Tear Me Away (Desert Wraiths MC Romance)

By: Amy Kiss



He helped me up. My head came up barely to his shoulder. I had a sudden burst of vertigo and felt the sudden urge to lean in and place my head on him. I remembered again that I'd seen those muscles help bury a knife in a man's throat an hour ago.

"Tell me what you know," he said.

I started telling him the same spiel I'd given that slimy brother of his, about how I didn't care about the dead guy. I was tired of games, and I was starting to believe my words even.

Ghost listened until I ran out of words to say I wouldn't tell anyone what I saw.

"And what did you see?"

Up close, those eyes were luminous. No, I had actually seen them change just now, lit up by something inside. Not with that other world glow I'd seen before he killed. But it seemed like he could see through any lies.

"Everything." I hung my head. "I saw everything."

He parsed me a moment and then nodded. "Did you record anything?"

My eyes dashed to my purse. Ghost pulled out my phone and we listened to Twist's tiny voice as he talked about cleaning up dead bodies. A dark exhaustion threatened to take me off my feet. I didn't even care what happened anymore. Ghost played it a second time.

"Nothing on the murder?"

"No."

He tapped the screens a few more times, then handed me the phone and my purse. The video was gone.

"That should be all," he said. "You ready?"

How could anyone be ready for this? Then again, if no one was ready, then I was about as ready as anyone. "Yeah, whatever," I said.

Ghost opened the door and waited as if he were ushering me out of a house party.

Maybe he'd offer me some food now, or a drink. A little treat while he conferred with the rest of his brothers. His jacket had a little patch that said "Vice-President." So he wasn't in charge. Just muscle. Which meant he couldn't make decisions.

They would make lock me back up here. If they were truly generous, they would let me develop Stockholm syndrome on my own rather than let a guy like Twist force himself on me. Maybe it was already happening. I felt a warmth toward Ghost that went beyond relief. I could barely remember the guy I'd seen commit murder. Heck, I hadn't seen it, not really. What I noticed now was the efficiency of his movement, the purpose in his body, the beauty of it under all that hardness. Quite a different thing from the naked ugliness of the other bikers I'd seen so far.

The sounds of the dirty bar outside hit me. My daydreams broke. I frowned at him. "Where do you want me to go?"

"Where do you want to go?"

I rolled my eyes. "Home."

"Ok. Let's go."

I tiptoed out as if my footsteps might remind him of how crazy his suggestion was. Ghost shut the door then landed a hand on my shoulder. For a horrid moment I was kicking myself for believing his lie. But he simply led me to a bike.

It was parked a bit apart from the line of Harleys along the road. Unlike their pitch black, his was painted tan, parts of it almost vanishing into the sand. I didn't even feel any tension looking at it. Maybe cause it was different from the ones I'd rode with Dad, maybe cause I could barely see it. Maybe cause I'd learned these kinds of bikes weren't half as dangerous as the men who rode them.

Ghost half lifted me on the bike before sliding on himself.

"You ridden before?" His voice rumbled back at me. "I mean, other than tonight. I guess they brought you here."

He seemed to have gotten tongue tied. I was making this killer nervous? I almost wanted to laugh, but it seemed like we were doing a secret thing here.

"Yeah, I've ridden before."

I laced my arm around his thick waist, not quite able to reach around. I studied the vast slab of muscle before me and with nothing left to do, let my face fall against it. His heart pounded in my ear. His heat was like a warm pool to sink into after a long and terrible night.

"Yo, Ghost!'

A man was striding out from the front of the bar. He didn't look very big or tall, and was a bit darker than Ghost. But the pace of his walk and the thin frown told me this was more than just another biker. He had an entourage in tow.

"Where you taking her?" he demanded.

"Home," Ghost's voice rumbled into my ears. “She doesn't know shit."

Whatever his boss said next drowned in the roar of the engines. We kicked off and then we were roaring down the highway. The biker bar faded against the starry sky like a bad memory.

My only memories of the trip home were from my nose. The sand bitten emptiness as we fled through the desert. Then the metal and diesel sting as must have gone through the industrial circle. Finally the loamy richness as we hit the manicured lawns by where I lived. The thrum of the engine rattled my mind into oblivion, and when it cut off, I startled out of my trance. Ghost steadied me, and lifted me out onto my feet.

"You're ok," he said.

I took in my bearings, the half -open curtains of my little townhouse. The past came back like a nightmare and I shivered under everything that had nearly happened.

Ghost held me by the shoulders until I could look up at him. His face glowed under the moon, the hard edges of it a fuzz as if not sure where the air ended and he began. This must have been how that mouse of a man must have seen him, but I felt no fear.

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