Chapter 16 Ghost
GHOST
SIX WEEKS LATER
I’ve been staring at her for ten minutes without meaning to.
Bonnie sits across the common room at a table with three younger brothers, explaining something about supply chain logistics that I can’t quite hear from my position by the window.
Her hands move as she talks, animated and confident.
One of the prospects nods, scribbles notes, and asks a question. She answers without hesitation.
Six weeks. That’s how long it’s been since the four of us crossed a line we can’t uncross.
It shouldn’t work. By every logical measure, this should have imploded by now—jealousy, territorial instincts, the basic math of three men wanting the same woman.
But it does work. Somehow.
Maybe because we’re brothers first. Maybe because we all want her happy more than we want her exclusively.
The rotation is simple. Two nights with Ash since he’s her husband, one night each with Titan and me. Weekends, we figure out as we go—sometimes all together, sometimes she picks who she wants.
Tonight is my night.
She glances up from her conversation and catches me watching. Raises an eyebrow. I look away.
When I look back, she’s smiling. Knows exactly what I was doing.
The prospect she’s teaching says something that makes her laugh. The sound carries across the room, warm and genuine. Other brothers turn toward it like flowers toward the sun. She has that effect—draws people in without trying, makes the clubhouse feel less like a fortress and more like a home.
My phone buzzes.
Text from Ash: Savage Legion spotted near the east side. Might be late getting back. Take care of her.
I type back: I will.
It’s true. Taking care of Bonnie has become as automatic as breathing. Making sure she eats when she forgets, checking the locks on her window at night, and standing close enough in crowded rooms that nobody gets ideas about approaching her.
The brothers have learned. She’s under our protection—all three of us—and anyone who disrespects her answers to Ash, Titan, and me. That message got delivered loud and clear after a visiting member from a neighboring chapter made a crude comment about her being “shared property.”
Titan broke his nose. Ash kicked him out. I made sure word spread that the next person who said something similar wouldn’t walk away at all.
Bonnie finishes her explanation to the prospects and stands. They thank her, gather their notes, and head toward the garage. She walks toward me, purpose in every step.
“You’re lurking,” she says when she reaches the window.
“I’m standing.”
“You’re lurking and watching me. There’s a difference.”
“Maybe I like watching you.”
Her smile turns into something warmer. “Good thing it’s your night then. You can watch all you want.”
Heat flares low in my gut. Six weeks and I’m still not used to the casual way she talks about us.
Before I can respond, the door to Ash’s office opens. He emerges with Danny and Rodriguez, deep in discussion about patrol routes. When he spots Bonnie, his expression softens. He crosses to us and drops a kiss on her forehead.
“Be good,” he tells her.
“When am I ever good?” she counters.
“Fair point.” He looks at me. “Keep her safe.”
He nods once and heads out with the others. Engines roar to life in the lot. Fifteen bikes pulling out for a run that will take hours if the Savage Legion decides to make trouble.
The clubhouse settles into afternoon quiet. A few brothers shoot pool in the back room. Someone’s cooking in the kitchen—the smell of frying onions drifts through the main hall. Normal clubhouse rhythms, the kind of peace that only happens between storms.
“Want to go over the new defensive positions?” Bonnie asks. “Jamie mentioned the west side businesses are nervous after last week’s break-in.”
This is what I love about her. Not love—respect. What I respect about her. She doesn’t just sit around waiting for us to handle everything. She learns, studies, contributes. Asks the right questions, remembers the answers, sees patterns others miss.
“We can do that,” I say. “Conference room?”
She leads the way. I follow, watching the sway of her hips in jeans, the confident set of her shoulders. She moves through the clubhouse like she owns it. In a way, she does—president’s wife, daughter of the former president, claimed by three of the highest-ranking members.
But it’s more than that. The brothers respect her because she’s earned it.
In the conference room, she spreads out maps of our territory. Points to businesses marked in red—recent Savage Legion targets.
“They’re hitting a pattern,” she says. “See? Every strike is exactly three miles from the last one. They’re working inward, trying to box us into a smaller defensive perimeter.”
I study the map. She’s right. The attacks look random at first glance, but when you connect them, there’s a clear spiral pattern moving toward the clubhouse.
“Smart,” I admit. “Marcus is smarter than we gave him credit for.”
“He’s desperate.” She traces the pattern with her finger. “We humiliated him when I ran. He’s not just fighting for territory anymore. He’s fighting for his reputation.”
“Which makes him more dangerous.”
“Exactly.” She looks up at me. “We need to disrupt the pattern. Hit him where he doesn’t expect it.”
“Like where?”
“Here.” She taps a spot on the map well outside our usual territory. “One of his legitimate businesses. A bar he owns that launders money. If we hit it, he has to pull resources back to protect his other interests. Breaks the spiral.”
I study the map, run tactical scenarios in my head. It could work. Would require careful planning and enough manpower to both attack and defend if he retaliates.
“I’ll bring it to Ash,” I say.
“Bring it to the council.” She rolls up the map. “My idea, my presentation.”
Pride swells in my chest. Not my chest—my assessment of her tactical value to the club. That’s what this feeling is. Definitely not pride or affection or any of the other emotions I’m supposed to be keeping at arm’s length.
