Page 2 of Ghost's Obsession

He lifts the plate from his tray and sets it down in front of me. “The steak’s medium rare, and the fries are fresh. And I saw you were getting low on beer.”

“Thanks, dude.” Sitting up straighter in my seat, I enjoy the scent of my food. My stomach growls—loud and ferocious enough for both of us to hear.

Patch chuckles. “Damn, Ghost. Time to get some food in your stomach.”

“I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I smelled the food.”

“Well, I’m going to let you get to it.”

After thunking down the new beer mug, he shuffles off in the direction of the kitchen.

I throw a couple of fries into my mouth. They’re hot, crisp, and salted to perfection. It brings back memories of when I slaved over the brothers’ food as a prospect. They fuckin’ loved my cooking. It was alwaysNick, make more of this, Nick, make more of that.I could hardly keep up with the hungry bastards. Now here I am—the one being served like a king.

I look down at the grime still lurking around my fingernails and cringe inside. I’ve got enough self-respect to want to eat withclean fucking hands, so I haul my hefty ass up and make my way to the restroom to have a more thorough go at cleaning up.

When I come back, Tusk is sitting on the other side of my table with a cold beer. I’m thrilled he stopped by to sit with me, but when his hand comes out to hover over my plate, it gets my hackles up. Just as I slide into my seat, he casually plucks up a fry and pops it into his mouth.

When he goes for another, I swat his hand away playfully. “Leave off my fries, you fat-fingered fucker.”

His eyes find mine, dancing with merriment. “It’s just one fry. Why you gotta be so greedy?”

I toss him a fry, which he catches midair and throws into his mouth. “I don’t remember you being quite this bold before. You been drinking all afternoon, or do you think I won’t beat your ass for messin’ with my food?”

Tusk gives me a feral grin. “You ought to know better than to abandon your food. I was just eating them before they went cold.”

“Don’t try to frame stealing my food as some kind of public service,” I tell him, trying to sound stern and failing.

“Damn, Ghost, didn’t know getting patched in would make you so fuckin’ dramatic.”

“I’m not fucking dramatic.”

I catch Patch walking by and ask, “Got any more food back there? Tusk is one step away from getting his ass beat for stealing my fries.”

Patch rolls his eyes. “Sure thing, Ghost. If there is one thing the Savage Legion is famous for, it’s keeping a plentiful table.”

“Yeah,” Tusk agrees. “It’s because being hangry makes us a little stabby.”

I smother back a smile as Patch wanders off to bring more food. Tusk leans back and makes himself comfortable. I cut off a slice of my steak and eagerly put it in my mouth. This particular brother has a way of making himself at home no matter where he goes. Tusk is the kind of man who’s comfortable in his own skin, lives in the moment, doesn’t take shit personally. I like his easy-going demeanor.

When Patch drops him off a plate of his own and another full plate of fries for us to share, Tusk digs in. I pick up my fork again, slice another piece of my steak off, and cram it into my hungry mouth. Perfect. I savor the nice juicy bite as I chew.

I’m right where I’m meant to be at long last. After a solid year of prospecting—protecting the clubhouse, fetching and carrying, making myself useful in every capacity possible—I’m now a full-fledged brother, on equal footing with the men I once served. I’ve finally found the place I belong.

Tusk speaks again, around a mouthful of food. “How’s it going with that cute brunette from the auto parts store? What was her name, Diane?”

“Don’t ask.”

He frowns. “She ghosted you, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, not wanting to talk about it.

“Well, shit,” Tusk grumbles. A short silence spins out between us as he crams another fry into his mouth. “That’s like the third one in a month, right?”

I grab my beer and take a big gulp, letting it wash away the shame. “Let’s just say I earned my damn club name and leave it at that.”

My appetite evaporates on the spot. I pick at the edge of my steak, wondering if everyone’s laughing at me behind my back because I can’t keep a woman. I desperately want to settle down, I know as a biker everyone thinks we sleep around, but I’ve been there and done that. Now I just want someone I can come home to after a long, hard day, and maybe a bunch of rugrats. That never feels less likely than it does in this moment. I know my club brothers didn’t mean any harm when Siege tagged me with the name Ghost, but I still keenly feel the humiliation of how often I’ve been ghosted. Some leave after a week. Some after one night. A few stick around for a couple of months before vanishing and deciding I’m not worth it.

“I can’t blame them. I’m a big, tatted-up biker with a longing for small-town girls who find my type off-putting,” I tell him, choking up a bit.

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