Page 2 of Her Outlaw Biker (Vanishing With the Rebel #2)

Ghost

Blondie drops before I can catch her.

One second she’s standing there, green eyes open wide, the picture of innocence. She’s shaking, spitting out some half lie about coming alone.

The next, she’s crumpling to the dirt like a marionette with its strings cut.

Shit.

I lower my rifle, but the tension doesn’t leave my shoulders. My pulse is still hammering from the ambush. I do a quick sweep of the ridge, finger tight on the trigger. No movement. No backup. Just the wind, the grit, and her.

I crouch beside her, checking for weapons first.

Force of habit.

My hands skim her sides, her jacket, her boots. Nothing but a Swiss Army knife tucked into her sock and a cracked phone in her jacket pocket.

She’s light. Too light. I can feel bone under that sass-and-flannel exterior, and up close, she’s even paler than she looked from the porch. Cheeks flushed pink from the sun. Perfect lips chapped.

She rode through the desert like this?

Stupid. Brave. Reckless.

I touch the smooth skin of her neck. Her pulse is beating fast…thready. Dehydration, exhaustion. Maybe shock. I catch the faintest bruise blooming across her ribs, probably from when that asshole grabbed her. There’s no telling what shape she was in before she got here.

“Damn it,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my scruffy chin.

What the heck is a girl like her doin’ out here?

She doesn’t look like a plant. She doesn’t look like much of anything, except too stubborn to quit.

Girl showed up shaking but stood her ground. Didn’t beg. Didn’t cry. Didn’t cower.

That rattles me more than I care to admit.

I slide my arms under her and lift. She’s limp, head rolling against my shoulder, but she’s breathing, although her breath is shallow and uneven. The adrenaline in my veins finally starts to fade as I carry her inside, the door creaking shut behind us.

The shade of the trailer is a relief from the harsh elements. Thought the days are hot, the nights can get cold out here. I set her down on the ratty couch and grab a towel to wipe the sweat from her brow. Her skin’s hot to the touch, fever-warm from the sun.

She moans low in her throat, lashes fluttering like she’s fighting her way back.

“Don’t,” I mutter. “Stay down.”

I unscrew a bottle of water and press the rim to her mouth. She doesn’t stir, so I tilt it slowly, letting a trickle run between her lips. Some of it spills down her chin, but she swallows.

Good girl.

After that, I go to work.

I pull her boots and jacket off. There’s a shallow cut on her side, but not from the fight. It’s older, maybe scraped open again when she fell. I grab my kit, clean it with antiseptic, then patch her up as best I can.

I should be more clinical about it. More detached.

But I’m not.

I keep looking at her face, at the way her brows knit even in sleep. Like she’s still bracing for something bad to happen even while unconscious.

She doesn’t belong in this world. Not with those men from earlier.

Not with men like me.

And yet here she is. A pawn. Sent by whoever’s pulling strings now. Someone must either want me dead, or they want me to pull a trigger and they think she’s the best tool to draw me out.

Three years…it’s been three years since I left that goddamn life behind. I turned thirty out here in the desert, alone, but I’m still plagued by the fucking ghosts of my past. I glance at her again, a young, sunshine-haired girl, all armored up in leather.

She’s beautiful. No doubt.

I wonder who she’s working for. The Vultures? The military? Or one of the many other enemies I’ve made along the way.

Something doesn’t seem right, though…

There’s something about her that doesn’t fit the mold. She seems so pure. So damn naive. Like she needs to be…protected.

“You either have a death wish,” I murmur, “or no idea what the hell you’re doing.”

She stirs again. Whispers something I can’t catch.

I stand up, keeping my eyes on her. My hand brushes the rifle still leaning against the doorframe.

I don’t trust her. Not yet. But I can’t kill her either.

And that says more than I’m ready to admit.

I watch her closely as she slowly regains consciousness, a breath hitching in her throat.

Her lids flutter open, pupils adjusting to the dim light.

She turns her head slightly and our gazes clash.

I’m standing a few feet away, arms crossed, watching her like a wolf watches its prey.

I keep my expression hard, intimidating.

She jerks upright the falls back with a grunt, blinking hard. “What the hell? Where am I?”

“My trailer,” I say flatly. “You passed out.”

She takes that in, glancing around, then down at the bandage on her side where it peeks out from beneath her shirt. Her jaw tightens. “Did you touch me?”

“I kept you alive.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

I lift a brow. She’s got guts. Weak and disoriented, and still mouthing off. Her voice is scratchy, rough like gravel, but there’s a heat in it that I can’t deny, a fire that my body instinctively responds to.

I don’t smile. But something in me sharpens.

“You came to my door dragging trouble behind you,” I say. “Don’t get picky about the hands that stopped you from bleeding out.”

She huffs and tries to sit up straighter, wincing at the movement. “You could work on your bedside manner, Ghost.”

The fact that she knows my name doesn’t surprise me. It confirms what I already knew.

She was sent.

“You got about five seconds to tell me who you are and why the hell you’re here.”

She meets my eyes—hers are green and defiant even through the haze of pain. “My name is Clover.”

“Cute. Now the truth.”

“That is the truth.” She shrugs with effort. “Just Clover. Like Madonna. Or Cher. Only dustier.”

Smart-ass. She’s got a sense to humor too.

“Try again, sweetheart.”

She clams up, eyes narrowing.

Stubborn little thing. She’s terrified. I can see it in the way her fingers dig into the edge of the couch, but she’s not breaking. Not yet.

I lean forward, resting my hands on my knees, letting my shadow fall over her. “You can keep pretending you’re a damsel in distress who just happened upon a desolate trailer in the middle of nowhere, or you can tell me exactly why you’re here.”

She doesn’t flinch, but I see a muscle twitch in her throat. She’s nervous.

Great. Fear is good. She should be afraid of me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she insists.

A thunderclap outside the trailer has her jumping slightly. The air between us crackles.

I mutter a curse, running a hand through my hair in frustration. Damn these sudden storms that come without warning. Just like this gorgeous feisty blonde staring at me with those wide green eyes…

So much for lying low. Trouble always seems to find me.

I glance at her again. She’s shaking, maybe from fear or exhaustion, or the climbing chill in the trailer. Or maybe a combination of all three. She holds my gaze boldly, glaring at me like an obstinate little bird.

I shouldn’t care—I can’t afford soft spots. But for a reason beyond me, I walk over to the small closet in the corner and grab an old shirt and a blanket. I walk back over to her and drop to my knees beside her, placing the shirt on the couch.

“You look like you’re about to freeze to death,” I say, carefully arranging the blanket around her. Her eyes soften for a millisecond, and I find myself drowning in those magnificent green depths.

I quickly straighten to my full height, clearing my throat.

“Wear that if you need to change out of…those,” I say, gesturing at her torn shirt and dusty pants. “I’ll go check the perimeter. I’ll be right back.”