“You’ve gotten good at this,” I tell her.
“I had good teachers.” She smiles. “Dad trained Jackal in club operations, but he trained me too. He just never admitted it counted because I was a girl.”
“His loss.”
“Yeah.” She studies me for a moment. “You know, when you first accused me of betraying the club, I thought I’d never forgive you.”
The memory stings.
“I’m glad you changed your mind,” I say.
“Come on,” she says. “I’m starving and whoever’s cooking it smells amazing.”
We head to the kitchen where Martinez is making his grandmother’s recipe for carne asada. He loads up plates for us without asking, throws in extra tortillas, grins when Bonnie compliments his cooking.
We eat at the kitchen table. She tells me about her day—hours at the tattoo shop working on a complicated sleeve design, a call from Jackal who’s finally making progress recruiting for his chapter, Jamie teaching her more advanced first aid techniques.
I listen more than I talk. That’s always been my way. But with Bonnie, the silence feels comfortable instead of awkward. She doesn’t push me to fill every gap with words. Just exists in the space beside me, easy and natural.
Evening slides into night. The clubhouse empties as brothers head out for patrols or home to their families. By nine, it’s just us and a handful of members on security duty.
“Your room or mine?” Bonnie asks as we climb the stairs.
“Mine.” My room is at the end of the hall, corner position with windows facing two directions.
Inside, she kicks off her boots and stretches. I notice for the first time how tired she looks. Dark circles under her eyes, paleness to her skin that wasn’t there this morning.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Fine. Just a long day.”
“You should probably sleep. We don’t have to—”
“No.” She crosses to me, hands sliding up my chest. “I’m fine. And I want to make the most of our time together.”
When she kisses me, I taste mint and salsa and something sweet that’s just her. My hands find her waist, pull her closer. She melts against me, all soft curves and willing heat, fingers curling into my shirt.
We sink onto the bed together. I keep my weight off her, propped on one elbow while my other hand traces lazy patterns along her side. Over her ribs, along her hip, back up to cup her face.
She kisses me like she’s trying to memorize the moment. Her tongue slides against mine, soft and seeking, and I let myself get lost in it.
My hand drifts higher. Along her throat, feeling her pulse jump under my fingers. Across her collarbone. Down to rest just above her breast.
She makes a small sound of encouragement. Arches slightly into my touch.
I cup her breast through her shirt, gentle pressure like always. She responds immediately, kissing me deeper, her breath coming faster.
Then she gasps. Sharp. Pulls back slightly, her face twisting.
I freeze. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, just—” She touches her chest, adjusting her position. “They’ve been really sore lately. Like, more than usual.”
“Since when?”
“I don’t know. A week? Maybe two?” She tries to smile but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Probably just my period coming or something.”
Except her period should have come already. I don’t track her cycle like some creep, but I’ve been with enough women to notice patterns. The way she gets quieter a few days before, the heating pad she keeps in her room, the chocolate cravings Titan teases her about.
Haven’t seen any of that lately.
“You feel okay otherwise?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.
“Yeah, fine. I guess I’m tired.” She yawns like she’s proving the point. “Been working a lot at the shop.”
Tired. Sore breasts. And now that I’m looking at her there’s something different about her face. Fuller, maybe.
I’ve seen this before. Three times, actually. Once with a girl in Kandahar who showed up at the clinic six weeks gone. Twice stateside with women who weren’t trying to get pregnant and panicked when the test came back positive.
The signs are always the same. Always subtle at first. Breast tenderness hits early, usually before they even miss a period. Then the exhaustion. The nausea that comes and goes.
My brain starts doing math I don’t want it to do. When did this arrangement start? Right after the wedding. When did we stop being careful? We were never careful. All three of us finishing inside her like we had some kind of claim to stake.
Jesus Christ.
“Ghost?” Her voice pulls me back. “You okay? You’re staring.”
“I’m fine.” I kiss her forehead, gentle. “You should sleep.” I brush hair away from her face. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
She studies my face like she’s trying to figure out what shifted. But exhaustion wins and she nods, curling into my side.
I hold her while her breathing evens out, going slow and deep. My hand rests on her hip and I try not to think about what might be happening inside her body right now.
Might be nothing. Women get sore breasts for lots of reasons. Hormones fluctuate. Stress does weird things to the body.
But I’ve been trained to read patterns, and I can read one here.
If she’s pregnant—and that’s a big if—then we’ve got bigger problems than I thought. Because paternity is going to be a question. And depending on when it happened, there’s a timeline that includes more than just the three of us.
Marcus Stone forced himself on her the night before the wedding. I don’t know the details, but I know she was with him.
My jaw clenches. I force myself to relax before she feels the tension.
Not the time. Not the conversation to have when I don’t even know if I’m right.
But tomorrow I’m paying attention. To what she eats, how she looks in the morning, whether the nausea comes at all. And if my suspicions are confirmed, then we’re going to have a very different kind of conversation than any of us planned for.
She shifts in her sleep, makes a small sound. My arm tightens around her automatically.
Months ago, I thought of her as Jackal’s little sister. Someone to protect from a distance, to make sure stayed safe without getting involved.
Now she’s in my bed, possibly carrying a child that could be mine.