Page 136 of Reckless

They are searching.

Ghost hears it. I know he does because the motorcycle beneath him roars louder through the phone, the engine climbing another octave as he twists the throttle harder. A quiet curse slips from him. “Fuck!”

The wind tears across the receiver now, loud enough that I can barely hear him.

“They’re wrecking the place,” I whisper. I squeeze the phone so tightly my fingers ache. “I—”

“Don’t.” His voice cuts me off. “Don’t say another word.” A sob catches in my throat. I swallow it so hard it hurts. “Hand over your mouth.” I don’t even think. I do it. “Good girl.” His breathing stays frighteningly steady despite the engine screaming beneath him. “I need you silent.”

Another crash. Something heavy this time. Maybe the dining chair. It skids across the timber floor with a horrible scraping sound before toppling over. The apartment I’ve spent months turning into home is being ripped apart one room at a time.

Tears stream silently down my face.

But I don’t make a sound.

The only thing louder than the destruction downstairs is the pounding of my own heart.

Seconds stretch until they stop feeling like seconds altogether.

Every bang makes my body flinch.

Every scrape feels closer than the last.

Then, through everything else, I hear it.

Faint at first.

A motorcycle.

I know that engine.

I’d know it anywhere.

Relief hits so hard it almost knocks another sob out of me.

Very carefully, barely louder than a breath, I whisper, “I can hear you.” The engine grows louder, closer.

“I’m here,” Ghost says quietly.

The bike downshifts. “Stay quiet, baby.”

The roar of Ghost’s motorcycle disappears as abruptly as it arrived, the engine cutting somewhere outside the apartment building.

The silence that follows settles deeper than any of the crashing ever did.

One second ago, there had been noise. The bike, the sound of drawers being ripped open downstairs, glass breaking, furniture scraping across timber, and now…

Nothing.

Not even the refrigerator humming in the kitchen.

I stop breathing without meaning to, every muscle in my body straining to catch the smallest sound, my pulse pounding so violently inside my ears it’s almost impossible to tell whether what I’m hearing is real or just the frantic rhythm of my own heart.

Please, please let him have scared whoever it was away.

The hope barely has time to settle before it’s ripped away again.

Footsteps.