3. India
INDIA
Iwake up in a bed that isn't mine, in a room that smells like leather and something else — something warm and masculine that I'm absolutely not going to think about.
Except I am thinking about it. I'm lying in Ghost's bed, surrounded by his sheets, breathing in a scent that's already doing something to me I don't want to examine.
Get it together, India.
I sit up slowly, pushing the covers back. The events of last night come back in fragments. The necklace on my pillow. Nate's face when he told me about his brother. The man himself — Ghost — all hard edges and silence, giving me nothing.
The motorcycle. The desert. His body solid and warm in front of me for three hours while I held on and tried not to notice how good he felt.
I noticed.
And now I'm here. In his bed. In a biker clubhouse in Tucson.
My life has gone completely sideways.
I find my bag and dig out something clean to wear. Jeans, a t-shirt, sneakers I'm grateful I thought to pack. I wash my face in the small bathroom attached to his room, brush my hair into something presentable, and try to make myself look like a person who has her shit together.
The mirror says otherwise, but I've worked with worse.
When I open the bedroom door, the couch at the end of the hall is empty. Blanket folded, pillow stacked on top. He was here all night, just like he said he'd be.
Sleeping ten feet away from me. While I was in his bed.
I follow the smell of coffee toward the main room.
Ghost is at the bar, cup in hand, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when I walk in, and there's no surprise on his face. Like he knew exactly when I'd appear.
And God, he looks good.
I hate that that's my first thought. I hate that I'm noticing the way his t-shirt stretches across his shoulders, the way his forearms look resting on the bar, the way his jaw is sharp even with the stubble.
He's forty years old, grumpy as hell, and has given me approximately fifteen words since we met.
None of that seems to matter to whatever part of my brain is currently fixated on his hands.
"There's coffee," he says, nodding toward the pot behind the bar. "Kitchen's through there if you want food."
And that's it. No good morning, no how did you sleep, no acknowledgment of the fact that he spent the night on a couch in a hallway so I would feel safe. He just turns back to his phone, and I'm left standing there trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do with him.
The clubhouse is different in daylight.
Last night it was shadows and tension. Now sunlight streams through high windows, and the space feels almost... lived in. Comfortable. There's a pool table in one corner, a cluster of leather couches around a TV, a long bar with stools that look like they've seen decades of use.
And people. Lots of people.
A big guy with tattoos covering both arms is sprawled on one of the leather couches, coffee in hand, talking to a woman with dark hair curled up beside him.
Two men are playing pool, talking shit to each other in voices that carry across the room.
Another woman — pregnant, I notice — is on a different couch, laughing at something the dark-haired woman just said.
Everyone looks up when I walk in.
I'm used to being looked at. It's literally my job. But this is different. These aren't fans or critics or industry people trying to figure out what I can do for them. These are Ghost's people, sizing me up, deciding whether I belong.
The pregnant woman is the first to move. She unfolds herself from the couch and walks over, hand extended, smile warm.
"Holy shit, you're actually India Blair." She laughs at herself. "Sorry, that was not smooth. Ghost mentioned he was bringing someone back, but he didn't mention it was you. I'm Gracie."
"Ghost mentioned me?"
"He said 'she's staying here, don't make a big deal out of it.' Which for Ghost is practically a monologue."
That surprises a laugh out of me. Gracie grins.
"Come on. Bella's making pancakes in the kitchen, and I need to know everything about why Ghost of all people has a pop star staying at the clubhouse."
She loops her arm through mine like we've known each other for years, and something in my chest loosens. No agenda. No angle. Just warmth.
I spend the next hour in the kitchen with Gracie, Bella, Josie, and Demi. They ask questions — about music, about touring, about what it's like to perform for thousands of people — but it doesn't feel like an interview. It feels like curiosity. Like they actually want to know.
And they're open in a way I'm not used to. Honest. Real.
I've been surrounded by people for years — managers, publicists, stylists, security. An entire team whose job is to make my life run smoothly. But sitting here eating pancakes and listening to these women laugh, I realize something.
I've been lonely for a long time.
