Ghost's Girl

Prologue

Hello!

Here's the first chapter of the story. I'm still in the process of writing the story on a separate document on my laptop, but I was too excited to wait and post the prologue to the story. Everything in the story is fictional; names, characters, locations, etc.

Also, I had done some research about outlaw motorcycle clubs before beginning my story (when I say research, I mean looking up things on Wikipedia and watching Sons of Anarchy), though I'm sure I haven't gotten everything right. However, the beauty about writing is that every author has their own different spin on things, including something as popular as motorcycle clubs. With that in mind, please enjoy the prologue.

Em.

PROLOGUE

There was something oddly comforting about the trashy bar. Perhaps it was the way the booths were sticky and pieces of the leather material were missing, replaced with small pieces of duct tape in hopes it would hold everything together. Or maybe it was the way alcohol stuck to the oak tables, making it easier for glasses to stick for the drunks who couldn't control their wild movements. Or it was the stale cigarette smell lingering in the air, giving everyone second-hand smoke without having to be around an actual cigarette. Or it was the old fashioned stereo sitting in the farthest corner of the room, playing old-time country music from the late seventies and early eighties.

But it wasn't the bartender, who looked to be in his late thirties and wore an eyepatch over his left eye. Everything about the man screamed danger and unease—his ruffled brown locks, or the wicked gleam in his dark brown eyes, and the scars that littered his forearms. In the hours I'd been sitting in my small booth with a line of shot glasses, I hadn't seen him utter more than three words to the rest of the customers, only grunting whenever someone ordered another drink. But the other patrons of the bar weren't much better—there was an older man who appeared to be in his late sixties sitting at the bar, with his back hunched, and a beard reaching down past his large beer belly. A larger group of men, though their ages ranged from their late twenties to mid-thirties, stood somewhere behind me, playing a loud game of pool with their beer bottles clanking together more often than they played.

The bar wouldn't have been my first pick of the night, but my judgment had been off all night that it didn't truly matter anymore. Plus, it wasn't like I would stick around this town longer than tonight to care if anyone of importance saw me. I came into the bar almost two hours ago, with the bag slung over my shoulder now tucked onto the booth bench beside me, and I hadn't moved since. The shots sitting before me were gifts from the group of men playing pool, though none had luckily come over to greet me or join me for a shot, and the bartender didn't appear to care that I wasn't giving him anything to make tips out of. Of course, it was obvious I didn't belong in a bar as rundown as this—at least, if my clean jeans and blouse were anything to come by.

But no one was bothering me, and that was all I wanted. The pain of the earlier events of my day were still weighing heavy on my heart and of every customer in this bar, I wasn't the best. Perhaps it was the sour expression weighing my face down, or the tears that had been building up at the edges when I first came in that warned everyone off. Though, with two hours passing, my appearance probably was no better; the tears were gone, though if I thought too long they would return, and my hair was a tangled mess as I continued to run my fingers through it mindlessly. In my haste earlier I hadn't grabbed a jacket, and though the air conditioning in the bar wasn't fully functional, there were small bumps across my skin.

"Here, doll, you look like you need it more than I do."

Too engrossed with my own personal thoughts, I hadn't seen the old man remove himself from his post at the bar, though I was sure he was only seconds away from passing out when I last saw him. But here he was, standing at the edge of my booth with a torn-up jacket stretched out in front of him, with a kind smile hiding behind his white beard. He'd come into the bar only minutes after I had, muttering about a wicked woman who didn't know right from wrong in these modern days, and continued to mutter every time the bartender moved to the end of the bar. I hadn't personally talked to the man all night, or even gave any indication that I'd seen him, and yet here he was, offering me the coat off his back.