Page 7 of Her Outlaw Biker
I close my own eyes instead, sinking back against the lumpy couch and letting the fear trickle in now that I’m not too busy trying to stay alive.
This whole mission was a mistake.
But it’s not like I had a choice.
Rigs offered me a deal, and I took it. He said all I had to do was find Ghost. Lure him back. Just talk him into a meeting.
He promised me that once it was done, the debt would be cleared. My father would be off the hook. And I—I’d finally be able to breathe.
It was supposed to be that simple.
But now?
Now I’m wondering if the real trap wasn’t for Ghost…but for me.
Those men who attacked me earlier—Rigs didn’t say anything about that. Didn’t warn me about any ambushes or bullets or the terrifying man who came out of nowhere to rain down bullets on the intruders. My breath hitches just thinking about the way Ghost moved. Efficient. Deadly. Silent as a shadow.
Those men weren’t amateurs either.
And they definitely weren’t surprised.
So who sent them? One of Ghost’s many enemies? Or did Rigs tip them off, using me as bait for both sides?
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes. The last thing I can afford is tears. Not now. Not ever.
I’ve spent most of my life holding it together while everything around me fell apart. I’d barely turned nine when my mom died from breast cancer. She fought really hard, but it ate her from the inside out. And when she was gone, it was like someone flipped a switch in Dad. Like he just…shut off.
He started drinking. First it was beer after work. Then whiskey before breakfast. By the time I turned twelve, I was the one dragging him off bar floors, cooking whatever canned food we had left, pretending we were fine when we were anything but. No slumber parties. No dances. No childhood. Just cleaning up after a man who stopped being a father the day we buried my mother.I was forced to grow up too fast, to look after the garage and scrape enough for us to get by.
But he didn’t stop at drinking…
Dad started to gamble and somehow got involved with the Iron Vultures MC. His stupid decisions landed us deeper in debt with the wrong kind of people, and I was roped into his mess, forced to run errands for the MC. I would drop packages that I didn’t dare open, to people I didn’t dare look in the eyes…
So many times, I was tempted to run—to leave it all behind—but in the end, I could never leave my dad.
Before Mom died, life was simple. Good. Dad’s eyes were warm and he made me smile a lot. I can’t seem to forget the times when he was a good dad. Sometimes, even now, I see flashes of the man he used to be.
So when Rigs summoned me, promising a way out—promising me that one trip to the middle of nowhere could save everything—I said yes.
I didn’t ask questions.
So now I’m here, in the trailer of a man known for killing without flinching.
Ghost.
Among the MC guys, Ghost is a legend. The kind they talk about in hushed voices. During his time as a military sniper in a covert black ops unit, he was the guy they sent in when no one else could get the job done—silent, precise, invisible. Just a ghost in the wind.
And after he left the military and joined the MC, the name stuck. No one called him Jack anymore. He was “Ghost”—because dead men don’t talk, and he made sure they stayed that way.
Some say he’s a ghost for real—untouchable, unkillable. Others say he went rogue after mistakenly killing a child in the line of duty. No one really knows what happened the day he disappeared three years ago. But they all agree on one thing—you don’t go looking for Ghost unless you’ve got a death wish.
Guess that makes me a certified idiot.
My mind conjures up the image of him as he draped the blanket around me. I bite down on my lower lip as my heart skips giddily.
I don’t know what I imagined Ghost would look like, but I wasn’t prepared for him to be so…tall, scarred, and so devastatingly handsome. My stomach twists at the thought, my heart doing another funny flip. I sigh softly, letting myself momentarily indulge the thought of him, basking in it…
He has that ex-military stillness—the kind that makes you nervous even when he’s not moving. His eyes are steel-gray and cold as a winter storm, but sharp. Always watching. Calculating. His jaw’s rough with scruff and his voice…his voice is low and gravelly, like it was scraped across broken asphalt and still came out smoother than it should.
