Page 23 of Guarded By Ghost
Harris Grey. Backstage credentials around his neck — forged or stolen, doesn't matter. Moving through the corridor behind the stage like he belongs there. Professional. Calm. Not rushing, not sneaking. Just a guy doing his job.
Except his job doesn't exist anymore. And he's heading straight for the stage access door.
I'm moving before I finish the thought.
I pull out my phone and call Lock. "East corridor. Now."
I don't wait for the response. Harris is forty feet away, then thirty. He's watching the stage — watchingher— with that flat, hungry expression I saw in India's face when she described him.The face of a man who believes he owns something that was never his.
He doesn't see me coming.
That's his first mistake.
I hit him from behind, arm around his throat, dragging him into a maintenance corridor before he can make a sound. He tries to fight — trained response — but he's out of his league and he knows it.
"Don't," I say in his ear. "Fucking. Move."
He goes still. Smart. Or maybe just buying time.
I shove Harris against the wall, spinning him around so I can see his face. He's breathing hard, but his eyes are calculating. Looking for angles. Escape routes.
He won't find any.
"You're making a mistake," he says. Voice calm. Reasonable. The same voice India described — the one that made her trust him for three years. "I'm not here to cause trouble. I just wanted to see her perform. That's all."
"With forged credentials and a backstage route that leads directly to her dressing room?"
Something flickers in his expression. Surprise that I know that much. Good.
"I know every move you've made since you got to Tucson," I tell him. "I know the motel you're staying in. I know the car you rented. I know you've been watching the clubhouse for five days, looking for a gap in our coverage."
His jaw tightens. "You don't know anything."
"I know you broke into her hotel room. I know you touched her things. I know you sent her a package to make sure she knew you could find her." I step closer, and I can see the first real crack in his composure. Fear. Just a flicker, but it's there. "And I know you put your hands on her. Left bruises on her skin."
"She belongs to me."
The words come out sharp. Defensive. Like I'm the one who doesn't understand.
"She never belonged to you." My voice is flat. Cold. The voice that made men talk in places I'm not supposed to remember. "You were her employee. Herstaff. And when you crossed a line, you got fired. That's where this should have ended."
"You don't know what she needs. You don't know her like I do. I kept her safe for three years — three years — and she just threw me away. Foryou?" His lip curls. "Some biker trash who fucks her for a few weeks and thinks that means something? Iearnedher. Ideserveher."
The door opens behind me. Lock and Diesel step through, blocking the exit.
Harris's eyes dart between us. Three men. No way out.
"Here's what's going to happen," I say. "You're going to disappear. Tonight. You're going to leave Tucson, leave Arizona, leave the fucking country if you're smart. And you're never going to contact India again. No calls. No messages. No packages. No showing up at her venues. Nothing. Ever."
"And if I don't?"
I smile. It's not a nice smile.
"Then I'll have a longer conversation with you. One that doesn't happen in a corridor with security fifty feet away." I lean in close enough to see the sweat beading at his hairline. "I spent fifteen years making problems disappear for people who didn't want questions asked. You think a disgraced security guard is going to be hard? You'll just... stop existing. No one will find you. No one will look. And India will spend the rest of her life safe and happy, never thinking about you again."
The colour drains from his face.
"You wouldn't."
