“Hey, listen, I need to ask you something,” she said to Bonnie after passing the security clearance tests.
“Sure. What’s on your mind?”
“Has Gramps been acting okay? Does he seem like himself?”
The sounds of Bonnie’s fingers on her keyboard filled the silence for a moment. “I’ve only seen him myself once or twice in the past month, and he’s seemed fine to me both of those times. According to his file, here, there’s nothing unusual… no reports of changes in his health or temperament. No significant notes or cause for concern. He’s made all his medical appointments. Did something happen to worry you?”
“No, no,” said Bridget, frustrated. She bit her thumb. “Do you know Ghost?”
“Those hauntings are just rumors, the kids make them up—”
Bridget laughed. “No, sorry—Ghost McBride. He’s… well, a visitor, I guess. Big guy, shaved head, he hangs around with Gramps and his war buddies?”
“Oh!” said Bonnie with a high-pitched squeak. “Ghost, yes, of course. Who doesn’t know Ghost?”
“I guess I’m late to the party, as usual,” Bridget muttered.
“Beg pardon?”
“What’s Ghost’s story—do you trust him?”
“Sure!” said Bonnie, typing away at something as she spoke. “Ghost has been coming up here for quite some time now. He spends time with the residents, and I know John Mueller in the service area is very keen on him ever since he fixed their broken-down shuttle in a pinch about a year back.”
Bridget frowned. “Really?”
“Yes, he’s a very helpful young man. It’s not unusual for members of the Black Dogs to perform volunteer service up here at Shadyside. The father of one of them was a resident here before he passed.”
“The Black Dogs—is that his motorcycle club?”
“Yes, like you see on TV sometimes—but without all that Hollywood gunfire and sex. Don’t you know they always make that stuff up for the ratings?” Bonnie laughed.
Sure, lady, thought Bridget with a smirk. “So you don’t think I should be worried about Ghost being close to Gramps?”
“I wouldn’t be, no,” said Bonnie. “But if you’re really concerned, I’d be happy to escalate this for you. Residents and their families are our number one priority.”
Bridget shook her head. “No, no, that won’t be necessary. Ghost didn’t do anything wrong. Like I said, I didn’t see anything worrisome, I’m just… crossing all my T’s, I guess.”
“You’re a wonderful young woman,” said Bonnie. “Sid is lucky to have you looking out for him. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
“I think I’m good. Thanks, Bonnie.” Bridget hung up her phone and threw it on the couch, defeated.
Hearing it from Bonnie only made her surer that it wasn’t Gramps that was in trouble. Bridget had to admit, she hadn’t really suspected Ghost was a bad guy—at least, not in any way that put her family in trouble. If he was in a biker gang, he was most definitely doing bad guy things. But it didn’t seem like he brought that trouble to Shadyside.
The memory of his handsome, smirking face rose in her mind, and Bridget felt both excited and annoyed. Honestly, it wasn’t just the feeling of doom that was nipping at her concentration like teething puppies—it was thoughts of Ghost, too. It had been a very long time since any man had caught her interest in such a way that she didn’t instantly forget him when he was out of sight.
She’d thought about him all night Friday as she ate a light dinner, drank tea, and caught up on the shows backing up on her DVR; he was in her mind the second she woke up Saturday morning, and she almost brought those thoughts with her to the shower. If she was honest, it was throwing her a bit off-kilter. The men around here were so boring that he was like Technicolor in a black and white world.
Getting hit on by men was nothing new for her. Even in the military where she worked so hard to be taken seriously, there were cocksuckers among the ranks who only saw her as a piece of ass. Ghost being attracted to her wasn’t world-shattering. But something else about him—his razor wit, his big smiling eyes—had seeped through the hairline fractures in her mind’s walls. But she couldn’t decide what she wanted more—to kiss him, or to slap the smirk off his face.
Suddenly, Ghost’s name seemed very appropriate, because Bridget felt haunted by him.
“Ugh, girl,” she said to herself with a sigh before forcing herself up and grabbing her coffee mug. She took a small break and brewed another pot, lazily watching the birds in her backyard picking at the freshly mowed grass. She thought about going out for dinner, but her yoga pants were just a bit too comfortable to seriously consider that option, so instead she took some chicken out of the freezer and left it in the sink to thaw.
Her mind felt a little clearer when she returned to the couch with a fresh, steaming cup of black joe. As she lowered herself cross-legged on the couch, Bridget noticed her phone was alight. She had missed a call while she was in the kitchen from a number she didn’t have stored in her contacts.
Bridget sat and put the coffee down as she thumbed through the phone with her other hand. The number was local, and for a second her heart skipped a beat and she thought: Ghost. She waited, staring at the phone in her hand, hoping an alert for a voicemail or a follow-up text would pop up. Every passing second made her feel more and more like a fool.
How would he even have your number, dummy? She thought, shaking her head. You think Gramps is just handing it out?
Feeling silly, she put her phone down on the table. But before she could pull her hand away, the phone lit up again—the number was calling back.
