Page 4 of Her Outlaw Biker (Vanishing With the Rebel #2)

Ghost

She blinks at me, lips parted like she’s not sure whether to be scared or amused.

“I’m joking,” I say quietly, watching her face. “Mostly.”

I love how expressive her eyes are, how you can literally see her thoughts flash across her face. In these parts of the world, it’s rare to see people who wear their emotions on their sleeves.

She’s looking at me like I’m some sort of alien, and her face twists in a half scowl, half confused glare. “You’re not funny.”

“I didn’t say I was.” I push off the doorframe and move slow across the room, giving her time to bolt if she’s got the urge. She doesn’t move. Good. “You hungry?”

She hesitates, then shrugs. “Yeah.”

I turn around, ignoring the tightness in my chest. Damn—I can’t seem to focus with her wearing my shirt.

It’s distracting as hell. Too soft, too intimate.

Like some part of me that’s always been locked down is now just…

unclenched. I didn’t plan on offering her clothes, didn’t plan on her staying long enough to need them.

But now she’s in the middle of my space, wearing something that smells like me, and it’s doing things to my head I don’t like.

Makes me think about what she’s got on underneath. If anything…

Makes me think about what it would feel like to press her up against the wall, fist that loose fabric in my hands, and learn every damn sound she makes when she stops trying to act so tough.

I shake it off and head to the counter, grabbing a pan with more force than necessary.

“You like chicken noodle?”

“I’m not picky,” she mutters sourly, and I glance back just in time to catch her shivering again. She’s trying so damn hard to stay guarded, but that blanket ain’t armor, and neither is attitude.

I put the soup on the stove and turn on the heat. Silence stretches between us like a taut rope, but she doesn’t look away. So I break it first.

“Now tell me,” I say, turning to face her, arms folded loosely, “why did a mechanic’s daughter from Rust Creek show up on a beat-up bike, in the middle of the damn desert, looking for a ghost?”

She blinks up at me in shock. “How did you—”

“Come on,” I say, keeping my voice soft but firm. “You think I didn’t clock you the second you passed out on my property?” I nod toward her boots. “Steel-toe dust. Rust Creek grit. Grease under your nails, calluses on your palms. You handle more torque wrenches than lip gloss, sweetheart.”

She blinks, thrown off. “Okay, creepy much?”

“Not creepy. Observant.” I lean against the counter. “Besides, a name like Clover’s not exactly common. Didn’t take much digging once I stepped outside. Clover Raymond. Nineteen. Mother deceased. Father owns a garage in town. ”

Her lips part, and I catch a glimmer of pain in her eyes, almost making me regret mentioning her mother, but then she catches herself. “So you did run a check.”

I shrug. “Perimeter sweep. Intel’s part of the deal. Especially when the bait is a gorgeous blondie with big, scared eyes.”

“I—I’m not bait,” she says, clearing her throat nervously.

I raise a brow. “You sure about that?”

She opens her mouth. Shuts it. Then closes it again and shrugs. “He didn’t say it like that. Just…told me I had to find you.”

“Who’s he ?”

She hesitates. I wait. She looks like she might fold, but she doesn’t. Not yet.

“My dad owes money,” she says finally. “A lot. He…he drinks, so the garage is pretty much a shack now…” She swallows. “He gambled a lot. They told me they’d wipe the debt clean if I could convince you to come back.”

“To the MC.”

She nods once.

I let that sit for a moment. “And you thought that sounded like a good idea?”

“No,” she says, voice tight. “I thought it sounded like the only option I had left.”

There it is. The truth. Raw and sharp and bleeding out right in front of me.

I move closer, slow and steady, until I’m just a few feet away. “You don’t know what they really wanted, do you?”

She lifts her chin. “They said it was a job. One last job.”

“They always say that.” I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. She hears the weight of it just fine. “They set you up, Clover. Sent you in alone, unarmed, thinking you’d charm me into walking back into a war zone I barely crawled out of.”

Her brows draw together. “They wouldn’t—”

“They would. And they did.” I step back, give her space to breathe. “If those bastards wanted me, they’d come themselves. The only reason to send a nineteen-year-old grease monkey whose father owes them a debt is if they didn’t care whether she made it back.”

She stares at me, pale. Like the puzzle pieces are finally sliding into place—and they don’t paint a pretty picture.

“They never said I’d be in danger,” she whispers.

“Sweetheart, you were the danger.”

She recoils. But it’s not from me. It’s from the sick weight of betrayal landing in her gut.

I turn back to the stove, stir the soup. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you on sight,” I say over my shoulder. “How could you come out here unarmed?”

“I didn’t know,” she murmurs again. “I swear, I didn’t know.”

“I believe you.” The words come easy. Because they’re true.

She blinks. “You do?”

I glance back at her. “You’re a bad liar. And worse bait.”

That earns me a weak glare. But it’s something.

I ladle the soup into a bowl, set it in front of her. “Eat.”

