Chapter 7 - Ghost
I can't believe I let her see that.
The violence, the way I lost myself in those thirty seconds when David came at me with the knife… That's not who I wanted to be around her. That's not who I am when Tyler asks me to play baseball or when Debbie says my real name like it means something good.
But the moment I saw that blade flash in the morning light, the moment I heard the threat in David's voice when he said he'd make me regret wanting her, something primitive took over.
Years of military training, years of MC enforcing, a lifetime of watching men hurt women because they thought they could.
All of it crystallized into one simple fact: no one hurts her on my watch.
"Thank you," she says, her voice soft but steady. Like she's not horrified by what she just witnessed. Like she's not calculating the fastest way to get herself and Tyler away from the dangerous man who just proved exactly how dangerous he can be.
"You don't need to thank me."
"Yes, I do. If you hadn't been here..."
"But I was here. That's what matters."
The truth is, I almost wasn't. Five more minutes and I would have been back at my apartment, drinking coffee and trying not to think about the way she smiled when Tyler caught that ball. Five more minutes and she would have faced David alone, a man who has already proven he’s willing to use violence to get what he wants.
The thought makes my hands shake, makes the red haze threaten to creep back in around the edges of my vision. I clench my fists and force myself to breathe, to focus on the fact that she's standing here whole and unharmed, that Tyler never had to see his father's blood on the porch.
Thank God for that, at least. Thank God the kid was asleep upstairs instead of witnessing what his old man was capable of. What I'm capable of.
Debbie is looking at me with something I can't quite put my finger on. Not fear, which is what I expected. Not disgust, which is what I deserve. Something else. Something that makes my heart pound faster.
"Are you okay?" she asks, and the question catches me completely off guard.
"Am I okay?"
"You just... that was intense. And you look like you're about to fall over."
She's right. The adrenaline is starting to fade, leaving behind the crash that comes after violence. My hands are steadier now, but there's a tremor in my legs that I'm hoping she can't see. Combat fatigue, the docs at the VA call it. The body's natural response to extreme stress.
"I'm fine," I lie, because that's what you say. Because admitting weakness isn't something I know how to do, especially not in front of the woman I just fought to protect.
She looks at my face with those brown eyes that see too much, and I have the uncomfortable feeling that she doesn't believe me. "When's the last time you ate something?"
The question is so unexpected, so standard after everything that just happened, that I actually laugh. "What?"
"Food. When did you last eat actual food?" She crosses her arms, and suddenly I'm being interrogated by someone who barely comes up to my shoulder. "Because you look like you're running on fumes and adrenaline, and that's not sustainable."
"Debbie—"
"Don't 'Debbie' me. You just saved my life and probably Tyler's, too. The least I can do is make sure you don't collapse on my front porch."
Before I can argue, she's opening the screen door and gesturing for me to follow her inside. The shelter is quiet now, most of the other women having retreated to give us privacy, but I can smell coffee brewing and something that might be pancakes.
"I should go," I say, even as my feet carry me toward the door. "Let you get back to your normal routine."
"Normal?" She almost laughs. "My ex-husband just showed up with a knife, and you beat him unconscious on the porch. I don't think we're dealing with normal anymore."
She has a point.
"Sit," Debbie says, pointing to a chair at the kitchen table. "Coffee?"
"I really should—"
"Sit. Coffee. Now."
There's steel in her voice, the same tone I heard when she told David she wasn't going anywhere with him. It occurs to me that Debbie Wilson might look soft and gentle, but there's a core of strength there that explains how she survived the abuse and still had the courage to leave.
I sit.
The coffee is strong and hot, exactly what I need to chase away the last of the adrenaline shakes. Debbie moves around the kitchen, pulling ingredients out of cabinets and starting what looks like scrambled eggs.
"You don't have to cook for me," I say.
"I'm not cooking for you. I'm cooking for me, and there happens to be enough for two." She glances at me over her shoulder. "Unless you have somewhere else you need to be?"
The honest answer is no. I should check in with Reaper, make sure everything is okay. Should probably go home and shower and try to get some sleep before whatever comes next.