Heart in her throat, Bridget answered the call. “Hello?”
The other end was quiet, but not silent. She could hear the rustle of cloth, and the faint sounds of breathing.
The warning bells in Bridget’s mind turned to air raid sirens. She sat forward fast. “Hello? Is someone there?”
Whoever held the other phone had it to their ear, but they wouldn’t reply. Instead Bridget heard the smack of lips as they swallowed against a dry, tight throat. She could hear rapid, shallow breathing.
Instantly the pieces started falling into place. Most of the unknown numbers that called her belonged to her students. She gave them her number so they could get a hold of her if they ever needed her help. Bridget took her responsibility as a lifeline for her kids very seriously and she had no problem helping them at all hours of the night.
Judging by the sounds of the breathing and quiet crying she could hear on the other end, this was not an adult calling her. It was a child. One of her kids.
When she heard the sniffling, Bridget’s heart tore in her chest. “Hey,” she said, trying with great difficulty to keep her voice even. “Hey, this is Miss Dawson. Are you from my class?”
The person on the other end held their breath. It was as good as a yes for her.
Fuck, what do I do? “Do you need help?” she said. “What’s happening?”
The child began to breathe again, this time with rapid intensity. They could no longer keep their crying quiet, and tiny, piping sobs burst through the ragged inhales.
Three tears escaped and ran like angry rivers down Bridget’s face. Before she could speak again, the sounds of yelling erupted on the other end of the line. Even though the voices were muffled and far away, it was clearly between a man and a woman. The kid on the phone had to have been hiding from it; whoever this kid was, they weren’t talking because they were trying to stay quiet.
Fear gripped Bridget’s chest. Wrong moves in a situation like this could make everything worse. “It’s okay if you can’t talk,” she whispered. “Just listen. If you are in a safe place that’s hidden, stay there. Stay quiet.”
She jumped off the couch and rushed to the kitchen. On her fridge was a list of numbers to various agencies and businesses she kept on-hand to help her job, and near the top of the list was the direct line to a personal friend at Child Protective Ser
vices. She copied the number down with shaky hands on a post-it note. “You did good by calling me. I can get you some help, honey, but I need to know who you are. Your phone number doesn’t say.” She tried to keep her voice calm and quiet.
In the background of the other line, the yelling grew louder. Bridget couldn’t make out the words being said. Suddenly something wood and glass crashed loudly behind the sound of a woman’s scream, and the caller on the line gasped with full voice and inhaled before he could help himself.
In that instant Bridget knew: Toby Cary.
She knew. She knew it was him, but she had to be sure. “Honey? Can you tell me your name, please? I want to help.”
He was breathing fast, crying. Whatever was happening was right outside his hiding spot, now, and the yelling of the adults had mutated into wordless, frightened screaming.
Desperate, Bridget said, “Toby? Is that you, Toby?”
Something hard hit the door and the boy cried out.
“Toby,” said Bridget, trying desperately to keep her voice down. “Toby, please, tell me if it’s you!”
A woman screamed, and the call cut off.
Bridget stood at the counter with tears in her eyes for a good thirty seconds, listening to the dead air of the phone at her ear, before her brain caught up with what had happened. She frantically brought up the number and tried to call it back, tried to get Toby or whoever it was to pick up and answer her. But she could only sob helplessly and listen to the line as it rang and rang.
~ FIVE ~
Ghost
Ghost whistled quietly as he switched off his bike and gazed up at the façade of The Academy of Il Santo della Florentina. The private school was at the end of a long, twisting road up one of the prettier green hills in the section of LeBeau that Ghost rarely had reason to visit. It wasn’t like white collar bankers were out hiring the MC for jobs, and Ghost wasn’t sure he owned a pair of pants that weren’t jeans, let alone anything as fancy as what some of the dudes in this part of town were wearing.
He got more weird looks riding his bike through these streets than he did walking through Shadyside. Even the fluffy white cotton balls that rich people somehow mistook for dogs yapped wildly anytime he came within view. LeBeau, as a whole, was a pretty little place to live; this section of town took it to the extreme. Eyeing some of the storefronts and residences, Ghost decided he wasn’t a fan of a lot of the modern architecture the new money was bringing in.
But this school, now this was beauty. Someone with very old money had converted a Catholic mission from the 1800s into a private academy for students in the primary grades, and they were smart enough to do as little renovation to the original structure as possible. Looming at the end of a bright white walkway was the main entrance, once the façade of the chapel itself. A great archway curved over the door, and cut out of the blazing tan sandstone within it, a geometric shape that reminded Ghost of the way the Star of Bethlehem always looked in Christmas nativity displays, with its compass-like points and round, inner glow. The door was flanked by two domed towers that still held rusty, ornate iron crosses at their peaks. A stone fountain as old as the mission sat off to one side of the walkway, surrounded by a horseshoe bed of colorful desert wildflowers.
