Vindication: A Motorcycle Club Romance (4 page)

~
FOUR ~

Bridget

As Bridget laid another paper on top of the
ever-growing pile on her coffee table, she felt a sense of despondence sink
down on her like a wet wool coat. It felt like she wasn’t making any headway at
all; like all the energy she was expending today was just evaporating into the
atmosphere. She had really hoped to relax and untangle the growing dread in her
mind over the weekend, but life just wasn’t playing along like she wanted.
Already the sun was on its way down. The day had escaped her somehow.

She moved the pile of yet-ungraded
papers off her lap and carefully capped her red pen, putting them both in a
neat pile on the coffee table. The coffee in her mug was already more cold than
hot, but she drank it anyway. It didn’t improve her mood. She took off her
glasses and rubbed her eyes in deep circles, trying to conjure back some little
bit of energy and focus. The papers weren’t challenging, but the student’s
answers were starting to blend together.

This happened sometimes. Her
concentration would fade once the warning bells in her head, the ones she’d
earned from becoming a solider, had been set off. Those bells had kept her
alive and in one piece when she found herself in unexpectedly dangerous
situations overseas, but back home, they only made life more complicated. For
the first few years back, Bridget had felt out of place, like she was a wolf
among sheep. But time and experience had changed her view; she realized there
were more wolves at home than anyone ever wanted to admit. Danger hadn’t stayed
in the desert. It stalked everyone, all the time, no matter where they were. Maybe
she was still broken somehow, but she figured everyone was, in some way. At
least her problems kept her relatively safe, if lonely.

But she couldn’t put her finger on
what was setting off the bells this time. It was something distant and
far-away, something blurry.

Bridget kept her own life squared
away very neatly. She’d been a teacher at The Academy of Il Santo della
Florentina for almost six years now, and had established herself in the
community as a capable and trustworthy educator. It only took a year or two to
realize there wasn’t a single man in her social circles in LeBeau worth wasting
her time on romantically. The ones she could stomach were already taken, and
the rest never could settle with the fact that she was a soldier, a Marine, and
had probably already lived a far more dangerous life than they ever would
themselves. So instead, she kept a very small social circle of colleagues who
always remained at a safe distance from the solitude of her home. She took care
of herself, and of Gramps, the only family she still had around here.

No, the danger wasn’t to her. She ran
a tight ship. But someone else was sending out distress signals, and Bridget
was picking them up.

Bridget took a few deep breaths,
trying to clear her head. She picked up her phone and thumbed through her
contacts until she reached the Shadyside Retirement Community. They had a
private line for family of residents to address concerns with a liaison. The
one assigned to Gramps was called Bonnie, and she was the one who picked up
Bridget’s call.

“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 Services. 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.