And God, he looks good.
I hate that that's my first thought. I hate that I'm noticing the way his t-shirt stretches across his shoulders, the way his forearms look resting on the bar, the way his jaw is sharp even with the stubble. He's forty years old, grumpy as hell, and has given me approximately fifteen words since we met.
None of that seems to matter to whatever part of my brain is currently fixated on his hands.
"There's coffee," he says, nodding toward the pot behind the bar. "Kitchen's through there if you want food."
And that's it. No good morning, no how did you sleep, no acknowledgment of the fact that he spent the night on a couch in a hallway so I would feel safe. He just turns back to his phone, and I'm left standing there trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do with him.
The clubhouse is different in daylight.
Last night it was shadows and tension. Now sunlight streams through high windows, and the space feels almost... lived in.Comfortable. There's a pool table in one corner, a cluster of leather couches around a TV, a long bar with stools that look like they've seen decades of use.
And people. Lots of people.
A big guy with tattoos covering both arms is sprawled on one of the leather couches, coffee in hand, talking to a woman with dark hair curled up beside him. Two men are playing pool, talking shit to each other in voices that carry across the room. Another woman — pregnant, I notice — is on a different couch, laughing at something the dark-haired woman just said.
Everyone looks up when I walk in.
I'm used to being looked at. It's literally my job. But this is different. These aren't fans or critics or industry people trying to figure out what I can do for them. These are Ghost's people, sizing me up, deciding whether I belong.
The pregnant woman is the first to move. She unfolds herself from the couch and walks over, hand extended, smile warm.
"Holy shit, you're actually India Blair." She laughs at herself. "Sorry, that was not smooth. Ghost mentioned he was bringing someone back, but he didn't mention it wasyou. I'm Gracie."
"Ghost mentioned me?"
"He said 'she's staying here, don't make a big deal out of it.' Which for Ghost is practically a monologue."
That surprises a laugh out of me. Gracie grins.
"Come on. Bella's making pancakes in the kitchen, and I need to know everything about why Ghost of all people has a pop star staying at the clubhouse."
She loops her arm through mine like we've known each other for years, and something in my chest loosens. No agenda. No angle. Just warmth.
I spend the next hour in the kitchen with Gracie, Bella, Josie, and Demi. They ask questions — about music, about touring, about what it's like to perform for thousands of people — butit doesn't feel like an interview. It feels like curiosity. Like they actually want to know.
And they're open in a way I'm not used to. Honest. Real.
I've been surrounded by people for years — managers, publicists, stylists, security. An entire team whose job is to make my life run smoothly. But sitting here eating pancakes and listening to these women laugh, I realize something.
I've been lonely for a long time.
And I didn't even know it until right now.
Ghost finds me on the back porch an hour later.
I'm sitting on the steps, looking out at the dusty yard behind the clubhouse, trying to process everything that's happened in the last twelve hours. The women have scattered — appointments, errands, lives to get back to.
And I'm here. In the middle of the Arizona desert, hiding from a man who used to protect me.
I hear Ghost before I see him. The creak of the screen door. The heavy footfall of his boots. Then he's settling onto the step beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, and my whole body goes on alert.
He doesn't say anything. Just sits there, forearms resting on his knees, looking out at the same nothing I've been staring at.
I should say something. Fill the silence. That's what I do — I'm good at talking, at charming, at making people comfortable. It's part of my job.
But with him, I don't feel the need to perform. The quiet feels... easy. Like he doesn't expect anything from me.