The rest of the academy fanned out villa-style from the main chapel, terracotta-shingled roofs baking in the sun. Around the perimeter, a sturdy, modern chain-link fence had been built. The heavy wooden doors at the entrance looked original, and were still flanked by statues of some old, bald saints in big, ugly robes. Stacked against the clear blue sky, the building was pure old-world charm.
When he had prodded Sid for information about Bridget, Sid had told him that she was a teacher. It wasn’t the usual occupation of his conquests, but that hadn’t worried Ghost a bit. He was great with kids for some reason—because the universe was a giant joke, he assumed. It took Sid a couple of minutes to remember the name of the school, and that was only after Ghost pulled out his smart phone and started searching. Once they found it, he couldn’t blame the old timer for forgetting it. It was a damn mouthful. Even the tasteful, modern sign hanging above the front entrance looked like it was struggling to keep the whole thing up there.
“Fuck,” he said to himself. “This place is the goddamn Ritz.”
He was hesitating. Maybe Jase was right. If Bridget was working here, maybe she was out of his league.
He shook his head. Ghost had never felt nervous about approaching a woman, and he wasn’t sure it was nerves he felt now… it couldn’t be. Maybe he was just hungry. It had to be that. What had he eaten today? He huffed his own breath for a clue and was revolted at the smell that came wafting back at him. Quickly he dug into his saddlebags until he found a container of months-old mints, and chewed five of them.
“She’s just a woman,” he told himself. “A beautiful Valkyrie next to which all women pale in comparison… oh, fuck, get a hold of yourself, man.”
With a shake of his head, he climbed off his bike and began to walk toward the school. The closer he got, the less sure he was that he would be able to just walk inside and find her. Every car he passed in the parking lot was a luxury model; rich people did not tend to fuck around when rough-looking hooligans invaded their space.
Instead, Ghost beelined toward the chain-link fence. A motley throng of kids were running around the recess yard. They all wore matching uniforms, traditional Catholic school garb that didn’t seem to inhibit the insanity of childhood released into the wild. Kids climbed all over bright-colored gym equipment and played games that, from a distance, looked like complete nonsense. Ghost shielded his eyes and tried to see if he could spot Bridget out there with them.
“You’re not supposed to hang around schools, you know. You look creepy.”
The voice piped up from beneath him very suddenly. Ghost looked down to find a skinny little kid squinting up at him, using the cape of his Batman action figure to shield half his face from the sun. He was pale and weak-looking, uniform clean of dirt, his hair so soft and freshly cut that he looked like he should be in some catalog playing with a room full of expensive toys no reasonable parent would ever buy. He looked up at Ghost curiously.
“Oh, really, smart guy?” said Ghost. “Well, you’re not supposed to talk to strangers, so I guess we’re both idiots.”
The kid laughed; it was a tight, closed-lipped thing that told Ghost it was probably something he didn’t do very often. Ghost bent down to his eye-level through the chain-link fence.
“How come you’re not playing soccer?” Ghost gestured to the loud match at the other end of the school yard.
The boy shrugged. “I don’t really like sports.”
“Eh, me either. Too many rules. What’s your name?”
“Toby.”
“Hi, Toby. I’m Ghost.” He wiggled his fingers awkwardly through the holes in the fence, and Toby took them with a giggle and shook them.
“Your name’s Ghost?” said Toby.
“Yeah, my parents were really into Scooby-Doo.”
Toby didn’t seem like he got that one. Instead he pointed and said, “Is that your motorcycle?”
“Hell yeah, it is. Her name’s Barbara.”
“Do you get to ride it every day?”
“Sure do. Even some days I probably shouldn’t, because of the weather and whatnot, but like I always say, YOLO.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, some cool-looking kids were saying it. I figured you could tell me what it meant.”
Toby laughed. “Well, it sounds stupid.”
“You might be onto something there, bud. Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know a teacher named Bridget Dawson, would you?”
Toby’s eyes lit up and he took a big breath. “That’s my teacher! Miss Dawson!”
Ghost smiled. “Toby, I sure am glad it was you who decided to risk his precious little life by coming up to the fence to talk to a leather-clad stranger. You’re obviously my lucky charm.”
Toby seemed like he enjoyed hearing that. “Do you know Miss Dawson?”
“I’m friends with her grandpa.”
“Oh, she told us he fought in the war!”
“He sure did. I’ll have to tell you some of his stories sometime. They’re pretty brutal.”
“I get in trouble if I play war games. My dad broke my Call of Duty disc.” This last part came out pained.
Ghost didn’t like hearing that, and not just because he firmly believed every kid should grow up hearing war stories and playing war games. He pointed at the Batman doll. “Hey, I have a duty you and the Dark Knight can call for me.”
“What?” Toby laughed.
“One sec,” said Ghost. He stood up and pulled his tiny notebook and pen from the inside pocket of his cut and, leaning precariously on the chain-link fence, he penned a note for Bridget asking her to meet him outside by the fountain. He folded it up and handed it through the fence to Toby.
Vindication: A Motorcycle Club Romance Page 4
