Page 3 of Her Outlaw Biker (Vanishing With the Rebel #2)

Clover

The moment the door clicks shut behind him, I let out a long breath. Silence folds in around me like a second skin, heavy, stifling, broken only by the soft creak of the old trailer walls and the storm grumbling in the distance.

Ghost is gone. Not far, maybe just a perimeter check like he said, but I’m still alone.

Alone in the lion’s den.

I pull the blanket tighter around me, trying not to focus on the deep ache in my bones. I glance at the door again, half expecting him to burst inside with that hard expression and those cold, assessing eyes. But it stays shut.

I close my own eyes instead, sinking back against the lumpy couch and letting the fear trickle in now that I’m not too busy trying to stay alive.

This whole mission was a mistake.

But it’s not like I had a choice.

Rigs offered me a deal, and I took it. He said all I had to do was find Ghost. Lure him back. Just talk him into a meeting.

He promised me that once it was done, the debt would be cleared. My father would be off the hook. And I—I’d finally be able to breathe.

It was supposed to be that simple.

But now?

Now I’m wondering if the real trap wasn’t for Ghost…but for me.

Those men who attacked me earlier—Rigs didn’t say anything about that. Didn’t warn me about any ambushes or bullets or the terrifying man who came out of nowhere to rain down bullets on the intruders. My breath hitches just thinking about the way Ghost moved. Efficient. Deadly. Silent as a shadow.

Those men weren’t amateurs either.

And they definitely weren’t surprised.

So who sent them? One of Ghost’s many enemies? Or did Rigs tip them off, using me as bait for both sides?

I press the heels of my palms into my eyes. The last thing I can afford is tears. Not now. Not ever.

I’ve spent most of my life holding it together while everything around me fell apart. I’d barely turned nine when my mom died from breast cancer. She fought really hard, but it ate her from the inside out. And when she was gone, it was like someone flipped a switch in Dad. Like he just…shut off.

He started drinking. First it was beer after work.

Then whiskey before breakfast. By the time I turned twelve, I was the one dragging him off bar floors, cooking whatever canned food we had left, pretending we were fine when we were anything but.

No slumber parties. No dances. No childhood.

Just cleaning up after a man who stopped being a father the day we buried my mother.

I was forced to grow up too fast, to look after the garage and scrape enough for us to get by.

But he didn’t stop at drinking…

Dad started to gamble and somehow got involved with the Iron Vultures MC.

His stupid decisions landed us deeper in debt with the wrong kind of people, and I was roped into his mess, forced to run errands for the MC.

I would drop packages that I didn’t dare open, to people I didn’t dare look in the eyes…

So many times, I was tempted to run—to leave it all behind—but in the end, I could never leave my dad.

Before Mom died, life was simple. Good. Dad’s eyes were warm and he made me smile a lot. I can’t seem to forget the times when he was a good dad. Sometimes, even now, I see flashes of the man he used to be.

So when Rigs summoned me, promising a way out—promising me that one trip to the middle of nowhere could save everything—I said yes.

I didn’t ask questions.

So now I’m here, in the trailer of a man known for killing without flinching.

Ghost.

Among the MC guys, Ghost is a legend. The kind they talk about in hushed voices. During his time as a military sniper in a covert black ops unit, he was the guy they sent in when no one else could get the job done—silent, precise, invisible. Just a ghost in the wind.

And after he left the military and joined the MC, the name stuck. No one called him Jack anymore. He was “Ghost”—because dead men don’t talk, and he made sure they stayed that way.

Some say he’s a ghost for real—untouchable, unkillable.

Others say he went rogue after mistakenly killing a child in the line of duty.

No one really knows what happened the day he disappeared three years ago.

But they all agree on one thing—you don’t go looking for Ghost unless you’ve got a death wish.

Guess that makes me a certified idiot.

My mind conjures up the image of him as he draped the blanket around me. I bite down on my lower lip as my heart skips giddily.

I don’t know what I imagined Ghost would look like, but I wasn’t prepared for him to be so…tall, scarred, and so devastatingly handsome. My stomach twists at the thought, my heart doing another funny flip. I sigh softly, letting myself momentarily indulge the thought of him, basking in it…

He has that ex-military stillness—the kind that makes you nervous even when he’s not moving.

His eyes are steel-gray and cold as a winter storm, but sharp.

Always watching. Calculating. His jaw’s rough with scruff and his voice…

his voice is low and gravelly, like it was scraped across broken asphalt and still came out smoother than it should.

He shouldn’t affect me this way.

But he does.

