Vindication: A Motorcycle Club Romance (2 page)

Technically, the gear was contraband.
Staff would fill a lot of requests for residents, but not for any of this—and
most of these dudes would rather die than ask their family members for a porno
magazine. Ghost knew being old didn’t make you less of a person, and he sure as
shit planned on abandoning sobriety for good once he was like them, old and
sick enough to be stuck in a place like this. This tiny group of vintage grunts
fought alongside Marty Dillon, father of Black Dogs VP Douglas Dillon. Ghost
met them years ago when Douglas was laid up with appendicitis and asked him to make
a check on his old man. Marty had since passed, but these four were still
kicking, and Ghost had been making monthly visits to their makeshift platoon
for years. He made sure they had their vices, played a little poker, and
swapped stories about war and women. He figured he got as much pleasure out of
it as they did, at the end of the day.

For Walter, Ghost also had an extra
treat—a giant Cuban cigar he’d won off of Henry Oliver, president of the Black
Dogs, but only after he’d gotten him good and drunk first.  “Happy anniversary,
Walt,” said Ghost as he handed the stogie across the table. Walter’s face froze
for a moment as he took the cigar, and then his eyes misted up just a bit. He
couldn’t say anything back to Ghost, but raised the cigar in thanks, and Ghost
nodded at him with a smile. Walter didn’t like talking about his wife, ten
years in the grave, but Ghost knew he had a ritual on their anniversary.

“Sit, sit!” said Ben, the oldest of
the group and the only one who was confined to a wheelchair. He began to
maneuver himself to make room at the table, turning to holler at one of the
orderlies until Ghost stopped him.

“Nah, I can’t stay long today, guys,”
said Ghost. He looked forward to these afternoons, and he felt just as
disappointed as the men were, groaning and giving him sharp little insults.
“There’s a big meeting at the MC. I’ve gotta be there.”

“Pussy!” said Frank, already cracking
open one of the small glass bottles of rum. He looked around, making sure the
coast was clear, before he took a small sip and started coughing almost
immediately. The men laughed, and Frank reddened with a happy smile.

“All work and no play makes Jack a
dull boy,” said Ben with a wag of his finger.

“True, but I basically don’t work at
all, so no worries,” said Ghost. “I ain’t gonna dull on you, old man.”

“What do they need you at the meeting
for, anyway? It’s not like you do anything important,” teased Walter, chewing
on the cigar.

“Oh, suck my dick, Walt! I hope the
next hit contract I get is on you, so I can finally put you out of your
misery,” Ghost laughed and pointed his finger at Walk like a gun.

Walter only busted up laughing and
helped himself to a bottle of vodka.

“Hey, before you go, would you be a
pal and do me a favor?” asked Sid, looking up at Ghost from his chair.

“Sure, buddy, anything.”

“I left my lighter in my room, and my
ankles are swelling up something fierce. Could you run and go fetch it for me
so I can have it when break time rolls around?”

Ghost nodded. The silver box lighter
was a war memento, and he had never seen Sid without it. “Absolutely.”

“Room 1434. I can’t remember exactly
where I left it, but it should be easy to find. I use the damn thing every
day.” Sid took a small keyring out of his breast pocket and dropped it in Ghost’s
hand.

“I’m a master detective, don’t you
worry.”

“Yeah, just keep your sticky fingers
to yourself!” said Sid as Ghost headed out of the common room.

“What’s that?” called back Ghost
sarcastically. “Help myself to whatever I find? Sid, you’re a gem!”

He could hear the men laughing at him
behind his back as he headed down the hall, twirling the keyring in his fingers
and whistling Def Leppard to himself. He’d been to Sid’s room once or twice,
but still took two wrong turns around Shadyside before he found the right
hallway. Everything looked so uniform, he found it wondrous that the residents
found their way around at all—especially the ones that weren’t all there.

There were only three keys on the
ring Sid had given him, and the second one opened the door to his room. Ghost
carefully entered the small apartment and closed the door behind him. Sunlight
filtered in vertical towers across the living room floor, shining through the
sliding glass door and its hanging shades. A bloom of colorful flowers wafted
gently in the breeze on the deck outside. Ghost poked around the living room’s
warm wooden furniture, sneaking peeks in candy jars, tiny drawers, and glass
bowls filled with pocket paraphernalia, but didn’t see Sid’s beautiful silver
box lighter.

