Ghost (Shiva's Road MC 1)

Ghost (Shiva's Road MC 1)
Dana Cask
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2024 Dana Cask

Ghost

“This place is something else,” Beowulf said over the sound of their idling bikes.

Ghost didn’t respond, knowing his best friend didn’t expect him to. He just stared at the place his mother had called home for the last twenty-five years. The McMansion and surrounding grounds presented a vulgar display of wealth against the suburban Chicago backdrop. The pink granite drive wound around the two-story house, lit by spotlights in the center of the immaculately manicured lawn. In bright sunlight, he’d no doubt need darker shades to withstand the glare of the mica-flecked walls and white shutters. He’d known about the setup from the intel Bytes had gathered on his father before they left the compound in Central Ohio, but seeing it in person shocked the man who had grown up dirt poor in a single-wide trailer on the Mescalero Apache Tribe Reservation.

“Name,” snapped a male voice from a box built into the brick column to the left of the wrought black iron gate.

“Lucas Blackfoot,” Ghost replied. His voice sounded rusty, even to his own ears.

“You were told to come alone.”

Ghost shrugged, sure the security cameras would pick up his response.

After a long pause, the voice instructed, “Park your motorcycles in the open garage bay. You will be met at the interior door. Do not enter without an escort or you will be shot.”

“Friendly type, your Pops.” Wulf chuckled.

Ghost let his unease out by revving his old Harley. The Knucklehead vibrated the ground as the gate with a stylized W in the center pulled back to allow them entrance. They followed the drive to the right of the house, moving at a slow pace on the loose gravel, and found the place they were to leave their bikes without issue.

Almost as soon as they swung their legs over the fenders, a door at the far end of the far end of the garage opened. A limo occupied one bay. Midlife crisis cars sat in the remaining two, each of which probably cost more than Ghost had seen during his entire childhood.

A large, bald man in a black suit he couldn’t button over his flabby stomach -- a security drudge so stereotypical as to be laughable -- motioned them to come closer.

“What do you wanna bet he gets handsy?” Wulf said loud enough to be overheard.

Ghost grunted. This was gonna suck. He had planned to get in and out as quickly as possible, having minimal interaction with his sperm donor.

“Which one of you is Blackfoot?” the guard asked as they approached.

Like that wasn’t obvious. Even a toddler could tell the black-haired Native American from the Nordic blond. “I am,” Ghost replied.

“Your… companion… can wait here.” The guard put a wealth of innuendo into the word companion, still trying to get a rise out of him.

“No.” Ghost didn’t make a threatening move, but he wasn’t going into this house alone. He’d never spoken to Donald P. Willard, never went looking for his parents after his mother left the Reservation when he was eight. His father should be happy he’d only brought his best friend for backup. No way in hell would he allow himself to be separated from Wulf this early in the game.

“You come alone, or you don’t come at all.”

“Fine,” said Wulf, “We’ll be home in our beds by morning then.”

The dumbass reached out to grab Ghost by the arm. “I said --”

Ghost grabbed the guard’s hand by the thumb and bent it back. When the man tried to twist out of his grip, Ghost held on long enough to make sure the man knew Ghost was choosing to release him.

Another man, this one a little older and in better shape than the first, appeared in the doorway. “Problem?”

“He doesn’t want to come quietly, boss,” Dumbass said.

“Let him bring his little friend if it makes him feel better,” the new arrival replied. “I’m sure they won’t cause any trouble. Right, boys?”

“We’re housebroken,” Wulf assured him. “Can’t say the same for your team though. Need a lesson in manners.”

“Boss” stared at them for a few beats, then turned on his heel and walked back into the house. His lapdog followed, leaving Ghost and Wulf to take up the rear. As soon as they cleared the doorway, another man came up behind them, closing the door and walking practically on their heels. They moved through the mostly dark house in that formation until they reached a closed door with soft light spilling through around the cracks.

A knock on the door received a curt, “Enter.”

A hand on his back pushed Ghost ahead of Wulf into the room. No less opulent than the rest of the house, the study had dark built-in shelves at the back wall and thick, velvet green drapes bracketing the floor-to-ceiling windows along the side. Donald P. Willard sat behind a polished walnut desk. A Tiffany desk lamp illuminated Donald’s thick features and extremely short-cropped, graying hair. His hands were laced together in front of him, resting over a sizeable belly straining the buttons on his tailored shirt. His blue suit jacket hung on the back of his leather executive chair. The picture of a prominent light-skinned black businessman, surrounding himself with obvious signs of wealth and opulence. Ghost was pretty sure it was all a front, meant to impress.

“Son, please have a seat. The rest of you are dismissed,” Donald said.

The three bodyguards tried to grab Wulf to remove him bodily from the room, but he evaded their grasps and sat down on the green leather sofa which rested against a creamy damask wallpaper. “I think I’ll stay. I like it here,” Wulf said mildly.

“This is a private conversation between my son and myself. Please do us the courtesy of letting us have this family moment,” Donald replied.

