Page 24 of Her Outlaw Biker
I stop by the window, parting the curtain with trembling fingers. Nothing but blackness out there. No headlights. No bikes. No Ghost.
My chest squeezes so tight I almost fold in on myself. I feel sick. Like I’m going to throw up or scream or both.
Why didn’t I tell him?
I love you.
It was at the tip of my tongue—why didn’t I just blurt it out?
He looked so calm when he left, like he’d made peace with whatever was coming. Like he already knew he might not make it back. And I just stood there, letting him kiss me, touch me…one last time, hoping it wouldn’t be the last.
“Coward,” I whisper to myself. “You should’ve told him.”
Now it might be too late.
I drop onto the edge of the bed and bury my face in my hands. For a second, I let myself cry. Quiet tears, nothing dramatic. Just the kind that slip out when your soul can’t hold the weight anymore.
And then, without really thinking, I clasp my hands together and bow my head.
“I don’t even know if you’re real,” I whisper, eyes squeezed shut. “I haven’t prayed since Mom died…but if you’re out there, if you can hear me, please…please bring him back.”
The silence that follows feels like judgment.
But I don’t care. I said it. I meant it.
And I’ll say it a hundred more times if it means he walks back through that door in one piece.
Suddenly, the door crashes open. I jump, spinning around, then freeze.
“Ghost,” I whisper, my breath hitching.
His large frame fills the doorway like some shadowy warrior from a dream. His jacket is splattered with blood, and there’s blood trickling from his temple, his knuckles split open. His chest rises and falls like he’s been running for miles. His eyes find me immediately.
“Baby,” he rasps, and then I’m moving.
I rush to him, grabbing his face with trembling hands. “Oh my God…what happened? Are you okay? You’re bleeding—”
“I’m fine,” he cuts in, gently brushing my hair back from my face. “It looks worse than it is. But we gotta move. Now.”
My heart skips violently. “What? Why? What happened?”
“I took care of it,” he mutters, already grabbing the duffel bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “Rigs is dead. The Vultures are scrambling, trying to figure out new leadership. But they’ll come back hard when they regroup. We’ve got a small window.”
I don’t ask for details. I can see it in his eyes, the fight. The fury. The cost. So I nod and follow him outside.
But when he tries to start up the bike, it makes a whining sound and then sputters. “Shit.”
The bike’s a mess. I’m surprised it even got him back in one piece. One side of the handlebar is bent out of shape, and the headlight’s cracked.
“You gotta be kidding me,” he mutters, letting out a long streak of curse words.
“I’ll check it out,” I say, already kneeling beside the bike. I start working fast, checking connections, straightening what I can, yanking tools from his pack. It’s not perfect, but I’ve done this countless times. Years of watching Dad fix things with shaking hands and a cigarette hanging from his lips taught me more than any textbook ever could.
Ghost stands beside me, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “You really are your father’s daughter.”
I shoot him a glare. “Seriously? You’re making jokes now?”
“What?” He shrugs. “I think it’s hot.”