He changed his whistling tune to the
Black Eyed Peas and decided to try the bedroom. A small, Tiffany-style lamp was
on next to the bed in the otherwise dark, tidy room. Something about the place
felt very much like a woman lived here—or should have lived here. Ghost
couldn’t quite tell if it was the furniture itself, the way the rooms were so
carefully and tastefully decorated, or the tiny impractical accents that men of
Sid’s generation just didn’t seem to give a shit about unless they were trying
to please a woman. Sid had been married once, and Ghost wondered if he had just
replicated the world he lived in with her, piece by piece, even though he was
on his own. He figured there were worse ways to deal with heartbreak.

By the light of the lamp, Ghost searched
the places in the bedroom most likely to hold his treasure, and after just a
few minutes he found the lighter nestled in the pocket of Sid’s night jacket, a
plaid, well-worn thing hanging patiently on the bathroom doorknob.

“Goddamn, I’m good,” Ghost said to
himself, wrapping his hands around the lighter.

“Yeah? You better fucking hope so.”

The voice behind him was feminine—and
angry. Ghost stood and whirled, expecting to find one of the nurses. Some of
them had never quite taken to him and would hassle him any chance they got. But
what he found instead was someone he’d never seen before.

She was tall and lithe, built like an
athlete, her blonde hair falling like shining fabric across her shoulders. Even
though her outfit was professional, there was aggression in it—the solid blacks
and grays, the heavy boots, the pants instead of a skirt. She stood in the
doorway to the bedroom, blocking his exit, her fists clenched at her sides. A
brown leather messenger bag that reminded him of something Indiana Jones would
carry hung at her side.

Ghost was stunned. She could have
been a supermodel. But it was the blazing anger in her bright green eyes that
made his heart stop—and his dick swell. Eight out of ten women would have
already turned and fled at the sight of a strange biker poking around a room
where they didn’t belong. But it looked like that thought hadn’t even crossed
her mind.

She squared her jaw. “Just what the
hell are you doing in here?”

~
TWO ~

Bridget

A migraine had been pulsing, teasing at the base of
Bridget’s skull since lunchtime. Fridays always had a special energy and chaos
to them, and today was no exception. Once she saw Xander Trudeau upchuck an
entire carton of chocolate milk in the lunch room, she knew it was going to be one
of those days. As she stared, furious, at the rough-looking man snooping around
her grandfather’s apartment, she felt the headache start to fade away under a
wash of rage-fueled adrenaline.

Immediately, Bridget assumed she had
stumbled onto a robbery. She knew old people were frequent targets, but she was
shocked to see someone here at Shadyside. It had been a long goddamn time since
she had been in a fight, but she was ready for it. She realized her fists were
already clenched, and some part of her brain had already planned on how she
would maneuver out of her messenger bag before she struck. This asshole had
picked the wrong day to try and mess with her family.

As she squared her feet, Bridget took
a deep breath. “I’m not going to ask you again, shithead. What the hell are you
doing in here?”

He looked her over, his eyes
lingering over her breasts, and for some reason, her fists—yet he seemed
completely unconcerned. “Valhalla, you’ve sent a Valkyrie for me, after all
this time?” said the man in a quiet, excited voice.

“Does this have to get ugly?”

“Whoa, hey,” said the man, raising
his hands up in surrender. Bridget saw a shiny glint in his right hand.

“Are you in here
stealing
from
old people?” she spit, taking two hard steps toward him. He had a good four
inches in height on her, but in that moment, she was fearless.

“No!” he said, actually sounding
insulted. He didn’t move back when she approached, but he did keep his hands
up. “What am I, some piece of shit meth addict?”

Bridget reached out and flicked the
black leather biker cut lying on his muscular chest. When she looked up at his
face with accusatory eyes, his eyebrows were raised, and a tiny smile teased at
the corners of his mouth. What was that—surprise? No… amusement.

That only made her angrier. “Wouldn’t
be much of a stretch,” she said, holding his stare.