And I didn't even know it until right now.
Ghost finds me on the back porch an hour later.
I'm sitting on the steps, looking out at the dusty yard behind the clubhouse, trying to process everything that's happened in the last twelve hours. The women have scattered — appointments, errands, lives to get back to.
And I'm here. In the middle of the Arizona desert, hiding from a man who used to protect me.
I hear Ghost before I see him. The creak of the screen door. The heavy footfall of his boots. Then he's settling onto the step beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, and my whole body goes on alert.
He doesn't say anything. Just sits there, forearms resting on his knees, looking out at the same nothing I've been staring at.
I should say something. Fill the silence. That's what I do — I'm good at talking, at charming, at making people comfortable. It's part of my job.
But with him, I don't feel the need to perform. The quiet feels... easy. Like he doesn't expect anything from me.
"The women are nice," I say finally. "Gracie, the others."
He nods. Doesn't elaborate.
I glance over at him, and that's a mistake. This close, I can see the details I missed last night. The scar through his eyebrow. The flecks of grey in his stubble. The hard line of his jaw.
He's rugged. Rough-edged. The kind of handsome that doesn't try to be handsome, which somehow makes it worse.
And there's something about him. The stillness. The certainty. The way he's so completely solid, like nothing could move him unless he wanted to be moved.
I've met a lot of men. Famous men, powerful men, men who could buy and sell small countries. None of them made me feel like this — hyperaware of every inch of space between us, wondering what would happen if I closed it.
"I spoke to Nate," he says, and I jerk my gaze away, caught. "Your schedule's cleared for the next two weeks. Press is rescheduled. Your label's been told you're taking a mental health break."
"A mental health break?"
"Better than the truth."
He's right. Pop star flees stalker ex-security guard isn't a headline I want to deal with right now.
"What happens in two weeks?"
"LA show. We'll figure out how to make that work when we get there."
"And until then?"
He turns to look at me, and those dark eyes hold mine. "Until then, you stay here. You don't go anywhere alone. You don't contact anyone from your old life. And if anyone shows up who you don't recognize, you find me immediately."
"That's a lot of rules."
"That's how you stay alive."
No sugar-coating. No softening. Just the truth.
I should bristle at being told what to do. I've spent my whole career being managed, handled, directed. The last thing I need is another man telling me where I can and can't go.
But when Ghost says it, it doesn't feel like control. It feels like safety. Like certainty. Like he's already mapped out every possible threat and he's three steps ahead of all of them.
"Okay," I say.
He holds my gaze for a beat longer than necessary. The air between us feels thicker suddenly. Charged. His eyes drop to my mouth for just a second — so fast I almost miss it — and then he's looking away, jaw tight.
"Good," he says. And nothing else.
We go back to sitting in silence. But it's different now. The easy quiet from before has an edge to it. Something unspoken humming underneath.
I'm in trouble.
I think I knew that the moment I climbed on his bike.
The package arrives just after noon.
I'm in the main room with Diesel — the big guy with the tattoos, and surprisingly easy to talk to once you get past the intimidating exterior — when the front door opens and a prospect walks in carrying a box.
"This came for someone named India?" he says, looking around uncertainly.
The room goes still.
Ghost is there before I can blink, moving with a speed that shouldn't be possible for a man his size. He takes the box from the prospect's hands, his face completely flat. Empty.
"Where did this come from?" His voice is cold. Controlled.
"Guy dropped it at the gate. Said it was a delivery. He was gone before I could—"
"What did he look like?"
The prospect describes someone generic. Average height, average build, baseball cap. Could be anyone.
Ghost sets the box on the bar and looks at me. "You don't have to see this."
"Yes, I do."
He holds my gaze for a moment, then nods. He pulls a knife from somewhere — I don't see where — and cuts the tape.
Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is a pair of my underwear.
Not just any pair. The black lace ones. The good ones.
They've been folded with care. Perfect edges. Neat creases. The same meticulous attention that was given to everything in my hotel room.
My face burns. Ghost is staring at the box, his expression completely unreadable, and I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
Because he's looking at my underwear. My good underwear.
