Ghost’s Revenge (Outlaw Order MC #3)

Chapter 1 - Ghost

The nightmare always starts the same way.

I'm back in Kandahar, the desert heat pressing down, and the IED blast echoes through my skull like thunder that won't stop. My hands shake as I reach for the bottle of whiskey on my nightstand, the amber liquid burning away the taste of sand and blood that lingers in my mouth.

Four-thirty in the morning. Same time I wake up every fucking day.

I drain what's left in the bottle and set it down harder than necessary, the glass clinking against the wood. The sound cuts through the silence of my apartment, sharp and final. Like the crack of gunfire.

My breathing is still ragged, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to break free.

The scar cutting through my left eyebrow throbs.

Phantom pain from a wound that healed years ago but never really left me.

Nothing ever really leaves you. The shrinks at the VA tried to tell me that was normal, part of the process.

They had a lot of fancy words for what was wrong with me, but none of them could fix it.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and plant my feet on the cold hardwood floor.

The chill grounds me, pulls me back from the edge where the memories wait to drag me under.

Six-foot-four and built like the brick shithouse everyone says I am, but in these moments right after the dreams, I feel small. Broken.

The shower water is scalding, but I don't adjust the temperature.

Pain has always been easier to deal with than the numbness.

At least pain means I'm still here, still breathing, still fighting whatever demons live in my head.

I let the water pound against my shoulders until my skin turns red, washing away the cold sweat from another night of reliving what I can never change.

By the time I'm dressed in my usual black jeans and club t-shirt, the sun is starting to creep over Pine Haven's skyline. From my window, I can see the main strip coming to life. Early commuters grabbing coffee, shop owners unlocking their doors, the small town’s rhythm that doesn't know how close it came to being swallowed by a battle just a few days ago.

We won that fight, but barely. Charles escaped, which means it's not over. It's never really over.

My phone buzzes on the dresser. Text from Reaper: *Clubhouse at 8. Important.*

As VP of the Outlaw Order MC, I'm usually the first to know what's going on, but lately, Reaper's been keeping things close to his chest. Can't blame him.

Having Evelyn in his life changed things, made him more careful about what risks he's willing to take.

Same thing happened to Wilder with Emma.

Both of them found something worth protecting beyond the club.

Good for them. I mean that. These men are my brothers, the only family I've ever had that didn't hurt me, and they deserve every piece of happiness they can grab in this fucked-up world.

But watching them build something beautiful just reminds me of all the reasons why that kind of life isn't meant for someone like me.

I grab my leather jacket and keys, heading downstairs to where my Harley waits.

The morning air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and exhaust fumes.

Pine Haven might not be much to look at, but it's ours.

Every street, every building, every person living here falls under our protection.

It's a responsibility I don't take lightly.

The ride to the clubhouse takes fifteen minutes through streets I could navigate blindfolded. Past the bar where we rescued those trafficked women. Past the shelter where—

I cut that thought off before it can fully form.

The Pine Haven Women's Shelter sits on the corner of Maple and Third, a converted Victorian house painted soft yellow like it's trying to be welcoming.

Like it's trying to say *safe haven* without using the words.

I've driven past it hundreds of times, but I never really looked at it. Not until last week.

Not until I saw her... But now isn’t the time to think about it. I must focus.

The clubhouse parking lot is already full when I arrive. Reaper's bike is here, along with Wilder's bike and the others. Whatever this meeting is about, it's all hands on deck. I kill the engine and head inside, where the familiar scent of leather, oil, and stale beer greets me like an old friend.

"Ghost." Reaper nods from behind the bar where he's nursing a cup of coffee that smells strong enough to wake the dead. "You look like shit."

"Feel like it too." I pour myself coffee from the pot, grateful for something to do with my hands. "What's the emergency?"

"Intel came in about Charles. He's been quiet too long." Reaper's jaw tightens. "Word is he's planning something big. Not just revenge. Something that'll make the trafficking operation look like child's play."

The coffee turns to ash in my mouth. A few days of relative peace, and now this. "Source reliable?"

"Reliable enough. We're going to need to step up patrols, increase security around the families." His eyes find mine. "That includes expanding our protection details."

I know where this is heading. "Reaper—"

"The shelter, Ghost. Those women and children are sitting ducks if Charles decides to use them as leverage."

My hands clench around the coffee mug. "They're not our responsibility."

"Everything in Pine Haven is our responsibility.

You know that." He leans forward, his president's voice cutting through any argument I might make.

"I need someone I trust watching over them.

Someone who understands what we're up against. Someone who understands what those women have gone through. Besides, didn’t you say you saw a pretty woman living there?

First time you said that about anyone in years. "

“I don’t remember.”

The rest of the brothers file in before Reaper can reply.

Wilder looking like he didn't sleep much either, Blade cracking his knuckles the way he does when he's itching for a fight, Ace and Viper flanking the prospects who hover near the back like they're afraid of taking up too much space.

This is my family, these damaged men who found brotherhood in the chaos.

But the idea of being responsible for a shelter full of vulnerable women makes my skin crawl.

Not because I don't want to protect them. Because I'm terrified of what might happen if I lose control around them.

"Ghost?" Reaper's voice cuts through my spiral. "You with us?"