But sitting in this warm kitchen, watching Debbie crack eggs into a bowl like it's the most natural thing in the world, I can't make myself want to leave.
"No," I say. "No other plans."
She nods like she expected that answer. "Good. Because I have questions."
"Questions?"
"About what just happened. About what you did to David. About why you're really here protecting a bunch of strangers."
The eggs hit the hot pan with a satisfying sizzle. Debbie adds salt and pepper, then starts stirring them with the kind of attention that tells me this conversation is just getting started.
"I told you why I'm here. Potential threats—"
"That's the official reason." She doesn't look at me, but there's something in her voice that makes me pay attention. "What's the real reason?"
"That is the real reason."
"Derek." She turns to face me, wooden spoon in one hand, hip cocked against the counter.
"You just destroyed my ex-husband with your bare hands like it was nothing.
You moved like someone who's done that before, a lot.
You knew exactly how to hurt him without killing him, knew exactly how much force to use. "
She's not wrong. Everything I did to David was calculated, planned, designed to incapacitate rather than eliminate. Military training mixed with years of MC enforcement work, muscle memory that kicks in when someone threatens innocents.
"So either you're the most overqualified bodyguard in history," she continues, "or there's something you're not telling me about why the Outlaw Order MC suddenly decided to protect a women's shelter."
Smart woman. Too smart for her own good, maybe.
"The Vultures MC we're dealing with... they traffic women.
Young women, mostly. Force them into prostitution, sell them to the highest bidder.
" I can hear the edge creeping into my voice, can feel the familiar anger that comes with talking about what these bastards do.
"We broke part of their operation a week ago, rescued some of their victims. But their boss got away, and now he's planning revenge. "
Debbie goes very still. "Revenge against who?"
"Us. The club. But also against the people we protect. He thinks if he can hurt innocent civilians, we'll back down."
"Will you?"
Will we back down if Charles targets innocents? Will we choose the safety of strangers over the brotherhood that's been our family for fifteen years?
"No," I say, and I mean it with every fiber of my being. "We won't back down. I'll burn this whole town to the ground before I let him hurt people who can't protect themselves."
"This is personal for you."
"It's personal for all of us."
"But especially for you." She turns back to the stove, dividing the eggs between two plates. "Because you've seen what men like him do to women. You've seen the damage. I'm not wrong, am I?"
I think about Afghanistan, about villages where women were property and children were casualties of war.
Think about the trafficking operation we busted, the hollow eyes of girls who'd given up hope of ever being free.
Think about my own mother, flinching every time my father's key turned in the lock.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "I've seen the damage."
She sets a plate in front of me, eggs still steaming, alongside toast that's perfectly golden brown.
It's a simple meal, probably the kind of thing she makes for Tyler every morning, but it feels like something more.
Like an offering of trust, maybe. Or forgiveness for the violence she had to witness.
"Eat," she says, settling into the chair across from me with her own plate. "You look like you haven't had a real meal in days."
She's not wrong about that either. I've been living on coffee and whatever I can grab between patrols, too focused on watching the shelter to worry about taking care of myself.
The eggs are perfect. Fluffy and seasoned just right, better than anything I've made for myself in years. The toast is buttered exactly the way I like it, crispy on the outside but still soft in the middle.
"This is good," I say, and immediately feel stupid for stating the obvious.
"My grandmother's recipe. She always said the secret was low heat and patience." Debbie takes a bite of her own food, then looks at me thoughtfully. "Can I ask you something else?"
"Shoot."
"Why do they call you Ghost?"
Of all the things she could have asked, about the club, about the Vultures MC, about what happens next, she picks the one thing I never want to explain to anyone, especially not to her.
"It's just a nickname," I say, hoping she'll let it drop.
She raises an eyebrow. "I just watched you take apart a man who outweighs me by eighty pounds without breaking a sweat. I think I've earned the right to know why your friends call you Ghost."
She has a point, but that doesn't make it easier to explain. The eggs suddenly taste like sawdust in my mouth.