Page 11 of Ghost
The old sign above the entrance readsRed Bow, though the missing letters and cracked plastic suggest it used to say something else. Who the heck is Red, anyway? The building’s windows are blacked out, either from grime or some half-baked attempt at privacy, and burned-out neon beer signs hang like relics in the glass.
Devon slides off his bike, his boots crunching against the broken asphalt. “Welcome to the clubhouse,” he says, his grin as smug as ever.
“This?” I raise an eyebrow, gesturing toward the run-down bowling alley. “You’re kidding.”
He chuckles, pulling me close by the waist. “You’ll see.”
He leads me inside, pushing open the door with a creak that echoes in the musty air. To the left, eight bowling lanes stretch out in various states of decay. The seats are mismatched, cracked vinyl, and the pins at the end of the lanes look like they’ve seen more duct tape than actual games. It’s all old-school—manualscoring, no flashy machines. It smells faintly of mildew and years of spilled beer.
“Still works if you feel like a game,” Caesar says, his tone teasing.
“I’ll pass,” I mutter, stepping past him.
To the right is a counter lined with old bowling shoes. The smell hits me immediately—leather and years of sweaty feet. Behind the counter, there’s a makeshift bar: a bar top with three mismatched stools and a tapped keg. A few high-top tables are scattered nearby, their surfaces sticky and stained.
And then there’s the arcade. If you can call it that. A broken foosball table leans against the wall, its rods bent at odd angles. Two pinball machines flash dimly, their lights flickering like they’re on their last breath. A skeeball machine slumps in the corner, its netting torn.
I turn to Devon, hands on my hips. “This is where you hang out? For fun?”
He smirks, his pale blue eyes dancing with mischief. “This is just the front. Follow me.”
Behind the bar is a dingy door markedEmployees Only. Ghost pushes it open, revealing a tiny janitor’s closet packed with wire racks and cleaning supplies. It’s so small the door barely clears the shelves when it swings open.
I’m about to make a snarky comment when Devon reaches for something on the back rack. There’s a softclick, and the entire shelf slides to the side, revealing a gleaming steel door with a high-tech keypad.
“Now we’re talking,” I say, unable to hide my curiosity.
He punches in a code, and the door hisses open. Behind it, bright white lights flood the space, bouncing off polished concrete floors. A narrow landing leads to a set of stairs descending along the side of the building. The place feels sterile, almost clinical, a stark contrast to the rundown bowling alley above.
“Wait ‘til you see the rest,” Crypt says behind us, as Devon’s hand finds the small of my back, guiding me down the stairs.
At the bottom, another steel door waits, more secure than the first. Devon swipes a keycard and pushes it open.
The room beyond is massive. Warm light spills across dark wood floors and thick rugs add a touch of comfort. To my right, the kitchen sits in the far corner, its L-shaped counters gleaming. A large island dominates the space, stools tucked neatly underneath.
Directly ahead, on the back wall, is a bank of windows. At first glance, they look like they open to nothing but black, but when Rasputin flips a switch, the view transforms. Behind the glass is a sprawling underground space. A four-lane gun range takes up one side, and a gym with a full boxing ring sits on the other.
“Impressive,” I admit, turning in a slow circle.
To my left, a massive sectional sofa wraps around an enormous TV. Comfy chairs are scattered here and there, completing the ultimate lounge setup. Past the seating area, a wide hallway leads deeper into the clubhouse.
Devon leans against the wall, watching me take it all in. “So, what do you think?”
I glance back at him, a smirk tugging at my lips. “You might just impress me yet.”
His grin widens, and he steps closer, his hands sliding around my waist. “Good. You’re gonna love it here, Tizzy. This is home now.”
I let his words sink in.Home.It’s a weighty word, one I’m not sure I’ve had a solid claim to in years. I want to brush it off with a sarcastic quip, but something in Devon’s eyes stops me. There’s a softness there that catches me off guard, a vulnerability he rarely lets slip.
“Home, huh?” I manage, and my voice is quieter than I expected.
The rest of the guys find themselves conspicuously scarce as Devon tugs me toward the sectional, his hand warm and steady against mine. “Yeah. You’re safe here. And trust me, once you settle in, you’ll never want to leave.”
We sink onto the couch, and the leather creaks under us. It’s absurdly comfortable, and for a moment, I can almost picture myself here, kicking back, maybe even laughing along with the guys.
“So, what’s down that way?” I nod toward the hallway to the right, hoping to shake the strange knot forming in my chest.
“Quarters. I can show you ours in a bit,” he says with a teasing smirk.