EJ “Ghost” Kincaid The assignment should have been easy keeping an eye on a waitress for one of my club brothers as a favor, while he kept an eye on her sister, all while he was undercover, posing as a member of a notorious evil motorcycle club. I’d do anything for my Steel Souls club brothers, but this assignment is pushing me to my limits. Every night, I have to watch this beautiful, curvy woman force a smile for tips while men leer at her with lust in their eyes. It takes everything in me not to punish them for looking at her—not that I’m any better. My eyes follow her every move, committing to memory each look she gives me when she doesn’t think I’m watching—but I’m always watching her. When danger strikes and I have to steal her away, I’m faced with another challenge—one I’ll never back down from—hopefully she’ll forgive me in the morning. Prue Daniels Shame is an emotion I’m used to. Shame that my five siblings and I all have different fathers, while our shared mother would rather cater to the next man in her life than to her own children. Shame that I had to wear a secondhand dress to prom, one that had already seen its better days the year before when my older sister wore it, and I made sure not to spill anything on it because my younger sister would wear it the following year. Shame that we didn’t have much money for anything beyond the bare essentials—going to college was never a possibility. But the biggest shame in my life is working as a waitress in a strip club. With no other work options, the strip club was the only option in our small town. I didn’t mind it at first—it was easy enough to put on a smile and pretend the barely there uniform didn’t bother me. Plus, my family needs the tips I bring in. But I knew it wouldn’t be long before shame reared its ugly head again. It happened one night a couple of weeks ago, when a tall, muscular stranger in motorcycle leathers sat at the end of the bar and kept his eyes on me for the rest of the night, not on the entertainment onstage. He wasn’t wearing a cut, but I could tell he was part of a motorcycle club even without the cuts on his leather vest identifying his club. Each night he’s there sitting and watching me. The flutter in my stomach was the first sign I was in trouble, but the thought of ending up like my mother had me locking down any feelings I might have for this mystery man—I refuse to repeat my mother’s mistakes, no matter how much I want to. But maybe just once won’t hurt.