I force myself to focus on his face, on the concern I see there.

These men have seen me at my worst. Dragged me out of more than one hospital after the PTSD sent me over the edge.

They know what I'm capable of when the darkness takes over.

They also know I'd die before I'd let harm come to anyone under our protection.

"Yeah," I hear myself say. "I'm with you."

The meeting continues for another hour, covering patrol schedules and contingency plans, but my mind keeps drifting to that yellow house on the corner.

To brown eyes that looked right through me for just a moment before turning away.

To the way she pulled that little boy closer to her side, recognizing danger even when it came wearing a leather jacket with good intentions.

Maybe she was right to be afraid.

By the time we adjourn, the sun is high and Pine Haven is fully awake.

I take the long way back through town, telling myself I'm just checking the perimeter, making sure everything looks normal.

But when I find myself parked across the street from the women's shelter, engine idling as I stare at the front porch where children's bikes lean against the railing, I know I'm lying to myself.

This is about her. About the woman with tired eyes and dark hair who looked at me last week like she could see straight through to all the broken pieces inside me.

About the way she didn't flinch when she saw me, just..

. assessed. Like she was cataloguing threats and filing me away under 'dangerous but not immediate. '

Smart woman.

I'm about to pull away when the front door opens and she steps out, a laundry basket balanced on her hip.

She's wearing jeans that hug curves she probably doesn't even realize she has and a faded t-shirt that's seen better days.

Her hair is pulled back in what looks like an afterthought of a ponytail, and there are dark circles under her eyes that speak of too many sleepless nights.

She's beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with makeup or fancy clothes. Beautiful in the way broken things can be when they refuse to stay shattered.

A little boy follows her out. Four years old, maybe five, with her dark hair and what I'm guessing are his father's eyes.

He's chattering about something, hands moving animatedly as he helps her carry smaller items from the basket.

She listens to every word like it's the most important thing she's ever heard, smiling in a way that transforms her entire face.

This is what love looks like, I realize. Not the passionate and dangerous kind that Reaper and Wilder found, but the quiet, fierce kind that would burn the world down to keep one small person safe.

The boy notices me first, tugging on her shirt and pointing in my direction. She follows his gaze and our eyes meet across the street. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then she shifts slightly, putting herself between me and her son, and I see her whole body tense.

She remembers me from last week. Remembers the cut on my jacket, the way other people crossed the street to avoid me. She's doing what any smart mother would do, identifying the threat and positioning herself to protect what matters most.

I should leave. Should put the bike in gear and get the hell away from here before I scare her any more than I already have. But something keeps me frozen in place, caught between the urge to run and the need to somehow show her that I'm not what she thinks I am.

Except I am exactly what she thinks I am. I'm dangerous. I'm broken. I'm the kind of man smart women teach their children to avoid.

So why can't I make myself leave?

The boy says something to her, too quiet for me to hear over the distance and the idle rumble of my engine.

She shakes her head and guides him toward the side of the house where clotheslines are strung between two oak trees.

But she keeps glancing back at me, wariness and something that might be curiosity warring in her expression.

I know I'm making her nervous. Know I should go. But I find myself memorizing details instead: the way she moves with unconscious grace despite her exhaustion, the protective curve of her body around her son, the way the morning light catches in her hair and makes it look like mahogany.

My phone rings, jarring me back to reality. Reaper's name flashes on the screen.

"Yeah?"

"Where are you? Home?"

I glance at the shelter, where she's hanging what looks like a child's t-shirt on the line. "Shelter. Making sure the perimeter's secure."

"Uh-huh." There's knowing amusement in his voice. "Everything look... secure?"

"Fuck off, Reaper."

His laugh follows me as I end the call and finally, finally put the bike in gear. As I pull away, I catch one last glimpse of her in my mirrors. She's standing by the clothesline, watching me go with an expression I can't read from this distance.

But I'll be back. Reaper gave me a job to do, and I've never failed to complete a mission. The fact that this particular mission involves the first woman to capture my attention in over twenty years is just a complication I'll have to deal with.

The ride back to my apartment is a blur of familiar streets and racing thoughts.

I park behind the auto shop and take the stairs to my place two at a time, suddenly needing the walls around me, needing space to think without the distraction of watching her move through the world like she belongs in it.

Inside, I head straight for the kitchen and the bottle of bourbon I keep in the cabinet above the sink. The amber liquid burns going down, but it doesn't quiet the voice in my head asking what the hell I think I'm doing.

I don't get involved. Don't form attachments. Don't let anyone get close enough to see the damage up close. It's safer that way, for me and for them. The last time I tried to have something real with someone, I was nineteen and stupid enough to think love could fix what war had broken in me.

I was wrong then, and I'd be wrong now.

But as I pour another drink and settle into the chair by my window, my eyes keep drifting toward the direction of the shelter. Toward brown eyes and gentle hands and the way she smiled at her son like he was the center of her universe.

Maybe Reaper's right. Maybe those women and children do need protection. And maybe I'm the only one qualified to give it to them, regardless of what it costs me personally.

I just hope she's stronger than she looks. Because if Charles really is planning something big, we're all going to need to be stronger than we've ever been before.

And despite every instinct screaming at me to stay away, I have the sinking feeling that her fight is about to become mine.