Page 73 of Reckless

“Oh my God!” The words barely leave my mouth before Ghost throws the Harley sideways just enough to spoil the shooter’s angle.

The movement should terrify me. Instead, it feels impossibly controlled, like the motorcycle isn’t reacting, it’s listening.

More shots crack through the air, and suddenly something burns across my upper arm as if someone dragged a blade through fire over my skin. I gasp, my hand flying to it before I even think, and when I pull it away, my glove comes back streaked with blood.

For one impossible heartbeat I can only look at it.

They hit me.

I’ve been shot.

Not badly.

But enough to make the reality of what’s happening crash into me with crushing force.

They’re trying to kill us.

They’re trying to kill me.

“Ghost…” My voice shakes so badly I barely recognize it.

“You hit?” His voice doesn’t change. Bullets are flying past us, and brothers are returning fire. We are doing highway speeds through the middle of the desert, and somehow he still sounds exactly like the man who’d asked me if I wanted coffee this morning.

I don’t know whether to find that reassuring or terrifying.

“I…” I swallow hard. “Just, my arm.”

“Hold on.” He gives me two words. That’s all. Not because he doesn’t care, but because every part of him is already moving.

His left hand leaves the handlebar.

My heart stops.

“Ghost, what are you—” The pistol appears in his hand so smoothly I don’t even see where it came from, and it shuts me up completely.

The explosion beside my head is so loud my entire body jerks. The concussion punches through my helmet, leaving my ears ringing as the smell of burned gunpowder mixes with desert dust.

For the smallest fraction of a second, all I can think is… Ghost just fired a gun, while we are doing highway speeds.

His arm doesn’t shake.

His breathing doesn’t change.

Nothing about him changes.

His shot punches through the SUV’s windshield, glass erupting in a glittering spray as the driver instinctively jerks the wheel. The vehicle swerves toward the shoulder before correcting, losing just enough ground for Bear to drive his bike into the gap.

Nitro and Koa swing wide, answering with controlled bursts that force the SUV farther back.

Ghost doesn’t chase them or fire again.

The pistol disappears as quickly as it appeared, his hand returning to the handlebars like it never left. His attention is already back where it belongs.

On the road.

On getting me out.

I can feel every tiny movement through him—the shift of his shoulders, the pressure of his knees against the bike, the way he leans into the next bend before the Harley even reaches it, anticipating every curve, every pothole, every threat before it happens.