“Are you saying all this bulking up
I’ve been trying to do isn’t working?” said the man. He looked, concerned, at
each of his biceps. “If I’m skinny enough to be mistaken for a meth addict,
shit… I knew that guy at GNC was talking out of his ass.”

Bridget followed his gaze to his arms
and found herself instantly disagreeing with his assessment. Even though he was
on the lean side, there was not a single problem with how he had bulked up. His
biceps were cut, stretching against the thin white cotton of the short-sleeved
shirt underneath his vest. No, nothing about him suggested he was an addict of
any kind. In fact, now that she got a better look, he actually looked
incredibly healthy… and handsome.

Hey. Focus. Dangerous
stranger in your grandfather’s room, remember?

“What’s in your hand?” she asked.

He lifted up his right hand and
revealed the lighter her grandfather always kept on his person. “I’m just
getting this for Sid, I swear. I’m not stealing anything.”

Bridget flinched at the familiarity.
“Sid? Sorry, are you telling me you’re on a first-name basis with my
grandfather?”

“Oh, shit!” said the man. His face
lit up in a smile of recognition as he looked her up and down. “You’re Sid’s
granddaughter? Man, why didn’t he tell me you’re so
stacked
?”

A weird mix of confusion and
something like butterflies washed over Bridget. “Excuse me?”

“Seriously, I am immediately furious
at him for not setting us up on a blind date years ago. He’s been holding out
on me!”

The adrenaline was dying, now that
Bridget knew she was in no danger—but the headache was returning. She clasped
the bridge of her nose. “Look, guy, it’s been a really long goddamn day. Let’s
just… let’s back up a bit.”

He folded his arms and sighed. “Well,
the year was 1979. The USSR was beginning its charming little campaign into the
desert wastelands of Afghanistan, and an album by a young street tough by the name
of Michael Jackson was hitting the charts…”

“Not
to the beginning of your
life,”
Bridget snapped. Yet she was laughing under her breath. The weight
of her tension began to dissipate.

“Oh,” said the man with a gesture.
“Sid left his lighter in here, and he asked me to come in and get it. And so,
that’s what I was doing. And then you arrived, and suddenly the world got a
little brighter.” He finished with a bold smile and held her gaze.

Bridget watched him for a moment. She
liked to consider herself a pretty good judge of character. She came from a
long line of military members, and had learned a lot first-hand when she
herself enlisted and deployed overseas. And hell, being around children and
parents for her career was basically a master course in character judgement.

Something about this man stunk of a
soldier’s bloodlust. But there was something else she couldn’t put her finger
on. She couldn’t get a full read on him, and it bothered her.

She sighed and decided she was too
tired to meet this with fury anymore. “What’s your name?”

“Ghost McBride,” he said with a bow
of his head, and a dramatic sweep of his hand. “At your service, dumpling.”

“Don’t call me dumpling.”

“Good notes; got it.”

“I’m seriously supposed to believe
your name is Ghost?”

Ghost shook his head and made a noise
like he was deeply annoyed. “Man, you know, we all collectively agreed to
participate in Prince’s insanity when he changed his name to that stupid
symbol. And I know I’m not a guitar god, but I don’t get why everyone’s gotta
hassle me about my name. At least you can pronounce it.”

Bridget stared at him a moment,
unsure how to handle his surprising disposition. Despite herself, she laughed
and shook her head at him.

“So if I can’t call you dumpling,
what should I call you? Pumpkin? Sugar beet? Or are you more partial to some exotic
food names, like Pad Thai?”

“You can call me Bridget,” she said
with a raised eyebrow. “Like every other normal person does.”

Ghost put his hands down and took a
step closer to her. There was something else in his smile now. “But what if I
want to be a special person?”

“Call your mama, then,” said Bridget
as she put up a hand. “I’m sure she’ll tell you you’re special.”

Ghost walked forward until her hand
was pressed against the hard muscles of his chest. She swallowed against a
suddenly tight throat and tried to resist the urge to run her fingertips down
his body.

“Go ahead,” said Ghost in a low
voice. “You think these muscles are for me? Nah. They’re for you. They go to
waste if they aren’t touched by beautiful ladies such as yourself.”

