day you’re actually going to admit you like me.”
I tear the packet open. “I accepted the beef jerky.”
Her smile grows. “That wasn’t the question.”
“It is the answer.”
She shakes her head, somewhere between amused and exasperated. “You’re impossible.”
“So, I’ve been told.”
She smirks, and the conversation fades, without either of us deciding to end it. She pulls her phone from her pocket, absently scrolling through something while I turn back to my monitors, the sound of keys filling the space between us.
Neither of us feels the need to leave.
Somewhere along the way, sitting in comfortable silence stopped being strange.
Now it just feels like another part of our day.
She kicks my ankle under the desk, and I let my hand drift over and rest against her knee for a second before I go back to typing.
It’s a small thing. It’s become one of a hundred small things I do without deciding to, the kind of gestures that used to feel foreign to me and now feel like the only honest language I’ve got.
I’ve barely turned back to the monitors before Sage starts reading over my shoulder.
I don’t tell her to stop.
A few months ago, I probably would have angled the screen away out of habit. Not because there was anything on it she couldn’t see, simply because I’ve spent most of my life working alone. People behind me used to feel like variables, but she doesn’t anymore.
“You’d have made a decent accountant,” she says after a minute, her eyes moving across the color-coded budget sheets still open from Church.
I don’t look up. “I’d have made a terrible accountant.”
She hums as if she doesn’t believe me. “You literally color-code budgets.”
“I color-code everybody’s budgets.”
She does that adorable little giggle again. “Exactly!”
I drag one report into another folder. “I’d have hacked the IRS by the second week just to make tax season interesting.”
The laugh that comes out of her is soft enough that half the clubhouse would miss it.
I don’t.
“That’s probably the most Ghost thing you’ve ever said.”
I glare at her. “It wasn’t a joke.”
She glares right back. “I know,” she says, smiling to herself.
“That’s somehow worse.” I reach for the packet of beef jerky she’d brought in, only to find her fingers beating me to it. She steals it without even pretending to ask for permission. I watch her pull a strip from the packet before tossing it back onto my desk like it’s personally offended her.
I snort out a laugh. “You bought it?”
She shrugs, chewing on it with a crinkled face. “And I’m eating it!”
Raising my brow, I shake my head. “You hate it, Sage.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Maybe I like it?”
“I refuse to believe that.”
“It is kinda disgusting.” She snatches the packet again, grabbing another mouthful.
“You literally just said it was disgusting.”
“It is!” she says, chewing through a grimace, tearing off a piece anyway and popping it into her mouth while her face immediately screws up again.
I wait.
She chews and then swallows with visible effort. Then she reaches straight back into the packet for another piece.
I smirk at her stubbornness. “That’s theft, Sage.”
“It’s redistribution.”
“It’s my jerky.”
“It was your jerky.”
I snort out a laugh. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how ownership works.”
She shrugs, chewing with all the enthusiasm of someone fulfilling a contractual obligation. “I’m making a sacrifice.”
“For who?”
She gestures vaguely between us with the strip of jerky. “The greater good.”
I finally look away from my laptop. “You hate every bite.”
“I really do.”
“So why are you still eating it?”
Her eyes sparkle. “Because now you can’t.”
I stare at her for a beat. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
A grin tugs at the corner of her mouth as she holds her thumb and forefinger a tiny distance apart. “Little bit.”
“Liar.”
She laughs. “Okay…” Another bite disappears between her teeth. “A lot.”
My den smells of whatever floral shampoo she’s been using lately. I’ve noticed it before, more than once, and it has an irritating habit of lingering after she’s gone.
She settles back into the chair, folding one leg underneath herself while I turn back to the monitor. I don’t remember when she’d started making herself comfortable in here. I only know I stopped questioning it somewhere along the way.
“What?” she asks.
I realize I’ve been looking at her instead of the spreadsheet. “Nothing.”
“You’ve got your suspicious face on.”
I scowl. “I don’t have a suspicious face.”
She points a piece of beef jerky at me. “You do! It’s right underneath the toothpick.”
I pull it from the corner of my mouth and look at it. “I’ve had this for ten minutes.”
She snorts. “You’ve had that same toothpick for nearly an hour.”
I glance at the clock in the corner of my monitor—fifty-three minutes. “Close enough.”
“I knew it!”
“You knew what?”
“You only keep the same toothpick that long when you’re thinking.”