6. Ghost
GHOST
The venue is too big.
That's my first thought when we pull up to the Arizona State Fairgrounds — three thousand seats, multiple entry points, backstage access spread across half a dozen corridors. India's rescheduled show. The one her label insisted couldn't be moved, not without serious financial consequences.
I fucking hate it.
But she wanted this. Needed it. Two weeks of hiding at the clubhouse, and I could see her starting to fray at the edges.
Music is the thing that keeps her sane — she told me that the second night, curled up against me in bed, voice soft in the dark.
Performing isn't just her job. It's the only place where everything makes sense.
So we're doing this. On my terms.
Lock is running point on the main entrance. Diesel has the east side. Rogue's handling backstage. King coordinated with the venue's security team — Sons of Ruin personnel mixed in with their people, our eyes everywhere they aren't looking.
And Rev.
I find him near the loading dock, watching the crowd.
"Anything?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "Clean so far. But there's a lot of ground to cover."
Rev's solid. Quiet, good with his hands, and he pays attention. Right now I need every set of eyes I can get.
"Stay mobile," I tell him. "If Harris is here, he won't come through the front. He'll find a gap."
"Got it."
I leave him to it and make my way backstage.
India's in her dressing room. When I push open the door, she's sitting at the mirror, a makeup artist working on her face while her assistant runs through the set list. Two other people hover — label reps, probably, or tour management.
The kind of people who see her as a product instead of a person.
She catches my eye in the mirror and something in her expression softens.
"Give us a minute," she says.
The room clears. Fast. I don't know if that's because of her or because of me, and I don't care.
When we're alone, she swivels in her chair to face me. Halfway through her stage makeup — eyes dramatic, lips bare, hair pinned back. Half India, half the performer she becomes on stage. The version of her that belongs to twelve thousand strangers.
I've seen her bare-faced and sleepy in my bed. I've seen her laughing with Gracie and Josie, relaxed in a way she never is with her team. I've seen her come apart underneath me, gasping my name.
This version — the performer, the product — it's a mask. And I hate that she has to wear it.
"How's it looking out there?" she asks.
"Covered."
"That's not really an answer."
"It's the only answer that matters." I cross the room and stop in front of her. "You do your job. I'll do mine."
She reaches up and tugs at my cut, pulling me down until our foreheads touch. Her eyes close.
"I'm scared," she admits. Quiet. Just for me.
"I know."
"Of him being out there. Watching."
"He's not going to touch you." I pull back enough to look at her. "No one's going to touch you. I fucking promise you that."
"Ghost—"
"I'll be side stage the whole time. You won't see me, but I'll see you. And if anything feels wrong — anything at all — you give me the signal and we pull you out. Fuck the show, fuck the label. You come first."
She nods. Her hand comes up to cup my face, thumb tracing my jaw.
She pulls me down and kisses me. Soft. Sweet. The kind of kiss that means something more than heat.
"Don't let him hurt me," she whispers against my mouth.
"Never."
The show starts at eight.
By eight-fifteen, I've scanned every face in the crowd twice.
By eight-thirty, I've clocked sixteen possible points of concern — two men near the front who keep looking at the security barriers instead of the stage, a group near the east exit that seems more interested in the backstage door than the music.
None of them are Harris.
But he's here. I can feel it. That prickle at the back of my neck that kept me alive through three deployments. The sense that something's wrong even when everything looks right.
India's on stage, and she's fucking glorious.
I knew she was talented. I'd heard her music before Nate called me — couldn't avoid it, really, her songs are everywhere. But hearing recordings isn't the same as watching her perform.
She commands that stage like she was born on it. Three thousand people screaming her name, and she makes every single one of them feel like she's singing just to them. The lights catch her face and she's luminous. Untouchable.
And mine.
That thought hits me hard. Not because it's new — I've known she was mine since the first night I fucked her, maybe before that — but because of what it means here. Now. In front of all these people who want a piece of her.
She's theirs for two hours. But when the lights go down and the crowd goes home, she comes back to me.
I force myself to focus. Watch the gaps, not the girl. Stay sharp.
That's when I see him.
