The Ghost

by Jessica Gadziala

  "He's happy."

  To that, Ranger made some noise that was neither agreement nor denial. "Well, let's get moving," he declared, clapping his hands before he could think better of it, face scrunching up immediately when Sloane shot up on a swallowed shriek.

  Because when Ranger clapped those dinner plates he called hands, it was like a gun going off in the small space.

  "Easy," I tried, reaching out to her as she flew upward, sitting back on her heels, eyes huge and confused. My hand went to her wrist, closing around it, giving it a squeeze. "This is Ranger," I added as her eyes went to the wall of a man sitting on the coffee table not more than two feet away from her. "I work with him," I added when she still didn't seem to be grasping it, her breathing a little faster than it should have been from the shock.

  "It sounded like a gun went off," she admitted, looking down at me.

  "He clapped," I explained, nodding over toward his hands as I moved to sit up as well.

  As her gaze went to Ranger, so did mine.

  It was fair to say the man was good-looking. In a rugged, wild, skyscraper kind of way. It didn't surprise me when Sloane did an up-and-down in her half-awake state.

  What did surprise me, though, was the way Ranger did one as well. I'd known the man a long time. I'd been on jobs with him. Been to his place. Been out celebrating with him. I'd never seen him with a woman. Not like me and Quin and Smith - casual. Or like Lincoln - always shacked up. Never.

  His eyes traveled bottom up, though, looking at the short pink silk bottoms she had on, exposing most of her long, slim thighs, then over the slice of pale skin above the waistband and below the hem of her barely-there peach silk top with some white bird design if you looked really closely. His gaze stopped for a stutter at her breasts, small, but there, the nipples pointed, before it traveled up again, taking in her face, the way her hair was falling out of the up-do thing she had it in.

  "Get it," he said to me, nodding. He moved to stand, unblocking the fire, allowing the light to cast on us.

  Which made him stop suddenly, arm flying out, grabbing the bottom of Sloane's shirt, and yanking up.

  "What..." I started to object, but noticed the way his brows were drawn low.

  His breath hissed out of him. "Hurt?" he asked, drawing my attention back to a shocked Sloane, her body stiff, eyes on Ranger instead of her stomach where his gaze was.

  "What?"

  "You're bleeding, duchess," I supplied, finally realizing what had caught his attention. There must have been a small stain of it on her shirt.

  "What? No, I'm... oh," she said, air exhaling out of her.

  And I swear to fuck, she went white as a ghost immediately.

  "'Ey, no," Ranger said, snapping loudly in her face, making her body jolt, her head flying up again. "You're not passing out over a few drops of blood," he informed her as though he was in control of how her body reacted to it. "You just pulled a stitch," he added, shrugging it off. "It's not a big deal. We'll get it clean. It will be fine without it."

  "I can..." she started to assure him, even though she was still too pale, and there wasn't even a trace of her usual confidence in her voice.

  "Gunner will deal with it," Ranger cut her off. "I will go fire up the generator. You look like you need some coffee."

  And to that, Sloane made a noise that sounded like he'd flicked her clit, not promised her caffeine. I felt it in my dick. Judging by the way Ranger's brows went low over his dark eyes, he felt it too.

  "Yeah," he said, sounding off, unfolding to full height again, then disappearing out the door in just three strides.

  "He's... interesting," Sloane said, moving to stand, holding her shirt up still as she did, likely trying to save her shirt. Didn't know dick about fabric, but I was pretty sure she wasn't getting blood out of that silk shit.

  "That's a kind way to describe him," I said, grabbing the flashlight, and leading her to the bathroom. "Tuck this up, duchess," I said softly as I wet gauze from the emergency kit with witch hazel to wipe the blood away. "Deep breaths," I reminded her when her air seemed to shallow out, her eyes looking worried. "I'm not gonna hurt you," I promised, hoping I could keep it as I cleaned her up. "Extra deep breath," I said as I grabbed the very edge of the stitch that was just barely still stuck in her skin. "This might pinch," I added, tugging just as she started to suck in her breath, making it rush right back out of her. "Sorry, sorry, duchess," I said as I stood, watching as her eyes seemed to go a little unfocused. "Hey, no," I said, snagging her chin, dragging it up to make her eyes hold mine. "Stay here," I demanded, watching as she slow-blinked a few times.

  But it was only a second of being fully focused.

  And then her eyes went hazy again.

  But this time for an entirely different reason.

  And, fuck, there was no way I was going to be able to follow my own goddamn rules.

  There wasn't a single argument that could come to my mind that could make me turn down the invitation in her eyes.

  "This is a bad idea, baby," I said, voice low.

  "I know," she whispered back, hand sinking into the shirt covering my shoulder. "I don't care," she added.

  My hand slid around her neck, my fingertips just barely snaking into her soft hair, yanking her forward slightly, her body melding to mine, her eyes drifting closed just a second before my lips sealed over hers.

  I expected soft and pliant.

  But her lips were hungry under mine, taking what was offered, but demanding more.

  She made the noise that she had made in her sleep, but this time needier, a sound that had my cock stiff in a heartbeat.

