Page 51 of Ghost's Obsession

I’m annoyed by him, but don’t say anything that might spoil our evening. We make our way to the front of the clubhouse, where the limo waits. We step outside, and one of the prospects snaps a group photo of us brothers in tuxes, and our women in gowns that sparkle in the moonlight. I know for a fact that we’ll be gettin’ ribbed about the sight of us in fucking monkey suits for days.

The limo engine is running, and the interior lights are glowing a soft white. For once, I’m not thinkin’ about the club, Carnage, or what might happen when we leave the confines of the clubhouse. I’m just thinking about Heather and how I plan to keep her.

***

The limo glides to a stop outside our historic courthouse-turned-event hall. It’s all white stone and big glass windows, lit up from within for the gala.

I help Heather out first, careful not to let her stumble in those high heels she picked out. Her hand is warm in mine, and for a second, she just stands there, looking up at the building like she’s trying to decide if she belongs.

Newsflash—she does. Maybe more than anyone here.

The entrance is surrounded with twinkling string lights, potted palms, and a red carpet rolled down wide stone steps. This is really upscale—more so than I originally thought. There’s even a valet crew in matching black suits, opening doors and handing out receipts.

Tusk climbs out behind us with Brittany on his arm, and Tex follows with Clara, buttoning his jacket. The five of us walk towards the entrance like some kind of biker royalty, but I feel their eyes before I see them—dozens of them. The old-money types in tailored tuxes, sleek dresses, diamonds, and polished shoes gape at us for daring to show up in their world. Some glance our way with curiosity. Others, with disdain. I don’t blame ‘em. We’re not a subtle bunch.

Our women must look like goddamn queens, but us men? We’re built thick, scarred, inked up. We don’t blend in because we weren’t made to go unnoticed or to fit into their world.

Tex leans close. “Feel like someone’s gonna ask us to park cars.”

Tusk smirks. “Nah. They’ll assume we’re here for security.”

Inside, it’s even more polished. There are columns, chandeliers, and a fucking jazz quartet in the corner. Trays of drinks float past us on silver platters, carried by servers weaving expertly through the crowd. Tables are stacked with poker chips and card decks for the casino games. This is a new world I’ve never been privy to, and I don’t know if I like it.

Heather clings to my arm, whispering, “This is… wow. It’s amazing, but it’s a lot, you know?”

“Yeah. It’s how the other half lives. And how we get to live for the night.”

She smiles up at me. “I’m glad you invited me to this gala. I’ve always wanted to do something like this.”

“If you like it, I’ll be sure to bring you every year. How does that sound?” I ask, dipping my head closer.

“It feels like what comes after,” she murmurs. My sweet love is smiling, but I can feel that she’s still a little tense. I am too. This ain’t our world. But damn it, we’re here anyway, so we might as well make the best of it. Especially because the shelter matters. They help women who don’t have anyone to fall back on when things get bad. And also because Heather deserves a night that makes her feel like more than what she’s survived.

I catch sight of Siege over by the bar, nodding politely at something the mayor is saying. Claw would probably laugh his ass off if he could see his son running with city elites and ribbon-cutters.

We split up. The couples mingle. Clara’s off chatting with some nonprofit board member. Brittany drags Tusk to the raffle table. Heather and I make slow laps, checking out the auction prizes. A luxury cabin stay. A catered dinner for ten. A motorcycle signed by the Legion. I can’t help but grin at how all the elites are gathered around our contribution to the raffle.

I’m so in tune with Heather that I notice the moment something changes. She stiffens beside me, and her posture shifts. Her hand tightens in the crook of my elbow. Her expression goes blank, but she struggles to hold it. When her control slips, horror settles on her lovely face.

“What’s wrong, sweetness? Talk to me,” I urge her insistently.

Her voice drops so low the sound barely makes it to my ear. “Please no, not now.”

I turn to her, instantly alert. “What?”

She nods towards the far end of the ballroom. “It’s Carnage. He’s shaved his beard. Cropped his hair close. And he’s wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses. Only he’s dressed like a waiter.”

That’s when I spy the man she’s staring at. He’s standing there like a damned fool in a black shirt, black pants, and black apron. He’s got a tray in one hand with a fake smile frozen on his face.

“Are you sure that’s him? He doesn’t look like the photos Siege showed us.”

Heather grabs my wrist. “It’s him,” she hisses. “I’m sure of it.”

Heather would know, I tell myself before pulling out my phone to text the Savage Legion group chat. From our vantage point, I can see multiple brothers all around the room pull their phones out at roughly the same time.

The second Carnage sees her face and realizes we’re both staring at him, that fake smile vanishes. Then he bolts, running right out the nearest door and into the back.

In my mind, the room fades. The music, the lights, the crowds of people and their whispered judgment all disappear. All I see is a threat moving fast towards a back hallway marked ‘Staff Only’.

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