14. Ghosts in the Rearview
FOURTEEN
GHOSTS IN THE REARVIEW
CRUSHER
The soft song of crickets outside is the only thing keeping my thoughts from collapsing in on themselves.
Nevaeh is finally asleep, tucked beneath a blanket on my couch.
Her breathing is slow and even, but I’m still wired.
I still hear the echo of her voice, the things she told me.
The fear in her eyes when that photo lit up her screen.
The weight of her past is pressing down on her shoulders like she’s bracing for something worse.
I’ve seen that weight before. I’ve carried it myself.
Memories come back strong of me walking into a bar and spotting a woman with long, dark curly hair and piercing blue eyes.
She was looking for a fight and almost had one with some egotistical douchebag.
I was looking for a way to forget my anger and sadness over The General’s funeral, and I thought a night at the bar would drown my sorrows.
I could tell she was ready to get up and kick this douchebag’s ass, so I sat down next to her, put my arm around her shoulders, and kissed the side of her temple.
I acted like we were together, and was sorry I was late.
When the asshole saw my tattoos, he figured out who I was and slunk away.
Conversation ran deep into the night. We ended up going back to a motel around the corner.
It was the best night of my life. She made me forget my pain and anger.
The next morning, she got up before I did and snuck out of the room.
No note, no phone number. No name. The only thing I had of hers was the memories we created and the claw marks down my back.
I haven’t moved for hours, staring out the loft window, arms folded and jaw locked.
The cigarette between my fingers burns down to the filter, and I don’t even notice until the heat bites my skin.
I drop it into the sink, flick on the tap, and let the water drown it.
There’s no calming buzz in my chest. My hands are steady, but I feel like I’m on a fault line. Waiting for something to crack.
Jordan’s face floats behind my eyes.
He always had something to say about my bad habits. Told me cigarettes were just slow bullets. Told me I was too angry to live long and too stubborn to die early.
Only he got the shit end of the story. I buried him nine years ago with his favorite Zippo in his hand and blood on my knuckles.
People talk about ghosts like they haunt old houses or dark woods. But that’s not how it works. Ghosts live in the spaces between breaths. They come back when the world goes quiet. When you’re left with nothing but the weight of the ones you couldn’t save.
Jordan was fifteen. Bled out in my hands behind the shelter where I volunteered. I see it every time I close my eyes. The flickering alley light. The way his blood felt when it soaked through my jeans. How the sirens were close, but not close enough.
I thought helping people meant doing the right thing. Now I know better.
You don’t help to be seen. You help so you can live with yourself afterward.
They say time heals all wounds, but that’s bullshit. Some wounds become part of you. You just learn how to walk without bleeding all over the place.
I move around the kitchen, grab a bottle of something strong, and pour two fingers into a glass. I don’t drink much these days, but some ghosts don’t leave you alone unless you offer them a seat.
Behind me, Nevaeh stirs. She doesn’t speak at first. Just sits up slowly, the blanket falling to her waist. Her hair is messy, and her eyes are heavy with sleep, but she looks at me like she already knows what’s in my head.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Didn’t want to.”
She moves closer, barefoot on the hardwood. “The photo. I shouldn’t have looked. I knew it would mess me up.”
I shake my head. “You don’t have to be sorry for reacting. You’re still human.”
Neveah crosses the space between us like she’s not even thinking about it, like the pull between us is a silent agreement we’re both still pretending we don’t feel.
“You were thinking about someone.”
It’s not a question.
I nod, slow and heavy. “Jordan.”
“Was he… someone close?”
I swallow. “Not at first. Just a kid who came around the shelter. Talked too much. Laughed too loud. Got under your skin and didn’t let go.” My voice goes tight. “He helped a girl escape. And they made him pay for it.”
Nevaeh flinches. Her expression mirrors the same helpless guilt I wore that night.
I keep going, the words scraping out of me like gravel.
“I tried to save him. Pressed down on his chest, told him he’d be okay.
But it was a lie. I felt his last breath on my wrist.” I exhale slowly.
“It changed me. I stopped trying to be a hero.”
She doesn’t speak. She just nods, and her hand drifts toward mine. Not holding. Just there. Like she knows some grief is too big for comfort, but too heavy to carry alone.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice is soft and warm. Silence blooms between us again, but this time it doesn’t feel empty. It feels like understanding.
Like shared ghosts.
“He was the reason I joined the Saints in the first place.” I lean back against the counter. “Told me loyalty wasn’t just about blood. It was about who’d burn the world down to keep you safe.”
“He sounds like he was the kind of person people followed,” she says. “Even after.”
I nod. “He believed in second chances. Believed in me, even when I didn’t.”
She studies me for a second longer. “Maybe that’s why I trust you. You carry that part of him. Even now.”
Nevaeh doesn’t try to fix it. Doesn’t give me some hollow line about how he’s in a better place. She just stands there with me in the quiet.
The silence is heavy. But it’s not empty.
It’s a shared grief. A knowing.
“You still see him?” she asks.
“Every time I ride,” I say. “Every time I leave the house, and wonder if I’ll make it back. He’s the ghost in the rearview.”
Her hand brushes mine, not fully holding it, just enough to remind me I’m not alone in this room. And for a second, I think about leaning in. Kissing her. Letting the pain crack open and spill into something that might make us both feel alive.
My hand twitches toward her jaw. I stop, but not before my fingers brush a strand of hair behind her ear. She leans into the touch, just enough to make my heart slam against my ribs. One more second, and I’d cross the line. I pull away like it burns.
“I can’t,” I say roughly. If I go there, I won’t be able to come back. Not with her. Not when she’s already got enemies lining up with her name in their mouths and blood on their hands.
“I know,” she whispers. But there’s something in her eyes that says she wants me to.
The moment is broken by a sharp buzz from my burner.
I grab it, heart tightening. Only a few people have this number. And none of them call unless it’s serious.
City: The clubhouse perimeter tripped while we’re on lockdown. Motion sensors are down. Possible breach. We need you here, brother.
I stand fast, all emotion swept away in a flood of instinct. “Shit.”
Nevaeh’s already up, alert. “What?”
“Security alert. The clubhouse perimeter’s been breached. I’ve gotta go.”
Her lips part like she’s about to argue, but she doesn’t. “I’m coming with you,” she says.
I hesitate. I know what’s logical. But logic means shit when the wolves are already circling. “You’d be safer here.”
“I’m not safe here alone,” she says, voice hard. “But I’m not sitting in the dark waiting for the next text to show up.”
And fuck if I don’t respect the hell out of that.
I toss her one of my hoodies with the SOMC logo. She pulls it on like armor. And damn if it doesn’t look like it was always hers.
I grab my cut, check my sidearm, and head for the door.
The air outside smells like wet asphalt and tension. Another kind of storm.
I throw open the garage. My bike’s already waiting, black and brutal. Nevaeh climbs on behind me without hesitation, her hands at my waist, steady and warm.
The moment my engine roars to life, I swear I feel Jordan. In the wind. In the quiet between gears. He always rides with me.
I drop the clutch, and we tear into the night.
Not with fear. But with fury.