Chapter 4
DAISY
"He made you delete everything?" Sophie's voice rose in disbelief through my phone speaker. "Ghost actually came to your apartment?"
I stirred honey into my tea, still rattled from the encounter yesterday with the intimidating biker. "Showed up like the digital grim reaper. Black everything. Scowl that could curdle milk."
"I'm so sorry," Sophie sighed. "I should have warned you. Ghost takes security super seriously. Like, next-level paranoid sometimes."
"Yeah, got that memo when he threatened to hack my accounts," I muttered, checking my analytics again. The engagement drop from deleting those posts was painful to see. "He made me delete even the saved photos from my camera roll."
"That's Ghost," Sophie replied. "He once made Wrench change all our door codes because someone took a photo outside the garage. Said the reflection in a puddle showed the keypad."
I couldn't help laughing. "Was he right?"
"That's the thing about Ghost," Sophie said. "He usually is."
After hanging up, I stared at my content calendar—now full of holes where the motorcycle club posts had been. The algorithm was already punishing me for the deletions, my reach dropping by thirty percent overnight.
My phone pinged with a notification from my banking app. Another automatic payment processed for Dad's medications. Balance lower than I was comfortable seeing.
"Great timing, universe," I muttered.
I opened my email, hoping for confirmation of the boutique sponsorship I'd been negotiating, when a new message caught my eye:
From: [email protected] Subject: Sponsorship Opportunity—Authentic Local Characters Series
The email outlined a six-month campaign. Premium rates—better than anything I'd been offered before. Focus on "authentic local characters" and "regional subcultures." Specifically mentioning interest in my "recent content featuring local motorcycle enthusiasts."
The content they wanted no longer existed. The motorcycle club was now definitely off-limits.
But the money they were offering would cover Dad's treatments for three months.
I grabbed my keys and purse. This wasn't a decision to make alone, running on caffeine and stress.
GHOST
"She deleted everything?" Steel asked, leaning back in his office chair.
I nodded, pulling up screen captures I'd taken before the content disappeared. "Six posts total. Higher engagement than anything else on her feed. But they're gone now, and I've implemented monitoring protocols for any reappearance."
Steel studied the captured images—Thunder and Melody laughing, brothers playing pool, Wrench at the grill. Normal moments made dangerous by digital exposure.
"She give you any trouble about it?" he asked.
"Some," I admitted. "She's using the account for income. Medical bills for her father."
Steel's eyebrow rose. "You checked that out?"
"Standard background assessment," I replied, ignoring the fact that I'd gone deeper than necessary into her financial situation. "No connections to rivals or law enforcement. Just poor security practices."
"Hmm," Steel hummed, thoughtful. "You know, there might be an opportunity here."
That wasn't the response I'd expected. "Opportunity?"
"The club's legitimate businesses are expanding. Literacy center partnership launching next month. Could use some positive PR."
I stared at him. "You're suggesting we use her. After she just demonstrated she can't be trusted with sensitive information."
"Not suggesting we give her access to the chapel," Steel countered. "But controlled content? Approved in advance? Could help shift public perception. Make it easier for legitimate partners to work with us openly."
"It's unnecessary exposure," I argued. "Digital footprints are permanent. Searchable. Exploitable."
Steel leaned forward. "Ghost, I value your security concerns. Always have. But the club's evolving. Can't operate completely in the shadows anymore, not with the businesses we're building."
"It's exactly those businesses that make us vulnerable," I countered. "More connections. More attack vectors."
"Or more protection through visibility," Steel suggested. "Harder to come at us if the community sees us as contributors rather than criminals."
Before I could argue further, Wrench's voice crackled through the intercom. "Steel, Ghost—got a visitor at the front gate. That social media girl. Says she needs to talk to club leadership."
I stared at the intercom like it had personally insulted me. "You've got to be kidding."
Steel's mouth quirked up at the corner. "Sounds like your problem just came back for round two."
DAISY
The clubhouse was more intimidating in daylight.
Sprawling converted warehouse at the edge of town. High fence topped with razor wire. Security cameras not even pretending to be discreet. Motorcycles lined up with military precision.
The massive guy who'd answered the gate—Wrench, according to his cut—had regarded me with amused curiosity before calling inside.
Now I waited, portfolio clutched to my chest, professional outfit carefully selected to project business rather than social media fluff. Hair pulled back, minimal makeup, sensible shoes.
The door swung open, and Ghost emerged like a shadow given form. Same black hoodie under his cut. Same inscrutable expression. Same imposing presence that made the air feel suddenly thinner.
"You," he said, voice flat. "Why?"
Such a charmer.
"I'd like to speak with your president," I stated, channeling every business negotiation course I'd ever taken. "I have a professional proposal that could benefit the club."
His eyebrow ticked up—the only indication he was capable of facial movement. "Benefit."
"Yes," I confirmed. "Mutual benefit. That's how professional relationships work."
"And yesterday's conversation wasn't clear enough?" he asked, crossing his arms.
I straightened my spine. "Yesterday's conversation was about security concerns with existing content. Today's is about potential future content. Created with full club approval and oversight."
He studied me with that penetrating gaze that somehow felt like he was reading code rather than a person.
"This isn't going to happen," he stated.
"That's not your decision to make," I countered, surprising myself with my boldness. "Unless you're the president?"
Something that might have been respect flickered across his face before disappearing. "Wait here."
He vanished inside, leaving me with Wrench, who was poorly hiding his amusement.
"He doesn't scare you much, does he?" Wrench observed.
I laughed nervously. "Oh, he definitely does. But my dad's medical bills scare me more."
Wrench's expression softened. "Yeah, Sophie mentioned that. Tough situation."
Before I could respond, the door opened again. Ghost reappeared, looking like he'd swallowed something unpleasant.
"Steel will see you," he stated, holding the door. "Five minutes."
I nodded, stepping past him into the clubhouse. The smell hit me first—leather, motor oil, whiskey, and something distinctly masculine. The main room was surprisingly clean, pool table centered on a worn but not shabby rug, bar fully stocked, leather couches arranged in conversation groups.
Ghost led me to an office door, his hand hovering near my elbow without actually touching me, like he was allergic to human contact.
"Remember," he muttered before opening the door. "Five minutes."
The man behind the desk was older, weathered, with intelligent eyes that assessed me instantly. Steel, according to the name patch on his cut.
"Ms. Fletcher," he greeted, gesturing to a chair. "I understand you have a proposal for us."
I took a deep breath, aware of Ghost positioning himself in the corner like a security camera with a pulse.
"Yes," I confirmed, opening my portfolio. "And I think you'll want to hear it."
Steel's mouth curved slightly. "I'm listening."
Ghost's sigh from the corner was audible, but I kept my focus on Steel. This was my shot. For my dad. For my future.
And maybe, just maybe, to prove Mr. Digital Grim Reaper wrong about me.