Harris Grey. Backstage credentials around his neck — forged or stolen, doesn't matter. Moving through the corridor behind the stage like he belongs there. Professional. Calm. Not rushing, not sneaking. Just a guy doing his job.
Except his job doesn't exist anymore. And he's heading straight for the stage access door.
I'm moving before I finish the thought.
I pull out my phone and call Lock. "East corridor. Now."
I don't wait for the response. Harris is forty feet away, then thirty. He's watching the stage — watching her — with that flat, hungry expression I saw in India's face when she described him. The face of a man who believes he owns something that was never his.
He doesn't see me coming.
That's his first mistake.
I hit him from behind, arm around his throat, dragging him into a maintenance corridor before he can make a sound. He tries to fight — trained response — but he's out of his league and he knows it.
"Don't," I say in his ear. "Fucking. Move."
He goes still. Smart. Or maybe just buying time.
I shove Harris against the wall, spinning him around so I can see his face. He's breathing hard, but his eyes are calculating. Looking for angles. Escape routes.
He won't find any.
"You're making a mistake," he says. Voice calm. Reasonable. The same voice India described — the one that made her trust him for three years. "I'm not here to cause trouble. I just wanted to see her perform. That's all."
"With forged credentials and a backstage route that leads directly to her dressing room?"
Something flickers in his expression. Surprise that I know that much. Good.
"I know every move you've made since you got to Tucson," I tell him. "I know the motel you're staying in. I know the car you rented. I know you've been watching the clubhouse for five days, looking for a gap in our coverage."
His jaw tightens. "You don't know anything."
"I know you broke into her hotel room. I know you touched her things.
I know you sent her a package to make sure she knew you could find her.
" I step closer, and I can see the first real crack in his composure.
Fear. Just a flicker, but it's there. "And I know you put your hands on her. Left bruises on her skin."
"She belongs to me."
The words come out sharp. Defensive. Like I'm the one who doesn't understand.
"She never belonged to you." My voice is flat. Cold. The voice that made men talk in places I'm not supposed to remember. "You were her employee. Her staff. And when you crossed a line, you got fired. That's where this should have ended."
"You don't know what she needs. You don't know her like I do. I kept her safe for three years — three years — and she just threw me away. For you?" His lip curls. "Some biker trash who fucks her for a few weeks and thinks that means something? I earned her. I deserve her."
The door opens behind me. Lock and Diesel step through, blocking the exit.
Harris's eyes dart between us. Three men. No way out.
"Here's what's going to happen," I say. "You're going to disappear. Tonight. You're going to leave Tucson, leave Arizona, leave the fucking country if you're smart. And you're never going to contact India again. No calls. No messages. No packages. No showing up at her venues. Nothing. Ever."
"And if I don't?"
I smile. It's not a nice smile.
"Then I'll have a longer conversation with you.
One that doesn't happen in a corridor with security fifty feet away.
" I lean in close enough to see the sweat beading at his hairline.
"I spent fifteen years making problems disappear for people who didn't want questions asked.
You think a disgraced security guard is going to be hard?
You'll just... stop existing. No one will find you.
No one will look. And India will spend the rest of her life safe and happy, never thinking about you again. "
The colour drains from his face.
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
Silence. Long, heavy silence.
Lock shifts behind me. Diesel cracks his knuckles — not subtle, not trying to be.
"She's not yours," Harris says finally. But his voice is weaker now. The delusion cracking. "She'll never be yours. She belongs to the spotlight, to the stage, to—"
"She belongs to herself. And she chose me." I hold his stare. "I love her. You just wanted to own her."
The word hangs in the air. I didn't plan to say it. Didn't know I was going to until it came out.
But it's true. Has been true for weeks, maybe since that first night when she looked at me like she actually wanted to know what was underneath.
Harris stares at me. Something in his expression shifts — not defeat, not yet, but the beginning of it. The realisation that he's lost. That he was never going to win because he was fighting for something that was never real.
"Get him out of here," I tell Lock. "Quietly. Make sure he understands the terms."
Lock nods and grabs Harris by the arm, hauling him toward the loading dock exit. Diesel follows, a shadow at their backs.
I stand there for a moment, breathing. The adrenaline is still pumping, but underneath it there's something else. Relief. Certainty.
It's over.
I find Nate first.