Page 15 of Ghost
Privacy doesn’t exist here. Damn whoever to hell.
Ripper leans against the doorframe, a single key dangling from his finger. His eyes take in our flushed faces, our proximity, and a knowing smirk plays on his lips. “Take good care of the place, bud. I’ll swing by later to grab my things.” He tosses the key. I catch it on reflex. With a final, unreadable glance, he’s gone.
Our shared moment has been interrupted, leaving us both in a rough shape. I look back at Eliza. Her lips are swollen, her breath still uneven, and there’s a longing in her eyes so potent it steals my air. She’s biting her lip, holding back the words.
But she doesn’t say what she wants. Instead, she takes a shaky breath, collects her small backpack from the floor, and slings it over her shoulder. Her eyes meet mine, clear and resolved.
“I’m ready,” she says. “I’ll follow you wherever you want to go.”
8
Eliza
I’ve never felt so uncomfortably aware of my own body before. The rough denim of my jeans is a constant friction with every step, a persistent, throbbing reminder of the pulse beating tight where both my legs meet.
Each time my thighs graze the other, a fresh, sharp ache makes me bite the inside of my cheek. My brain is foggy, caught somewhere between the memory of his mouth and the dizzying reality of the morning, and I can’t seem to claw my way out.
Even the cool, damp air does nothing to douse the heat simmering under my skin. I can still feel the phantom press of his hands on my hips, the demanding scrape of his teeth on my lip. I’m aching for a touch that’s no longer there, a need coiling so tight inside me it feels like a physical pain I don’t know how to soothe.
I’ve never felt like this—so worked up, so desperate, with no relief in sight.
So when Ghost leads me toward the rumbling row of bikes and their stoic riders, I’m utterly distracted, lost in the haze of my own want. I don’t even see him stop, walking right into the solid wall of his back.
The fresh scent of leather hits my nose, and I have to convince myself to take a step back instead of clinging to any contact.
Moving to the side, I watch as he moves to a saddlebag attached to a bike. Shoving cords inside and attaching a small bag, it takes me too many seconds of watching him before I realize he plans to take us on this.
“Wait, you still ride?” The surprise in my voice is genuine as he unclips a helmet from the back. A blush heats my cheeks when he steps close, his body caging me in as he carefully settles the helmet on my head.
“Of course.” His mouth curves into that rare, devastating hint of a smile as his fingers work under my chin, tightening the strap. His touch is surprisingly gentle. “I’m a better driver than I was a few years ago, don’t worry.”
The statement hangs between us, heavy with the unspoken story of his accident, the loss of his leg. But there’s no fear in his eyes, only confidence.
I’ve never been on a motorcycle before, outside of last night. At that point, I was still reeling from being taken from my home to be scared of the ride. Now, there’s nothing distracting me.
His thumb brushes my cheek, a fleeting, reassuring touch that sends another wave of warmth through me. “I wouldn’t dare take any risks with you on the back of my bike. You’re safe with me.”
He swings a leg over the seat with a practiced, powerful grace that makes my breath catch. The engine roars to life beneath him, a deep, guttural vibration that I feel in my bones. He revsit once, the sound a promise of speed and freedom, and the machine seems like an extension of the man himself.
He looks really good on it. The thought is simple, undeniable.
He glances over his shoulder, the intensity in his eyes momentarily shifting into an unspoken question. He motions for me to join him.
Taking a steadying breath, I push aside the last of my nerves and climb on behind him. My arms wrap around him, and I take advantage of the opportunity to press my body against his.
I mold myself against the solid warmth of his back, my front to his back, and as the bike pulls forward, I realize this isn’t just a ride. It’s a leap of faith, and he’s the only one I’d ever trust to catch me.
Diesel and Kansas are a part of the convoy, but there are three other faces I don’t recognize, one being from that meeting.Warden. I’m sure I’ll get the chance to meet them all properly another day once the dust settles.
The roar of the engines is deafening, a thunder that vibrates from the bike through my entire body. The world becomes a blur of muted greens and grays as we fly through the fog, trees whipping past like silent, ghostly figures sending us off.
I tuck my face against the worn leather of Ghost’s shoulder, hiding myself. It’s not just the wind I’m hiding from; it’s the eyes I can’t see, the risk of being recognized and tearing this new reality apart.
We begin the climb, the road twisting up the mountain in a series of sharp curves. Ghost leans into each one with an effortless grace, the bike becoming an extension of his will. My stomach lurches, and I squeeze him tighter, my fingers clutching the front of his shirt. I feel the faint rumble in his chest—not the engine, but a low, approving sound—and I hold on even closer.
When we finally come to a stop, the sudden quiet is almost as jarring as the noise surrounding us. Before us sits a cabin,shabby and weathered, looking as if it grew straight out of the mountain floor. It’s tucked into a clearing of its own, surrounded by a dense wall of pines.
Warden kills his engine and lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Ripper. This place is… rustic.”
