Chapter 5
GHOST
"You can't be serious," I said to Steel after Daisy had left the clubhouse. "Controlled content? Club-approved social media presence? It's a massive security risk."
Steel leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "Her proposal was solid. Professional. Well thought out."
"It doesn't matter how professional it sounded," I argued. "Digital exposure—"
"—can be managed," Steel cut in. "Which is why you'll be handling it."
I froze. "What?"
"You're our digital security expert," Steel explained, looking far too pleased with himself. "Who better to oversee this project? You'll review all content before posting. Set boundaries on what can be captured. Monitor the response."
The idea was so absurd I almost laughed. Almost.
"You're punishing me," I stated flatly.
Steel shrugged. "Consider it expanding your skill set. The club's evolving, Ghost. Need you evolving with it."
I recognized the tone. Discussion closed. Decision made.
Fuck.
Back in my tech cave, I pulled up everything I could find on Daisy Fletcher. Professional due diligence, nothing more.
Birth certificate. School records. College transcripts—marketing major, minor in digital communications, graduated with honors despite working two part-time jobs. Employment history—brief stint at a marketing firm in Chicago before returning to Riverdale three years ago when her mother died.
Credit report showing mounting medical debt. Insurance claims for her father's ongoing cardiac treatment. Denied application for additional coverage last month.
Property records for a small farmhouse outside town—her childhood home, now with a reverse mortgage taken out eighteen months ago.
Deeper digging revealed fragments of her life beyond the paperwork.
Local newspaper photo of high school Daisy winning a regional marketing competition.
College blog posts about sustainable business practices in rural communities.
A GoFundMe from two years ago for her father's initial surgery that fell well short of its goal.
I sat back, rubbing my eyes after hours of screen time.
The picture emerging wasn't what I'd expected. Not some shallow influencer hunting for content regardless of consequences. Something more complicated. More...authentic.
I shut down that line of thinking. Irrelevant to security protocols.
My phone buzzed with a notification from one of my monitoring algorithms. Daisy had posted new content—nothing club-related, just a sunrise shot from what appeared to be her father's porch, coffee mug in the foreground.
Caption: "Some mornings remind you to breathe. To reset. To remember what matters. #RiverdaleSkies #MorningReflections #FindingGratitude"
Her engagement metrics were still suffering from the deleted posts. Algorithm punishment. Digital consequences for breaking invisible rules.
I closed the monitor. Not my problem.
DAISY
"He's going to be your what?" Sophie asked, nearly choking on her coffee.
"Content supervisor," I repeated, still processing it myself. "Ghost. Mr. Sunshine himself."
We were sitting in the corner of Riverdale Roasters, the local coffee shop that sponsored some of my smaller content pieces.
Sophie's eyes widened. "Steel assigned Ghost to work with you? Specifically?"
"He said since Ghost handles digital security, he should oversee the project," I explained, stirring my latte absently. "Make sure nothing compromising gets posted."
"And Ghost agreed to this?" Sophie looked skeptical.
I snorted. "He looked like Steel had sentenced him to digital detox in Siberia. But yeah, apparently he didn't have a choice."
Sophie leaned forward. "You know why this is significant, right? Ghost doesn't work with outsiders. Ever. He barely works with most of the brothers."
"Lucky me," I muttered. "My first major sponsorship opportunity, and I'm stuck with the most anti-social biker in existence as my babysitter."
"Don't take it personally," Sophie advised. "Ghost is...complicated. Brilliant but damaged. Wrench says before Broken Throttle found him, he was headed for federal prison or worse."
That caught my attention. "What did he do?"
Sophie shrugged. "Don't know details. But whatever digital skills he uses to protect the club now? He didn't learn them in computer science class."
I thought about Ghost's methodical approach to my phone, the way his fingers had moved across the screen with practiced precision. The casual mention of hacking my accounts if I didn't comply.
Definitely not skills taught in standard curriculum.
"We're meeting tomorrow to establish protocols," I said, checking my calendar. "Any advice for dealing with him?"
"Be direct," Sophie suggested. "Ghost hates small talk. Doesn't do social niceties. But he respects competence."
"So basically the opposite of how I make my living," I sighed. "Great."
My phone pinged with a medication reminder for Dad. Time for his afternoon pills.
"I should go," I said, gathering my things. "Dad's nurse leaves at three."
Sophie squeezed my arm. "How is he doing?"
"Stable," I answered, the word feeling hollow. "Which just means not worse. Not better either."
Sophie's expression softened. "This opportunity with the club—it's helping with the bills?"
"If it works out? It'll make a huge difference," I admitted. "The sponsorship they're offering is triple my usual rate."
"Then it'll work out," Sophie said firmly. "Even if Ghost makes you want to pull your hair out in the process."
I laughed, but the sound held little humor. "At this point, I'd work with the devil himself if it meant keeping Dad in treatment."
GHOST
The notification came at 3:17pm. Facial recognition match on one of my surveillance protocols.
Daisy Fletcher, entering Riverdale Memorial Hospital's cardiac care unit. Expression tired, worried. Nothing like the sunshine persona from her posts three hours earlier.
I hadn't specifically set the hospital system to track her. It was standard monitoring for club-adjacent civilians—same as I did for all legitimate business partners, lawyers, suppliers.
Standard protocol. Nothing more.
Except I found myself pausing the code I was debugging to watch the security feed. Observed her stopping at the nurses' station. Noted the small bag from Stanley's Deli—her father's favorite, according to his social media check-ins from before his condition worsened.
Irrelevant data. Not security related.
I closed the feed and returned to work, but my focus was compromised. Tomorrow's meeting with Daisy loomed like system maintenance during a critical operation—necessary but unwelcome disruption to normal processes.
Steel had made it clear failure wasn't an option. The club needed positive PR for the literacy center launch. Needed the community to see Broken Throttle as more than the violence and territory wars that had defined us for generations.
Evolution. Adaptation. Concepts I understood in technology but found less intuitive in human systems.
My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
"What exactly should I bring tomorrow? Need to understand format/expectations for content review process. - Daisy"
Her direct approach surprised me. Most civilians felt intimidated enough to be overly formal or avoided direct communication entirely.
"Laptop. Content calendar. Sample formats. Cable management skills." I texted back.
Three dots appeared immediately. Disappeared. Reappeared.
"Cable management skills?"
"My systems are precisely arranged. Don't touch anything."
Another pause. Then: "Noted. See you at 10. I'll bring coffee. How do you take it?"
I frowned at the phone. Irrelevant question. Social nicety.
"Black. No additives."
"Of course it is. See you tomorrow, Ghost."
I set the phone down, unsettled by the exchange. By her lack of obvious fear. By the prospect of someone else in my tech sanctuary, disturbing the careful order I'd established.
This arrangement was a security risk. A disruption to established protocols. An unnecessary complication.
That's what I told myself as I ran one final background check on Daisy Fletcher before returning to my code, the coffee question lingering like an unresolved error in an otherwise clean program.