  I wondered as my tongue moved in to toy with hers if she had been dreaming of this, if she had been thinking of my lips, hands, tongue, everything on her.

  The idea made a low growl escape me as my hands traveled down her back to sink into her ass, yanking upward until she was up on the sink vanity, thighs spreading, letting me move in between.

  My cock had just pressed against her pussy - making her let out a throaty moan - when the lights suddenly flicked on, making us both pull back as suddenly as we had leaned in.

  Just like that, the moment was over.

  Even as I tried to find something to say, I could hear Ranger's clomping footsteps in the living space. "Making coffee," he growled out.

  "We might want to stop him," I said, taking a steadying breath. "Otherwise, we'll be drinking sludge."

  "Right," she agreed, attempting a smile as she reached up to touch her hair self-consciously. "Can I take a shower first?" she asked, looking over at it with a small bit of the trepidation that had been there before.

  "You want me to stay?" I asked, watching as she shot me a somewhat shocked look. "To stand guard," I clarified.

  "With the two of you in the cabin, I don't think anyone could get to me," she said as she carefully hopped back down.

  "Alright. I'll save you a cup."

  With that, I left her, trying to talk my cock into calming down as I made my way back into the common area.

  "I interrupt something?" Ranger asked, towering over the coffee machine, steadily putting too many grounds in.

  "I was fixing her stitches," I clarified, it being partly true.

  "That's what they're calling it, huh?" he asked. He was an oddly preceptive person for someone who spent almost no time around other human beings.

  "Drop it," I demanded, going to yank open the back window, reaching out to grab the eggs from where Sloane had them buried under a pile of snow.

  "Your life," he agreed, reaching above the machine to drag down three mugs. "How does she take her coffee? Don't have any fancy shit," he told me as though I didn't already know he wasn't the type to remember to pick up caramel syrup or anything like that.

  "She takes it black," I supplied, cracking eggs into a bowl.

  We said nothing else, both of us generally used to silence. A good ten minutes later, while I was pushing around scrambled eggs in a pan, the door to t
he bathroom opened, bringing steamy air, and the heady smell of all Sloane's scents, a moment before the woman herself reappeared.

  And her uniform was completely back on.

  Navy blue slacks.

  Beige blouse with buttons up the front.

  Skyscraper heels that matched her shirt.

  Her hair was still wet, wrapped in yet another braid down her back.

  She'd even put her minimal amount of makeup on.

  And jewelry.

  "I would have cooked," she said immediately, almost sounding off-put that I had done it.

  "That is about all he knows how to cook," Ranger told her, handing her a mug. "And he's burning them," he added.

  "Thank you," she said, bringing up the mug, taking a long sniff before drinking, closing her eyes on a moan that had both Ranger and me tensing up. "I missed this more than the lights," she admitted, sounding a little embarrassed by her own reaction. "So, um, what is the plan now?" she asked, clearly not as comfortable with the silence in the room, likely because she didn't want Ranger catching on to the tension between the two of us.

  "What plan?" I asked, plating the eggs.

  "Well, now that you don't have to shovel," she clarified, grabbing forks for us. "Are we still going to stay here the extra time, or are we moving on?"

  I could feel Ranger's gaze on me, but ignored it.

  "We'll head out tomorrow morning."

  "And by morning, you mean four, I imagine," she said, pushing around her eggs.

  "Yeah, four. We have a lot of ground to cover."

  "Right," she agreed.

  And just like that, Miss Blythe-Meuller was back.

  SEVEN

  Sloane

  Ranger was unexpected.

  First, of course, because his presence woke me out of a dead sleep, making adrenaline surge through me, making it hard for my head to wrap around what was going on.

  Once the sleep cleared away though, I got an eyeful of him.

  He was good-looking.

  In a way that was somehow rougher than Gunner even. And I didn't think that was possible.

  He was a giant of a man, dark-haired, eyed, bearded. And his voice was the thing heroes in TV shows and movies were made of.

  He stayed through breakfast, filled this giant canteen with coffee, then told us he was off to clear the roads.

  He didn't come back.

  And me, well, I tried to distract myself.

  I dragged the cot back to the closet. I brought all the bed things back to the bedroom, remaking the bed, organizing my clean and dirty laundry, cleaning the bathroom and kitchen.

  In short, I tried not to think about it.

  The kiss.

  Tried.

  Failed.

  Epically.

  Sometime by ten in the morning, when I had exhausted every task I could think of in such a small space, I kicked out of my heels, and sat down on the bed.

  And thought about it.

  Even just the memory of it was heating my body, making my skin feel overly sensitive, my heart race, my breathing get shallow, my breasts swell, and my sex clench.

  I didn't know what it would be like.

  To kiss a man like him.

  Just to kiss him, this man who was able to see underneath me, see what was really there, who I felt safe enough around to share some of my past with.

  In just a few days.

  It felt consuming.

  It overtook me.

  True, maybe it was just my sexlessness, my dry spell that was lasting, well, three too many years.

  I hadn't been touched in so long that my body was overreacting to it.

  But my gut was telling me it was more than that, that it had more to do with him.

  And the way I melted into him, the way I moaned while his tongue moved over mine, the way I was about ready to grind against his hardness before Ranger interrupted.

