25. Ghost
The wind is the only thing that clears my head. It’s a physical force, pushing against my chest, trying to strip away the lingering echo of Doc’s voice calling me a hollow shell.
I glance to my left. Bear is riding alongside me, his massive frame hunched over his bars.
We’ve been riding for two hours until the sun started to dip.
We don’t need words. We haven’t needed them since we were ten years old, huddled together in the shadow of a rusted-out trailer, sharing a single sleeve of saltines.
I signal, and we pull into a gravel lot in front of a roadside diner that’s seen better decades. The neon sign hums with a dying buzz, and the air smells like sagebrush and fried grease.
We kill the engines.
“You gonna keep brooding, or are we gonna eat?” Bear grunts, kicking his kickstand down. He looks at me, his eyes sharp and knowing under his brow.
“I’m eating,” I mutter.
We slide into a cracked vinyl booth at the back of the diner. A waitress who looks like she’s been working here since the Eisenhower administration drops two menus and two glasses of ice water without saying a word.
Bear doesn’t even look at the menu. He leans back, the booth groaning under his weight, and fixes me with a look. “So. Word around the clubhouse is you went and did something real stupid.”
I take a slow sip of my water, feeling the cold slide down my throat. “Define stupid.”
“Married Angel,” Bear says, his voice flat. “Did you really do it?”
A slow, genuine grin tugs at the corner of my mouth. It’s the first time I’ve felt it today—that spark of pure, unadulterated triumph that has nothing to do with the club and everything to do with the woman in my bed.
“Fuck yeah, I did,” I say, my voice low and sure.
Bear stares at me for a long beat, then let’s out a rough, barking laugh that makes a couple at the counter jump. “Goddamn. You actually caught a feeling and didn’t kill it. I never thought I’d see the day.”
His face settles then, the humor fading into the serious, protective edge of a man who knows exactly what I carry. “How is she, D? Really? Shade said it was bad over there.”
The mention of London makes my vision blur for a second. The rage is a permanent stain. I think of the way she looked in that hospital bed, the way her throat was painted in shades of purple and black, the way she screamed my name in the dark of the hotel room.
“It was bad,” I say, my voice dropping an octave, turning into something jagged. “Some trust-fund prick in London thought he could own her. Thought he could push her past her limits and leave her for dead.”
I don’t go into the details. I don’t tell him about the way I felt when I walked into that warehouse to finish him. Bear knows. He sees the way my knuckles are still slightly swollen, the way my jaw is locked tight.
“She’s tough,” I continue, clearing my throat. “Tougher than anyone gave her credit for. But she’s... she’s healing. I’m making sure of it.”
Bear nods slowly. “Doc’s taking it like a man with a terminal diagnosis, I hear.”
“Doc can go to hell,” I snap, though the sting of his words earlier still lingers. “He doesn’t know shit about what she needs. I’m the one who stayed by her bed. I’m the one she’s holding onto at night.”
I lean forward, my elbows on the table, looking Bear straight in the eye.
“I love her, J. More than the club, more than the road. For the first time in my life, the future actually looks... fucking good. I’m going to buy her a house. I’m going to give her everything she never thought she’d find in this life.”
Bear reaches out, his large, scarred hand clapping my shoulder.
He squeezes, a silent acknowledgment of the thirty years of shit we’ve survived together.
“I’m happy for you, man. Truly. Out of everyone I know, you’re the one who deserved a win the most. After everything we buried... you earned a piece of the sun.”
We sit in silence for a moment as the waitress drops two plates of burgers and fries in front of us. The tension in the air thins out, replaced by the easy comfort of two men who don’t have to pretend.
“So,” Bear says, his mouth full of fries. He winks at me, a devilish glint in his eye. “When are you bringing her down to Onyx? The girls have been asking about you, and I bet Angel would love the VIP lounge.”
I narrow my eyes at him, my grip tightening on my burger. The very thought of Angel walking into that dark, neon-soaked den of vice makes my blood pressure spike. “She isn’t setting foot in Onyx.”
Bear laughs, a deep, rumbling sound. “What? Why not? Afraid she’ll see you in your natural habitat? Or is it that you don’t want other men looking at her?”
“No one looks at her,” I growl. “And no, she isn’t going to a fucking kink club, ever again. She’s my wife, not a club chick.”
Bear leans back, pointing a fry at me. “Look at you. Less than a week in and you’re already the most possessive bastard in the state. I remember when you used to say you didn’t want any woman clipping your wings. Now you’re ready to build a cage and sit on top of it.”
“It’s not a cage,” I mutter, though I know he’s right.
“Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Bear smirks. “Just wait until she wants to go out with Grace for drinks. You gonna follow them in the shadows?”
“Maybe,” I say, and I’m only half-joking.
Bear shakes his head, grinning. “You’re gone, man. Completely gone. I never thought I’d see the day you’re whipped by a girl who used to steal your wrenches, but I guess here we are.”
“I’m not whipped,” I say, though my mind immediately drifts back to the way she looked this morning, wrapped in my sheets. “I’m just... invested.”
“Invested,” Bear repeats, rolling his eyes. “Right. Eat your burger, you lovesick idiot. We gotta get back before Doc decides to set your room on fire.”
We finish our meal with the kind of playful insults that only come from decades of shared trauma and survival. As we walk back out to the bikes, the California air is cool and sweet.
I look at Bear—the boy who helped me dig a hole in the woods when the world was ending. He knows my skeletons. He knows the blood on my hands. And he’s the only one who truly understands why holding Angel feels like the first breath of air after being underwater for twenty years.
I swing a leg over my Harley, the engine roaring to life with a familiar, comforting thunder.
“Hey, Ghost!” Bear yells over the noise as he pulls his helmet on.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t fuck it up!” he yells with a grin.
I just give him a middle finger and peel out of the lot, the back tire kicking up gravel. I’m not going to fuck it up. I’ve spent my whole life being a ghost, living in the shadows of other people’s lives. But not anymore.
I’m going home to my wife.
And for the first time, home isn’t just a place to park my bike. It’s the woman waiting for me behind the clubhouse doors.