Wulf looked to Ghost, who gave him a slight nod. Beowulf could take care of himself, and it didn’t seem like anyone was going to talk in front of his friend.

“Come on, boys. Show me the kitchen. I could use a snack after the long ride.” Wulf jumped up from the couch and led the way out into the hall.

Once they were alone and the door shut, Donald gave Ghost an appraising glance. “You look like your mother.”

Ghost knew what he meant. His father’s African American heritage didn’t show much in Ghost’s features. There didn’t seem much point in replying so Ghost didn’t bother.

Donald sighed. “Have a seat, son. We have a lot to talk about.”

Ghost sat in one of the chairs in front of Donald’s desk that matched the leather sofa. It was as uncomfortable as it looked. Still, he said nothing. He’d learned a long time ago prolonged silence had a way of getting people to start rambling just to fill the void.

“I have to say, your existence came as quite a shock to me. In all the years I’ve been married to Caroline, she never once mentioned you. Do you know why?”

“No.”

“Has she ever contacted you since she left the Reservation?”

“No.”

“I’ve always wanted a son to carry on my legacy. Surely, she would have known I’d have welcomed you with open arms.”

Ghost shrugged. His mother had signed over custody of him to his grandfather when she left, giving no explanation. His memories of her were happy, but dim. He couldn’t say why his mother did what she did, and wouldn’t tell this man even if he did know. He owed this man nothing.

“Did she tell you anything about me before she left? Anything at all?”

“No.” Ghost knew he sounded like a broken record but really what was there to say? He’d received word of his mother’s death from a lawyer, closely followed by a summons from Donald P. Willard to discuss her “affairs.” Ghost already regretted his decision to come here and couldn’t wait to get the fuck out.

“Man of few words, eh? I can respect that. Too many people don’t stand by their word these days. I’m not one of those. Old school to the core, just like my daddy.” He probably practiced his “trust me” smile in the mirror. Ghost wasn’t falling for it.

“Why am I here?” He knew why, but he wanted to see how the other man would spin it.

“I wanted to meet you, talk to you. I am your father, after all.”

“Are you sure?” Ghost was. Bytes had done the research. Donald’s name wasn’t listed on his birth certificate, but his mother had left a letter with his grandfather. The old man never said a word, but the document had been among his things given to the tribal leaders upon his death. An old friend read it to him over the phone. His father had been a high roller at one of the casinos on tribal land. His mother worked there and caught his eye. Eventually they started a relationship. She got pregnant. Eight years later, she left the Reservation to be his wife.

“Of course, I am. Your mother was faithful to me, even before we married. Or are you trying to tell me you know otherwise?” The thought seemed to anger him.

“No.”

“Well then, there you are. You’re my son. And I’d like to think we could have a good relationship now that we know about each other.”

Ghost almost said no again, just to see what the other man would do, but managed to stop himself. Instead, he changed tracks. “Your letter promised legal action if I didn’t show. That’s not very… fatherly.”

“That was before I got to know you. My security team did a little digging. Can’t blame a man for wanting to get to know all about a son he suddenly finds out about, can you? And now I know you’ve served your country well, but you’ve fallen on hard times. That motorcycle club you’re with, well, I’d like to see my son socializing with a better class of people. I can and will help you there.”

“No.” The word came out fast and emphatic. Shiva’s Road MC was his family now. Not this man.

“OK, OK, I can see I’m moving too fast for you. A habit in my business. You don’t make money letting grass grow under your feet!”

Donald’s business, according to Bytes, barely paid the mortgage on this eyesore these days. Donald’s father had been a solid contractor for large scale buildings in downtown Chicago. But cutting corners to underbid other contractors, shoddy supplies, and other bad business practices had given the family business a bad name. Donald scrambled to cover his monthly debts and if he didn’t hire better lawyers, he’d be facing jail time. Then there was the little matter of his gambling debts…

Instead of replying right away, Ghost let his attention drift around the office. There were business books, decanters containing various kinds of alcohol with the usual glasses, and several framed pictures. One of the pictures caught his eye. Two young women were laughing with their arms around each other in front of a fountain. One had black hair, dusky skin and a more than passing resemblance to Donald. She must be Rachael, his half-sister.

The other woman -- he didn’t recognize her -- was nothing less than stunning. Platinum-blonde hair surrounded her tanned face in a halo as the sunshine poured down on her, seeming to illuminate her from within. The red top she wore hugged her more-than-a-handful breasts and rode up enough to show a strip of her belly. The matching skirt flared out from curvy hips that begged to be gripped with his large hands and held onto for a wild ride. Though he couldn’t tell the exact color of her eyes from the photograph, they seemed to sparkle with mischief. And her full lips, painted the same red as her shirt, were a form of temptation all their own. He wanted to lick and suck and taste every inch of her. His cock came to life behind his zipper as he studied the image. He’d never had such a visceral reaction to a woman, let alone one he’d seen only in a picture, in his life.