  Honestly, if he hadn't, I had a feeling that we would have done it right there on the sink vanity.

  "Ugh," I growled, rolling onto my side, burying my face into the pillow.

  It was pointless to even think about it.

  It was over.

  Even if we wanted to continue things, we couldn't.

  Because in a few more days, he was going to drop me off in my new life.

  And never speak to me again.

  It was ridiculous, but the idea of that sent a pang through me.

  It wasn't about him, I tried to convince myself. It was just that I had opened up to him when I never opened up to anyone. I was just having some false sense of connection with him based on sharing my past with him.

  Vulnerability, it was an aphrodisiac, I guess.

  I had never experienced that before.

  I guess because I never let down my guards around anyone. Heck, not even myself half the time.

  "Your stomach hurt?" Gunner's voice asked, making me start, not having heard the clomp of his boots in the hallway.

  "A bit," I admitted because it was true.

  "You wanna talk about the plan?" he asked, moving in a foot as I pushed to sit up against the pillows.

  "Sure."

  "We got about forty hours left on the drive," he started immediately, using what I could only call his business-tone as he came in and sat on the far end of the bed, the furthest he could get from me while not making it seem like he was trying to keep his distance.

  "Okay."

  "I have it planned out in four eight-hour days. That's about all my eyes are going to want to take since it is I-80 almost the whole way. Easy to get road-weary. And that is only factoring normal traffic and two stops. If we get caught behind an accident, or need to stop more, the days will be longer. The first night, we will stop in Ohio. The next, Iowa. Then just barely over the border of Wyoming. Then finally Utah. After those four days, it will be a shorter day to Carson City."

  "And what will we do in Carson City?" I asked, everything leading up to that sounding almost a little exciting to a woman who had never really done a road trip. In fact, the only traveling I ever did was to Fashion Week once. Other than that, my entire life was in the city. But the part about my new town, my new life, my new everything, all alone... yeah, that part freaked me out.

  "We set you up," he said simply.

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means I show you your new place. I'll help you get some basic furniture for it. We'll grab a used car. I'll grill you on your new identity that we will talk about over the next four days."

  "Then you leave," I added.

  "Then I leave. You will have everything you need. A place, a couple job options lined up, a way to get from point A to point B. I'll give you a burner cell. You can eventually replace that with a plan phone if you want."

  "How?" I asked, shaking my head a little. "I'd need proof of who I am for that."

  "You'll have it," he assured me. "Duchess, this is why we cost so much. Not necessarily the escort across the country, but the documents that will stand up to any kind of scrutiny from a basic credit check to the cops looking into you. You aren't just pretending to be Sloane Livingston. You will be her. You'll have the birth certificate, Social Security card, credit history, a couple parking tickets and license from Maine. The whole shebang. You'll never really have to worry about blowing your cover or someone finding you out unless you actually tell them."

  "Okay," I agreed, proud that I sounded more confident than I felt. In fact, my head was spinning with all the realities I would have to face in a few days.

  "It's a lot," he told me, seeming to read the situation easily. But, I reminded myself, because this was what he did, this was his job. He had seen people in my situation over and over. This had nothing to do with him being able to read me, to see what I was going through. It was simply part of the job. It was in his best interest to keep me calm and focused, not freaking out. "I know it doesn't seem like it now, but you'll get your head wrapped around it. People, as a whole, are pretty fucking adaptable. And certain
death, if you aren't successful, is a good motivator."

  I needed that.

  That reality check.

  I wondered if he sensed that, or if he was just being his usual blunt self.

  But I did need it.

  The reminder of why this was happening.

  What could and would happen to me if I didn't commit to this whole situation.

  I tried not to think about that night.

  The night I saw a man's insides get blown outside, splattering against a filthy brick wall as the man with the smoking gun laughed.

  Laughed.

  I never really believed in evil before then.

  Shitty, selfish, mean-hearted people? Like my mother? Sure. But not evil. Evil was an almost biblical idea. And me, well, I never had much faith in my life. It was hard to believe in a higher power while you had welts on your backside from a mother who punished you because you interrupted her soaps by falling and skinning your knees on your way home from school. I could never reconcile the idea of an all-loving God when there were thousands of children in the world like me - innocent, but living in some hellish world by no fault of their own. And if I didn't believe in an all-seeing good, I could never believe in an all-punishing bad.

  If you didn't believe in the devil, you couldn't believe in true evil.

  But I saw it in that man's eyes that night.

  Evil.

  Just a black void.

  Nothing even remotely human there.

  A body crumbled on the ground, an entire life gone in one brutal, heartless act, and a man standing over it like it was the most amusing thing he had seen all week.

  I hadn't been able to sleep for a week after.

  Not even after I went to the cops.

  Not even after I had picked him out of a lineup.

  Not even after I knew he was in jail.

  I would just barely drift off, and the gunshot would sound off in my head, blood and brain matter would make me wake up retching.

  Then, it went without saying, when he got out on bail, things only got worse. It had been set at half a million. I never thought he would be out before things went to trial. But then he was. And I knew. I knew it right down into my marrow.