Even when I was half-conscious, I could feel the heat rolling off him. I remember the way his arms felt around me—strong, protective. His callused hands treated my wound with such unexpected care…and the moment he tucked the blanket around me, something inside me cracked.

He’s not just dangerous—he’s beautiful. Not in any safe or sane way, but in the kind of way that ruins you. He’s the kind of man my mother would warn me against if she were alive. He’s fire and ice. A storm I should take shelter from…yet—a bubbling curiosity stirs in my guts.

God, what’s wrong with me?

I pull the blanket tighter, trying to block the chill creeping in, but it’s not just the cold. It’s him. The memory of him. The way he looked at me like I was some puzzle he didn’t know whether to solve or destroy.

I reach out and take the shirt he dropped on the couch beside me, and before I can stop myself, I bury my face in the soft checkered material, inhaling the smell of him.

He smells like leather and smoke, like the open road baked under a desert sun—sharp, wild, and a little dangerous.

There’s a trace of motor oil and clean sweat clinging to the fabric, grounded by something unexpectedly warm.

Sandalwood, maybe, or the faintest hint of cedar.

It’s the scent of a man who doesn’t belong to anyone, who lives by his own rules…

and it wraps around me like a memory I never had but suddenly can’t let go of.

I hesitate for only a second before standing up and pulling off my dusty, sweat-caked clothes, then slip the shirt over my head.

It’s too big, of course, draping down over my thighs, the sleeves swallowing my hands, but somehow it feels like armor.

Like safety. I’m pulling the last button closed, fingers trembling just slightly, when the door creaks open behind me.

I turn.

Ghost steps inside, shaking off the wind and dust like he’s carved out of the storm itself. His jacket is damp at the shoulders, hair slightly tousled. He looks up, his striking gray eyes clashing with mine.

My breath catches.

His gaze drags over me, slow, deliberate.

Like he’s memorizing every inch of how I look in his shirt.

His jaw tightens, one hand still on the doorknob, the other curled into a loose fist by his side.

That unreadable expression he always wears slips, just for a second, and what’s underneath steals the air right out of the room.

Hunger. Raw, restrained, dangerous.

I press my legs together to relieve the strange heat building up in my core. My heart is beating too fast, my stomach knotting up under the intensity of his stare.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks finally, voice rough like gravel and smoke.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. Too quickly.

My pulse is thrumming in my throat, hard and fast. I lower myself to the couch, wrapping the blanket around me like it’ll protect me from the heat in his eyes…from my body’s reaction to him.

His lips tilt upward in a faint smirk, and without a word, he steps closer. My breath catches when he crouches in front of me, his presence swallowing the space between us. He lifts his hand to my face, the rough pad of his thumb brushing my temple.

For a moment, I forget how to breathe. His touch is surprisingly gentle, his hand lingering for a second longer than it should. His gaze drops to my mouth, then flicks back up, unreadable.

“You have a fever,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

The tension crackles, heavy and thick. Every nerve in my body is lit up and trembling like a tuning fork. I should pull away. I don’t.

“I’ll be fine,” I mumble, not quite meeting his eyes. My skin flushes. It’s just a touch, but it feels like he’s branded me.

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but almost.

“Sure,” he says simply, then straightens and steps back just enough that I can breathe again. Then his voice turns harder, cooler. “Now you’ve got two choices.”

I blink. “What?”

He nods toward the door. “You can walk away. Right now. Get on your bike and disappear before the storm gets worse.”

My stomach drops. “And the second?”

“Or you stay,” he says, voice like a combination of smoke and steel, “and start talking before I change my mind.”

I stare at him, blood pounding in my ears. Lightning flashes, right before a growl of thunder rumbles low and close. Wind is starting to beat against the sides of the trailer. This isn’t a passing storm, and I can’t survive out in it.

He knows that. So I don’t really have much of a choice.

Right?

I glance at the door, then back at him—at the man who terrifies me, confuses me, unsettles me in ways no man ever has. There’s something in his eyes beneath the steel…something hollow and quiet, like he’s waiting for me to lie again. Waiting for me to prove I’m just like the rest.

But he hasn’t thrown me out.

He hasn’t tied me up or threatened me or turned me in. And that shouldn’t mean anything. But it does.

I don’t trust him. I can’t trust him.

So why the hell do I feel safer in this storm-soaked trailer with a killer than I ever did in my own home?

“I’m tired,” I say, hugging the blanket tighter. “And cold. And I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

He nods once, like he expected that. “So stay.”

The words are simple. But the weight of them settles deep inside my gut.

I swallow hard. “You’re not gonna kill me, are you?”

He meets my eyes, a small smile tugging at his full lips. “Maybe I will. Pretty blondes make for a good breakfast.”