Page 101 of Reckless

Chapter Nineteen

SAGE

I hear his bike long before it reaches my building.

The low rumble rolls through the evening air, bouncing off the concrete walls of the apartment complex before fading again, and somehow I know it’s him before I even cross the room.

Somewhere along the way, I learned the sound of his bike well enough that I know it’s Ghost before I ever see him.

A smile finds me automatically.

He’s here.

I tug the apartment door open before he even has the chance to knock, but my smile disappears just as quickly.

Ghost stands in the hallway exactly where I expected him to be, helmet tucked beneath one arm, the porch light catching the hard line of his jaw. His eyes meet mine for the briefest second, and something low in my stomach tightens.

He’s too still. Ghost is always quiet, but I’ve learned not all of his silences mean the same thing.

Usually, they steady me.

This one feels like the second before a gunshot.

His shoulders are tight beneath the leather of his cut, his jaw set hard enough that I can see the muscle working. Before he’s even said a word, something cold slips into the pit of my stomach.

Whatever brought him here, it isn’t good.

“Ghost?”

He doesn’t answer. His gaze lingers on me for a heartbeat before he steps inside, every movement measured in that familiar Ghost way I’ve grown so used to over the last few months.

Usually, it settles me.

Tonight, it only makes me more nervous.

The faint scent of leather and cedar follows him inside as he crosses to my dining table, setting his helmet down before pulling out a chair and sitting.

Only then does he look back at me.

Whatever brought him here, it wasn’t to spend the evening together.

He places his phone on the table, screen up. A trace of some kind—lines of data I don’t fully understand, connecting one node to another.

The screen stays lit.

A string of numbers.

A timestamp.

My phone number.

I don’t need to lean closer to know what I’m looking at because my stomach already knows.

The apartment suddenly feels far too quiet. The hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the traffic out on the street, the faint tick of the clock above the stove. I hear all of it at once, like my brain has decided to latch onto anything except the phone sitting between us.

His eyes stay on mine. “Someone’s been sending encrypted messages to your phone for ten weeks.”

For a second, the words don’t seem to belong together. They drift across the table and settle somewhere between us while my brain stubbornly refuses to catch up.