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“Yes,” she said. Angel smiled. “I want us to wear an awesome costume.”
Ghost stared. “No.”
“Yes,” she insisted.
“No costumes,” Ghost said.
Jackhammer grinned. “I'll wear one.”
“Of course you will,” Ghost grumbled.
Angel pointed at Ghost. “You're dressing up.”
“Absolutely not,” he said.
She stepped closer. “Please?”
“No.” She kissed him, and Ghost reconsidered. “That's manipulative.”
“Did it work?” she asked.
“Maybe.” Jackhammer laughed, and Angel smiled. Three weeks ago, Ghost would've rather taken a bullet than dress up for a Halloween party. Now, he looked at the empty space where her duffel had been and then at Angel. “Fine.” Her face lit up. “I’ll wear a costume.”
She threw her arms around him, and Ghost caught her. Jackhammer laughed. “Man, you're fucked.”
Ghost looked over Angel's shoulder. “Yeah.” He tightened his arms around her, and for once, the thought didn't scare him.
Outside, Monster shouted about somebody touching Larry's pirate hat. Angel laughed against Ghost's chest, and Jackhammer joined them. Ghost realized something then. He'd spent years believing losing someone was the worst thing that could happen. He'd been wrong. The worst thing would've been never finding them in the first place.
He looked at Angel and then at Hammer, and at the ridiculous clubhouse that had somehow become home. Halloween was coming, the threat was over, Angel wasn't running, and neither was he. For the first time since Levi died, Ghost wasn't waiting for something good to disappear.
He was going to let himself keep it.
ANGEL
Three Weeks Later
Angel Sanchez had learned several important things since moving into Monster's Madhouse. Monster took Halloween far too seriously. Larry the skeleton apparently had a larger wardrobe than most grown men. Ghost was a complete asshole before his first cup of coffee. Jackhammer snored—loudly. And sharing a bed with two possessive bikers meant she hadn't had a decent night's sleep in three weeks—for several reasons.
Angel smiled as she stood in front of the mirror. “Fuck, you look hot,” Ghost said. She looked toward the bathroom door. Ghost leaned against the frame. He wore black jeans, boots, and a black button-down shirt, which was apparently his costume.
Angel crossed her arms over her chest. “You're supposed to be dressed up.”
“I am,” he insisted.
“As what?” she asked.
“Me,” he said simply.
“That isn't a costume,” she insisted.
“It is tonight,” he mumbled.
“You promised,” she pouted.
“I promised to wear a costume. I didn't promise you'd like it.” Angel stared at him, and Ghost stared back. She'd learned something else over the last three weeks—staring contests with Ghost could last indefinitely.
“You're impossible,” she breathed.