She stares at the bowl, then at me. “So what now?”

I lower into the seat across from her, folding my hands. “Now, you tell me everything you know. Every name. Every lie they fed you. And I’ll decide whether we’re running, hiding, or burning the whole damn thing down.”

She stares at me like she’s not sure whether to kiss me or shoot me.

I wouldn’t mind either outcome.

Long as she stays.

She eats in slow, quiet bites, the spoon trembling slightly in her hand. I let her finish half the bowl before I speak again.

“Names,” I say softly.

She sets the spoon down, green eyes flicking up to meet mine. “You’re not gonna like ’em.”

“Didn’t expect I would.”

She blows out a breath. “Rigs Cross…and Cutter, his vice. He gave me your location.”

My jaw clenches at that. “Rigs. That bastard.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to turn to,” she says, voice low. “Rigs said I just had to set up a meeting with you and they’d wipe the slate clean. But he lied, didn’t he?”

I don’t answer. She already knows.

Instead, I ask, “And you didn’t think to question why a bunch of patch-wearing assholes needed you to reach out to a man like me?”

“I did,” she says. “I questioned everything. But I couldn’t—” Her voice catches. “I couldn’t let my dad rot while I did nothing.”

There’s something about that. That desperate kind of loyalty. The kind you bleed for, even if it’s killing you. I know it too well.

I nod once, slowly. “They used you.”

She closes her eyes. “Yeah.”

I want to be pissed. I am pissed. But not at her. I’m pissed for her.

Still, she’s not innocent. Not entirely.

“You’re still in on this, Clover,” I say, voice low. “Whether you knew the plan or not. You walked through my door carrying a target on your back, and maybe one on mine.”

She flinches, but doesn’t break eye contact. “Then why haven’t you thrown me out?”

I don’t have an answer I like. So I don’t give her one.

Instead, I stand. I pace. I try to stay in control. But it’s hard when she’s looking at me like that—like she wants to run, but some part of her wants to be caught.

The light above us buzzes faintly, its hum cutting through the silence.

“Why are you really here?” I ask, my voice rougher now. “And don’t give me that line about your dad. That might’ve been the reason you left Rust Creek, but it’s not why you stayed. Not after everything.”

She stands, slow and careful, like I’m a wolf she doesn’t want to startle. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “I just…I feel like I’m supposed to be here.”

I freeze.

That’s a dangerous thing to say to a man like me.

Because I’ve spent years believing I was better off alone.

But the way she’s looking at me now, her wild golden hair framing her face like liquid fire, lips parted, chest rising and falling like she’s fighting to stay steady…

it makes me forget that solitude ever kept me safe.

I step toward her. Just once.

She doesn’t move.

God help me, I know she deserves better than a man like me. I’m too old for her. Too broken. But then her eyes flick to my mouth. And I break. I reach for her, rough fingers curling under her jaw, tilting her face up just enough.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” I murmur.

And then I kiss her.

Not gentle. Not slow.

I kiss her like I’ve been starving for something I didn’t know I wanted until she walked into my life and lit a match inside my chest. She gasps, but she doesn’t pull away.

Her hands find the front of my shirt, fisting the fabric like she needs something to hold on to.

My tongue brushes hers, and the sound she makes nearly undoes me.

I back her up until she hits the wall beside the kitchen shelf. Her body melts into mine, soft curves pressed against hard muscle, all heat and desperation. She tastes like warmth and rain and something sweet I can’t name.

One of my hands drags down her side, finds her hip, the blanket slipping open. She lets out a breathless moan when I press my thigh between hers.

“Ghost,” she whispers, head tilting back as my lips trail down her jaw. “We shouldn’t—”

“You’re right,” I mutter against her throat.

But I don’t stop.

I lift her by the hips, pressing her harder to the wall. Her legs wrap around me like it’s instinct, and I kiss her again, slower this time, deeper. Like I want to taste every secret she’s ever kept. Her fingers find their way into my hair, tugging just enough to make me groan against her mouth.

I drag the blanket off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

The sight of her in my old shirt fuels the desire burning through my veins like a damn volcano.

The hem barely brushes the top of her thighs, and when I cup her ass and pull her tighter, she grinds against me with a quiet, desperate sound that makes my blood burn.

“Fuck,” I mutter against her lips. “You’re gonna be the end of me.”

She kisses me like she doesn’t care. Like she wants that.

Like maybe I’m already the end of her too.

But I stop.

Because if I don’t stop now, I’m not sure I can.

I let her slide down slowly, her bare feet hitting the floor again. I press my forehead to hers, panting, trying to get control of the wildfire I just lit.

She’s flushed, dazed, lips swollen and eyes glazed with need.

“Why did you stop?” she whispers.

“Baby,” I whisper, brushing a knuckle down her cheek. “If I keep going, I’m gonna ruin you.”

But my hand is still on her hip.

And her fingers are still holding me tight.

And she tilts her head up to meet my eyes and whispers back, “Then ruin me.”