And somewhere out there, Harris is probably imagining exactly this moment — me humiliated, exposed, while the man protecting me sees something intimate that was never meant for him.
There's no note. There doesn't need to be.
I know where you are. I know who you're with. And I can get to you whenever I want.
The room is silent. Everyone's watching. I can feel their eyes on me, waiting to see if I'll fall apart.
I don't.
I'm scared — terrified, actually — but I've spent six years learning how to hold it together when everything inside me is screaming. So I keep my face calm and my voice steady when I say, "He's sending a message."
"He's sending a threat." Ghost's voice is cold. Controlled. "And he just made a mistake."
"What mistake?"
"He came to my territory."
I nod. Keep nodding. Keep my expression neutral even as something hot pricks at the back of my eyes.
Don't cry. Don't you dare cry. Not here, not in front of all these people.
"I need a minute," I manage. "Excuse me."
I don't wait for a response. I just turn and walk toward the back hallway, toward Ghost's room, the only private space I have in this place. My vision is blurring and my chest is tight and I will not fall apart in front of a room full of strangers.
I make it to his room. Close the door behind me. Press my back against it and squeeze my eyes shut, willing the tears to stay where they are.
The knock comes thirty seconds later.
"India."
Ghost's voice. Low. Quiet.
I should tell him I'm fine. I should pull myself together and go back out there and pretend none of this is getting to me.
Instead, I open the door.
He's standing in the hallway, filling the frame, those dark eyes looking at me like he can see everything I'm trying to hide.
"I'm fine," I say. My voice cracks on the word.
He doesn't call me out on the obvious lie. He just steps inside, closing the door behind him, and suddenly we're alone in his room and he's so close I can feel the warmth radiating off him.
"You don't have to do that," he says.
"Do what?"
"Be strong all the time. Hold it together for everyone else." His voice is rough but gentle in a way I haven't heard from him before. "That's not your job right now. That's mine."
Something in my chest splinters.
I've been holding it together for so long. Years. Smiling when I wanted to scream. Performing calm when I was falling apart inside. Being the product everyone needed me to be, never the person I actually was.
And this man — this grumpy, silent, impossible man — just gave me permission to stop.
The first tear spills over. Then another. And then I'm crying, actually crying, and I hate it but I can't stop.
Ghost doesn't hesitate. He pulls me against his chest, one arm wrapped around my waist, the other hand cradling the back of my head. He doesn't say anything. He just holds me while I fall apart, solid and warm and steady.
I don't know how long we stay like that. Long enough for the tears to slow. Long enough for my breathing to even out. Long enough for me to become very aware of how good he feels, how safe, how right.
I pull back just enough to look at him. His hand is still on the back of my head, his fingers tangled in my hair. We're inches apart. I can see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes have gone dark, the way he's looking at me like I'm something he's trying very hard not to want.
"Ghost," I whisper.
"You're upset. You're not thinking straight."
"I'm thinking fine."
"I'm supposed to be protecting you."
"Then protect me." I reach up, my hand resting on his jaw. The stubble is rough under my fingers. "And kiss me."
He makes a sound — low, pained — and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss isn't gentle. It isn't careful. It's hungry and desperate and relieved, like he's been holding this back as long as I have and finally, finally letting go. His hand tightens in my hair, tilting my head back, and I open for him on a gasp.
He kisses me like he's been starving for it. Like I'm the first real thing he's tasted in years. And I kiss him back just as hard, my fingers gripping his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more.
When he finally breaks away, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, his eyes closed.
"Fuck," he mutters.
"Yeah." I'm shaking. My whole body is trembling and I don't know if it's the crying or the kiss or just him. "That was..."
"A mistake."
"Was it?"
He opens his eyes. Looks at me. And whatever he sees makes something shift in his expression — the fight going out of him, replaced by something raw and honest.
"No," he says quietly. "It wasn't."
He kisses me again. Softer this time. Slower. Like he's memorising the shape of my mouth.
And I let him.
Because whatever this is — whatever's happening between us — I don't want it to stop.