Page 149 of Reckless

At the corner of Piper’s photograph, still peeking through the flaps.

They didn’t just send me pictures.

They sent me a reminder.

You are never as alone as you think you are.

Letting out a weak breath, my glassy eyes meet Liam’s through the window. “Ghost is on his way. He said to stay in the car.”

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I shake my head, a single tear flowing down my cheek, and he nods. “I’m right here. Stay in your car. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

Nodding, I raise my hand to the glass, and he meets it with his on the other side. Then turns, leaning against my car, folds his arms, and stands guard.

I really need to buy him something now.

Fifteen minutes later, the unmistakable rumble of Harleys roll into the parking lot.

Not one.

Two.

My head snaps up.

Ghost’s bike appears first, Koa half a length behind him. Neither of them kills their engine until they’re almost beside my car, both bikes rolling to a stop with practiced precision.

The moment Ghost swings off his bike, his eyes find mine, and he crosses the distance in long strides, his eyes locked onto me, reading my emotions, before he even reaches the driver’s door. Liam steps out of the way, and Ghost gives him a head bob. “Thanks, brother,” he says, satisfied, at least enough that I’m still in one piece. He opens the door. “You all right?”

I want to say yes.

Instead, I shake my head.

His expression tightens for the briefest second before he offers me his hand. “Come on.”

I take it. The warmth of his fingers around mine steadies something that has been rattling loose inside me since I lifted the lid of that box.

Koa walks straight to the passenger side. “Still in there?”

I nod. “Exactly how I left it.”

“Good.” Ghost opens the passenger door carefully, leaning in just enough to look without touching anything.

His jaw hardens. “Pop her trunk.”

Koa leans in, popping my trunk with a solid clang before pulling a pair of nitrile gloves from his saddlebags.

Neither of them rushes. Every movement is deliberate. Ghost slips the gloves on first, lifting the box as though it might still have something left to tell us, then carries it across to the trunk. One by one, he removes the photographs, laying them in neat rows in the trunk.

Me.

The clubhouse.

Millie’s bakery.

The Sunday ride.

Then… Piper.