Chapter 6 Bullet
Bullet
Archer followed Morgan’s blue sedan through the evening traffic, maintaining a careful distance. His mind raced faster than his bike, analyzing the considerable risks of what he was doing.
This was uncharted territory. The careful compartmentalization of his life—Archer Sullivan in the boardroom, Bullet on the motorcycle—had never been tested like this.
He’d never allowed himself to get this close to a relationship with anyone.
He saw how the spotlight hurt his parents’ relationship not only with him, but also with one another.
Was he making a mistake? Was this doomed to fail before it even began?
Just yesterday, he’d been riding with the guys—close as brothers, loud in his helmet—but still alone in all the ways that mattered.
Then he’d seen Morgan on the street, and in less than twenty-four hours, the walls he’d spent years building, had begun to crack.
Kane fixing her locks this morning, the dinner tonight, and now following her home—it was all happening so suddenly. Was this how relationships worked?
Her car signaled right, pulling into the parking lot of a modern apartment building. Not luxury, but well-maintained, with security gates and manicured landscaping. He followed, parking his Ducati beside her car.
“Nice building,” he said as she got out of her car.
“Thanks,” Morgan replied, her eyes catching the streetlight as she looked up at him. “I like it. The evening security desk staff actually pays attention, unlike my last place.”
Archer made a mental note to look into the building’s security protocols. An automatic assessment he couldn’t switch off.
“Top floor,” she added, leading the way to the entrance. “Hope you don’t mind taking the stairs. The elevator’s been temperamental lately.”
“I don’t mind.” Climbing six flights in a motorcycle helmet wasn’t ideal, but he’d endured far worse during his military days.
The security guard nodded to Morgan as they entered. His eyes lingered on Archer’s helmet with obvious suspicion.
“Evening, Ms. Reeves. Everything alright?”
Reeves. Her last name was Reeves. Archer filed away this new piece of information.
“Everything’s great, Tony,” she assured the guard. “My friend’s just keeping his helmet on because he has a... skin condition. Very sensitive to air.”
Archer nearly laughed at the absurd explanation. A skin condition?
Tony looked dubious but shrugged. “If you say so, Ms. Reeves. Should I sign him in?”
“Not necessary,” Morgan said with a confidence that surprised Archer. “He won’t be staying long.”
Won’t be staying long. The statement was pragmatic, setting boundaries, yet Archer found himself oddly disappointed. What had he expected? To stay the night? Ridiculous. Impossible, given his self-imposed restrictions. And when had that idea even formed? He never stayed the night. Ever.
They climbed the stairs in comfortable silence. The helmet, usually a tool of liberation on the open road, felt stifling in the enclosed stairwell. By the sixth floor, Archer was rethinking his “I don’t mind stairs” statement.
Morgan unlocked her door—the new locks Kane had installed gleaming in the hallway light—and stepped aside to let him enter.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” she said with a trace of nervousness in her voice. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”
Archer stepped inside, taking in the space with a curious eye.
The apartment was modest but thoughtfully arranged.
Clean lines, balanced colors, artwork that showed genuine taste rather than whatever was trending.
The space reflected its owner—practical yet warm, orderly but with unexpected touches of whimsy.
A massive collection of what looked to be art books filled one wall.
A vintage record player sat in the corner beside carefully organized vinyl.
On the nearby side table, an old rotary phone rested beside a worn notepad and a fountain pen, as if she still believed in handwritten messages and calls that came with a cord.
Whimsical. Old-fashioned. A little unexpected.
Just like her.
“You have a beautiful home,” he said, meaning it.
“Thank you.” Morgan set her large black bag down and slipped off her heels. “Make yourself comfortable. Would you like coffee? Wine? Something stronger?”
Archer considered the logistics. Drinking meant removing the helmet, which meant turning away, which made the whole exercise rather pointless in her living room.
“Just water for now,” he said.
She nodded and moved to the kitchen while he continued his assessment of her apartment.
Family photos on a side table caught his attention.
Morgan with an older couple—her parents, he presumed—at what appeared to be her college graduation.
Another of her laughing with a dark-haired woman, cocktails in hand.
Personal. Intimate. So different from his own penthouse with its deliberate absence of family photos or personal mementos. His space was designed to reveal nothing. Hers was designed to reflect everything that mattered to her.
