Section 11
Ghosts
Lucky
The neon sign pulses like a heart attack waiting to happen, casting bloody shadows across my helmet as I park the bike.
Three days since Gia Serrano had me against a wall in the rain, and the memory still burns under my skin. I flex my hands inside my gloves, willing away the phantom sensation of her body.
Professional. That’s what we’re playing at now. Like two people who definitely didn’t fuck in the cold and definitely won’t do it again. If lying were cardio, I’d be in incredible shape.
The club throbs ahead of me, a living thing with veins of red light. I’ve been given the midnight shift again. The real money hours. The “please don’t let anyone stab anyone” shift.
My boots echo against the pavement as I approach, nodding to the doorman—Buck, who has hands like Christmas hams and a personality to match.
He doesn’t smile. That’s not in his job description.
He inclines his head, a gesture that means I’m allowed to exist for approximately three more seconds before he forgets me entirely.
Honestly generous of him—we’re practically BFFs.
“Evening,” I say, because I enjoy the way his face twitches when I speak.
He grunts. Poetry in motion.
The music hits first—vibrating through my chest cavity like it’s trying to rearrange my organs. Then the smell: expensive perfume, cheaper cologne, spilled drinks, BO, and the faint chemical bite of whatever they clean the floors with. The crowd is all hands in the air and money changing owners.
I take up my post near the brushed-steel archway that leads to VIP. My back against the wall, arms crossed, apparently looking intimidating. I don’t move. I barely breathe. I just watch.
The bar is a long, gleaming monstrosity that runs along one wall, backlit in crimson so intense it turns the bottles into arterial spray. The bartenders move like dancers, pouring, mixing, sliding glasses across polished surfaces with practiced precision.
I scan faces. Hands. Movements. Patterns.
“Hey, helmet guy.”
The voice cuts through my focus like a razor. I turn, careful to keep my movements slow and measured. A woman stands in front of me, head tilted, eyes narrowed. It takes me half a second to place her.
Sylvie Hart. The one who survived Valenti. The one who put a bullet through his face and lived to tell the story. Except she doesn’t tell. She just carries the memory in the slight bend of her finger and the way her eyes never fully settle.
“Ma’am,” I say, neutral, professional.
She studies me, and there’s something in her gaze that makes me feel like I’m being filleted. “Um, sorry, you look exactly like someone who kidnapped me once.”
The words hit me like a slap.
I flinch, just enough for her to notice. This is the part of my life where past mistakes line up politely and take numbers.
“Must be mistaken,” I manage, voice pitched carefully even. “I’m the new security at Red.”
Her gaze doesn’t leave my visor. She’s looking for the face behind it, trying to see through the reflection.
“Yeah,” she says slowly. “Must be.”
But she doesn’t move. Her head tilts further.
“But the… vibe is aggressively familiar.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. I keep my posture loose, relaxed. Nothing to see here. Just a normal guy in normal full-face motorcycle headgear that he refuses to remove indoors.
“Very weird,” I agree. “But I’m just the new guy. Started a few days ago.”
“Hmm.” The sound is noncommittal. Dangerous. “What’s your name again?”
“Lucky,” I say, because lying would be worse.
Something flickers in her eyes. I can’t read her, and that’s terrifying.
“Lucky,” she repeats, testing the name like it might be poisoned. “That’s… convenient.”
I shrug, the movement deliberately casual. “Not what’s on my birth certificate.”
“No,” she agrees. “I wouldn’t imagine so.”
Her gaze flicks to my gloved hands, my stance, then back to my face.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” I say, and do a stupid salute before I can stop my arm.
She turns to leave, then pauses, half-looking back over her shoulder. “Gia’s a friend of mine,” she says, voice light but edged with steel. “A good one. Remember that.”
And then she’s gone.
I exhale slowly inside my helmet, where no one can see the panic building. Questions I can’t answer without making everything worse.
If this were a warning label, I would still touch it.
My attention snaps across the room.
Gia.
Sharp suit. Sharper mouth. Her hair shines in the light from the bar, radiant as a crooked halo.
She doesn’t look at me.
Doesn’t acknowledge me.
Doesn’t even drift too close by accident.
And suddenly I understand why dogs chew through drywall when they get anxious.
She gestures at the bartender, casually—like she didn’t ride me into the pavement three nights ago and left me grinning like I’d been rescued from a burning building.
She ignores me with surgical precision.
I respect it. I do. It’s smart. It’s clean.
It’s torture.
Because now I know the sound she makes when she’s close. The weight of her against me. And I want more.
Which is stupid and dangerous and absolutely going to happen again if I have any say in the matter.
Which I probably don’t.
A fight breaks out near the dance floor—two men with too much alcohol and too little sense. I move without thinking, sliding through the crowd, arriving between them before security from the other side can reach us.
“Gentlemen,” I say, voice pitched to carry over the music without shouting. “Not here.”
One of them—face flushed, expensive watch, entitlement radiating off him in waves—tries to step around me.
I shift, blocking him.
“Come on, man,” he slurs. “This asshole—”
“Doesn’t matter,” I cut him off. “You can be right or you can stay. Not both.”
The other guy backs up, hands raised, smart enough to know when to fold. Red-Face glares, weighing his options.
“This place sucks anyway,” he mutters finally.
I nod to one of the bouncers, who materializes to escort him out. Crisis averted. Nobody stabbed. Five stars.
When I look back toward the bar, Gia is watching me.
Just long enough for our eyes to meet across the room—or they would, if she could see through my visor. Then her gaze slides away, disinterested.
But for that split second, I felt it. The charge. The memory of her hand on my belt and her voice in my ear.
I return to my post, heart rate elevated for reasons that have nothing to do with almost-violence.
The music changes. The crowd shifts. Time passes in pulses of red light and thumping bass.
Later, Gia walks past me on her way to the office. Close enough that I catch the scent of her perfume—dangerous and utterly her. Her shoulder almost brushes mine.
Professional distance.
But I swear I see her lips move as she passes. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
I resettle against the wall, crossing my arms over my chest, and resume my vigil. The helmet hides my expression. The gloves hide my hands. The jacket hides everything else.
But nothing hides the truth: I’m in trouble.
And the worst part?
I can’t wait to see how deep it goes.