Bridget hesitated longer than she
would have liked before she yanked her hand away and straightened herself.
“I’ll take a rain check, thanks,” she said. The words did not come out as
sarcastically as she wanted.

“
Nice,
” said Ghost to himself,
as if he’d won some victory regardless.

She didn’t know how this guy was both
annoying the hell out of her, and somehow the most charming person she’d met in
years. And she didn’t know why she believed his story, but she did. After all,
the front door hadn’t been jimmied open, and it was less likely a crook would
risk stealing keys off an actual resident. Sid had most likely given him the
keys freely. Still, he was clearly capable of dangerous things, and she wasn’t
about to let her grandfather go unchecked against him.

“I’ll take the lighter to Sid,” said
Bridget, holding out her hand, “and we’ll find out if you are who you say you
are.”

“Good!” said Ghost. “And then you’re
gonna feel like you missed a really great opportunity for not touching my
muscles when I offered.”

“I doubt that. The lighter, please?”

Ghost dropped the lighter in her open
palm, grazing his hand against hers as he did. The feeling of his skin on hers
sent a jolt of desire through Bridget’s nerves. She closed her hand over the
lighter and pulled it away with a little groan of annoyance, making Ghost
laugh. She turned away from him before he could see the truth in her eyes.

“They’re playing poker,” said Ghost,
pointing toward the wall.

“Of course,” she replied, adjusting
her bag on her shoulders. She didn’t wait for Ghost to follow, but left her
grandfather’s apartment and headed down toward the common room. After locking
the door behind him, she could hear Ghost’s footsteps as he hurried to catch
up.

The men at the poker table let out
delighted greetings when they saw her enter the common room. Her grandfather
pushed himself up on shaky legs to give her a strong hug and kiss the tops of
her hands. Bridget instantly felt lighter and happier, seeing the smiles on her
grandfather and his friends. Walter and Frank each saluted her, and she saluted
back.

“What a wonderful surprise!” said
Sid, grasping her hand in his as he sat back down. “I wasn’t expecting you
today.”

“I know. I was going to call ahead,
but I figured I’d just run this by.” She dug through the messenger bag at her
hip, pulled out a crinkled pharmacy bag, and handed it to him. “I didn’t want
to wait for their delivery guy, since the pharmacist already made this late
coming to you.”

“You’re a perfect angel, honey. You
didn’t have to go out of your way like this for me.”

“Ah, knock it off, old man,” said
Bridget with a playful smile as she leaned down and kissed the top of his
forehead.

“Seriously, Sid, we are
no longer
friends.”
Ghost came up behind her with his arms stretched out wide. “How
the fuck long have we known each other?”

“
Ghost
!” Sid scolded. “There
is a lady present!” He gestured to Bridget.

“Yeah, I know! That’s why I’m
pissed!” Ghost replied. “How long until you were going to tell me you have a smoking-hot
granddaughter, you son of a bitch?”

Bridget rolled her eyes and crossed
her arms. “I found this guy in your room. He said he was looking for this.” She
held up the lighter before she handed it to her grandfather. “I wanted to make
sure he wasn’t hassling you.”

“Who, Ghost?” Sid waved a hand. “No,
on the contrary! Ghost is a good ol’ boy. I asked him to fetch the lighter for
me.”

Ghost leaned over her shoulder, his
lips close enough to her ear that she could feel the heat of his breath. It
sent chills down her spine. “Will you be taking that
I told you so
to
go, or would you like to eat it here?”

Bridget glared at him before she
turned back to her grandfather. “All right. I just wanted to make sure.”

“You worry too much,” said Sid.

Bridget glanced over the messy poker table
and finally noticed the smattering of glass bottles, as well as some magazines
she hadn’t looked closely at until now. When the gents at the table realized
she spotted their porn, they scrambled to cover it up. Ghost just laughed.

“So, you’re the one who keeps
bringing them this garbage?” said Bridget to Ghost.

“Hey,” he said, raising his hands
again, “these men are goddamn American heroes.”

“Ghost, language!” said Sid again.

“You
are
goddamn American
heroes, and no American hero is going without access to booze and Photoshopped titties.
Not on my watch.”