Ghost knows My Name
1204 Words
POV: Jane
Dwight’s jaw sets with a sharp click. A low, dangerous growl vibrates deep in his chest, a sound so primal the resonance rumbles against my own ribs until my teeth ache. He doesn't release my pinned wrists. Instead, he yanks me closer, his hips pressing flush against mine in a blatant, filthy challenge. The heat radiating off his massive frame is suffocating, a heavy mix of spearmint gum, stale beer, and the sharp, musky scent of adrenaline.
"You want a show, Ghost?" Dwight snarls, his thick Pennsylvania accent clipping the words into something jagged and raw. "Keep your eyes on us."
Ryan’s pale eyes darken. He steps fully into the room, letting the heavy metal door click shut behind him with a finality that makes my heart skip. The backroom instantly feels ten degrees hotter, the oxygen sucked out by the sheer, territorial tension radiating between the two men. It’s a primal standoff, and I’m the prize at the center of it. The thought makes my stomach twist. I’m not a trophy. I’m a person.
"I’m not here to watch you maul her, Riot," Ryan says, his voice a lazy, deadly purr. He begins to close the distance, his scuffed boots silent on the cold concrete floor. "And she’s shaking. You’re scaring her."
"I’m the only one keeping her upright," Dwight snaps. His grip on my hips is borderline bruising now, his thumb stroking the bare skin where my shirt tore in a possessive, maddening rhythm.
"Is that what we're calling it?" Ryan crouches down. He’s fluid, patient, and utterly terrifying.
Before my brain can track the shift in his height, his rough, calloused fingers brush against my bare ankle.
I jerk as if he’s pressed a live wire to my skin. His touch is feather-light yet possessive, tracing the curve of the bone right where my silver anklet used to sit; the one I’d pawned in Bethlehem two months ago during my sabbatical just to afford groceries.
Don't touch me, my brain screams. Kick him. Bite him. Do something.
But my legs feel like they belong to a stranger. The forensic accountant part of my brain; the part that meticulously flags anomalies and runs clinical risk assessments… is completely short-circuited by the overwhelming presence of these two men.
"Don't," I breathe. The word comes out weaker than I intended, more a ghost of a sound than a command.
Ryan doesn’t even look at me. His icy eyes stay locked on Dwight, and a slow, predatory smile ghosts across his lips.
"She’s jumpy tonight, Riot," Ryan murmurs. His thumb presses into the soft hollow above my heel, effectively locking me in place. "Wonder what a girl like this is running from. She doesn't exactly fit the local scenery."
Dwight’s arm spasms around my waist. He yanks me hard against him, breaking the kiss but keeping me caged against his chest. "I told you to get your hands off her, Ghost. I’m not saying it again."
"And I said you don’t give me orders." Ryan’s voice drops, flattening into the tone of winter concrete. He stands, his hand sliding up my calf just enough to send a full-body shiver racing down my spine. "You think because you run the bar, you run me? We both know who Brian calls when something needs to stay buried."
The name Brian lands like a physical slap.
Dwight goes completely rigid against my back. I feel the sudden, violent tension in his muscles, the way his heartbeat kicks hard against my spine. Whoever Brian is, his name carries a lethal weight. The air in the room shifts from territorial to something much darker. The hairs on my arms stand straight up.
"You’re a real piece of work, you know that?" Dwight growls, his voice sounding like gravel and broken glass. "I’m tryin’ to have a good night. I’m bein’ hospitable to the lady."
"Hospitable." Ryan snorts, a dry, humorless sound. "Dragging her into the backroom and pinning her hands? Come on, Riot. You’re many things, but a gentleman isn’t one of them."
"I’ll call it whatever the hell I want," Dwight snaps, stepping closer and dragging me with him. "She wasn’t complaining until you poked your nose into it."
"Enough!" I twist hard in Dwight’s iron grip, finally finding my voice through the rising panic. "I’m standing right here! Stop talking about me like I’m a stray dog you’re fighting over in the dirt!"
Both men go dead still.
Ryan looks at me then. It’s a death stare, cold and piercing.
Something shifts in those pale, icy eyes. Recognition. It’s the sick click of a puzzle piece slamming into place.
"You’re right," he says quietly, a dangerous charm dripping off every word. "That was rude of us."
He steps closer, invading the tiny pocket of air I have left. Dwight is still clamped around my waist, but suddenly the hold doesn't feel like a claim anymore. It feels like a cage. Trapped between two absolute predators, I can barely draw air into my lungs.
Ryan’s thumb continues to trace slow, maddening circles against my ankle.
"Let me make it up to you," he murmurs. "Jane."
My stomach drops straight through the floorboards. The way he says it; like he has my entire life story written down and locked in a vault.
He knows.
He knows, and the glint in his eyes says he’s been enjoying every second of watching me pretend.
"You’re a long way from Philadelphia, aren’t you?"
Philadelphia.
The word hits like a fist to the gut. That’s the city I left with nothing but a backpack, a black eye, and a burner phone. The city where I watched my whole life burn down from the window of a Greyhound bus.
My blood turns to ice.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about," I lie, and the words taste like copper on my tongue. My voice shakes so hard I hate myself for it.
Ryan smiles. That cold, cat-like expression returns.
"Sure you don’t, sweetheart."
He leans in close, his breath ghosting across my cheek. His free hand comes up, and his rough, calloused fingers brush a stray strand of hair away from my face. It’s shockingly gentle, which makes it ten times worse.
"You changed your hair," he whispers, tucking the strand behind my ear. "The blonde was better. More professional."
The ground beneath me tilts.
No. No, no, no. I scrubbed everything. I burned my ID. I erased my tracks.
No one in Wellsboro was supposed to know who I was.
But Ryan is looking at me like he’s reading my entire file off the back of my eyelids.
"The glasses, too," he continues, his soft voice never rising above a purr.
My lungs stop working. Dwight’s arm is the only thing keeping me from collapsing.
Ryan’s thumb strokes the bone of my ankle again, almost tenderly.
"You called it home," he whispers. "A narrow little walk-up on Pine Street. Third floor." His gaze never leaves mine, pinning me more effectively than Dwight’s hands ever could. "The window by the fire escape was broken for months. You kept telling yourself you'd get it fixed." He smiles. "You never did.”
He knows everything.
- Writer
