GHOST
She's holding on too tight.
Her arms are locked around my waist, her face pressed against my back, her whole body tense like she's bracing for impact. She's never been on a bike before — that much is obvious. Every curve makes her grip tighter. Every acceleration makes her stiffen.
I should tell her to relax. Loosen up. Move with the bike instead of fighting it.
I don't.
Because her hands are fisted in my jacket and her thighs are pressed against mine and I can feel the heat of her through the leather, and if I open my mouth right now I'm going to say something I'll regret.
The desert stretches out around us, dark and endless, the lights of Phoenix shrinking in my mirrors. I push the bike faster than I need to. Put some distance between her and whoever's hunting her. Between the mess back there and the safety of my territory.
Between her body and my ability to think straight.
Fuck.
Three hours on this bike. Three hours of her pressed against me, her arms around my waist, her breath warm through my shirt. Three hours of being hyperaware of every place her body touches mine.
I've done long rides before. Done them exhausted, injured, running on nothing but adrenaline. None of them felt like this. None of them made me white-knuckle the handlebars just to keep from thinking about the woman behind me.
She shifts, adjusting her grip, and her hands slide lower on my stomach. Just an inch. Probably doesn't even realize she did it.
I feel it everywhere.
She's twenty-four. She's Nate's client. She's a job.
I repeat it like a mantra. Let the words drown out the heat of her, the scent of her, the way her body has slowly relaxed against mine over the last hundred miles. She's not holding on for dear life anymore. She's leaning into me, trusting me to keep her upright, trusting me to get her somewhere safe.
That trust is going to be a problem.
The clubhouse is quiet when we pull in. Past three in the morning — most of the brothers are asleep or gone. Just a few bikes in the lot, a light on in the main room, the familiar smell of motor oil and beer hanging in the air.
Home. Such as it is.
She climbs off the bike slowly, legs unsteady, and I watch her take in the scene. The converted warehouse. The few bikes still in the lot, gleaming under the security lights. The Sons of Ruin banner over the main door. The chain-link fence, the security cameras, the general sense that this is not a place for civilians.
She's so far out of her world she might as well be on another planet.
"This is your... place?" she asks.
"Clubhouse. Yeah."
"It's very..."
She doesn't finish the sentence. Doesn't need to. I can see her recalibrating, trying to fit what she's looking at into her understanding of how things work. Pop stars don't end up at biker clubhouses in the middle of the night. This isn't part of her reality.
But she doesn't complain. Doesn't wrinkle her nose or make some comment about slumming it. Just looks around with those sharp eyes, taking it in, filing it away.
Adapting.
"Come on," I say, and head for the door without waiting to see if she follows.
She follows. I can hear her footsteps behind me — hesitant, uneven on the gravel. She's still wearing those heels from the show, and they're not doing her any favors out here.
Tonight, I just need to get her inside and settled before I do something stupid.
The main room is mostly dark, just a few low lights behind the bar. Rev's there, nursing a beer and flipping through something on his phone. He glances up when we walk in.