“Here you go,” Morgan said, returning with a glass of water. “I’ll turn away when you want to drink.”
“Thank you.”
She set the water on a coaster beside the couch, then sat down, tucking her legs beneath her. The dress she wore—a simple black design that somehow managed to be both elegant and approachable—rode up slightly, revealing more of her toned legs.
Archer forced himself to look away, suddenly grateful for the helmet that hid his expression. This attraction was becoming problematic.
“So,” she said, filling the silence. “Do you make a habit of having dinner with women you save from lying exes?”
“Not typically, no.” He remained standing, unsure of the protocol in this situation. Sitting next to her on the couch seemed too intimate. Taking the armchair across from her felt too formal. “Do you make a habit of inviting mysterious men in helmets to your apartment?”
“First time,” she admitted with a small smile.
“Though to be fair, I’d already sent you my address when you arranged for my locks to be changed.
If you were planning something nefarious I’d probably already be in my bathtub missing a kidney.
Besides, Kane was a complete gentleman and had nothing but good things to say about you, so I’m not too worried. ”
He opted for the armchair after all. “I didn’t do much, it was just a phone call.”
“Mmm.” She looked unconvinced. “Speaking of which, I’m curious how a mysterious biker has connections to high-end locksmiths who drop everything to help a stranger.”
Archer considered his response carefully. “Kane and I served together. Military creates strong bonds.”
“That explains the loyalty,” she acknowledged. “But not the urgency. Or the private courtyard dinner. Or the waiter who looked like he moonlights as a bodyguard.”
Sharp. Observant. She’d noticed details most people would miss.
“My job requires... certain resources,” he said finally. “Sometimes I use them for personal matters.”
“And what exactly is your job? When you’re not a knight in black leather armor?”
“Complicated.” The default answer felt weak even to his own ears. “Security consulting.”
Not entirely a lie. Sullivan Security Solutions was the largest private security firm in the country, with contracts spanning corporate, government, and private sectors. But it was a vast oversimplification of his role as CEO of a multi-billion-dollar enterprise.
“Security consulting,” she repeated slowly. “That’s deliberately vague.”
“Job hazard,” he replied with more lightness than he felt. “The less specific, the better.”
Morgan studied him, her amber eyes assessing. “You know, most women would be running for the door right now. Mysterious man, vague answers, refusal to show his face..."
“Yet here we are,” he observed. “With you inviting me in rather than running away.”
“Here we are,” she agreed, a hint of wonder in her voice. “I can’t decide if this is the most reckless thing I’ve ever done or the most honest.”
The word struck him again. Honest. There was profound irony in her finding honesty in his deliberate concealment of identity.
“Maybe it’s both,” he suggested.
Morgan uncurled her legs and leaned forward slightly. “Can I ask you something personal?”
“You can ask. I might not answer.”
“Fair enough.” She hesitated. “Why did you help me that night? With Jason. You could have just kept riding.”
The question jolted him—not because he hadn’t thought about it, but because she had. He’d expected her to ask about his helmet, his identity, maybe even his money. Instead, she voiced the one question he kept circling himself—and still didn’t have a clear answer for.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Something about the situation... I couldn’t just ride past.”
“Most people would have.”
“I’m not most people.”
She smiled at his echo of her earlier words. “Clearly not.”
A moment of silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable but charged with unspoken possibilities.
“My turn for a question,” he said. “Why did you want to touch my face earlier? The truth.”
Morgan’s cheeks colored slightly. “I told you. To make you real.”
“And?”
She bit her lip, considering. “And I wanted to know if you were as attractive as your voice suggests.”
The honesty snagged something in his chest. “What’s the verdict?
“Strong jaw. Nice lips. Stubble.” She shrugged with a playfulness that didn’t quite mask her genuine interest. “I’d need more data for a conclusive assessment.”
Archer felt a surge of desire that had nothing to do with the physical closeness between them and everything to do with the way she balanced vulnerability with strength.
In the boardroom, in business dealings, even in his limited personal relationships, people either tried to impress him or challenge him. Morgan simply engaged with him, neither intimidated nor antagonistic.
It was... refreshing.
“Would you like more water?” she asked, nodding toward his untouched glass.
“Actually, yes.”