Chapter: 3 The Past Resurfaces

The roar of the Harley split the night open. The engine throbbed beneath them, steady and powerful, as Rhett eased the bike down the gravel and out onto the highway.

Emily clung to him, her arms tight around his waist, her cheek pressed against his back. At first her body was stiff, nerves locking her muscles, but as the wind rushed past and the lights of the clubhouse faded behind them, something inside her loosened.

The world blurred. The cold night air cut sharp against her face, her hair whipping around her shoulders, and for the first time in years she felt it — freedom. No walls. No heavy footsteps in the hall. No voice clawing at her from the dark. Just the open road and the steady heartbeat of the Harley beneath her.

She didn’t even realize she was smiling until Rhett shouted over his shoulder, “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Her laugh tore free before she could stop it, swallowed by the wind. “Yeah!”

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They rode until the town lights thinned, pulling off onto a quiet stretch where the road curled around a field. Rhett killed the engine, the sudden silence almost deafening. The bike ticked as it cooled, the smell of hot metal and gasoline filling the air.

Emily swung her leg off, her knees wobbling. “That was…” She shook her head, still breathless. “I don’t even know.”

Rhett grinned, leaning back against the bike. “Like flying.”

She nodded, hugging her arms around herself. “Exactly.”

His gaze lingered on her, soft at first, then heavier, like he was fighting the urge to say something more. She felt it — the pull, the way the air between them seemed charged.

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Rhett stepped closer, his boots crunching on gravel. “You’ve got that look,” he murmured.

She frowned, nervous. “What look?”

“Like you belong here.”

Her chest tightened. She wanted to argue, to tell him she didn’t belong anywhere. But the words caught when his hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair from her face. The touch was light, careful, but it set fire to her skin.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

His thumb lingered near her cheek, his eyes locked on hers. Slowly, like he was giving her every chance to pull away, he leaned in.

And this time, she didn’t stop him.

The kiss was gentle at first — testing, almost uncertain. But the moment her lips parted, the heat between them surged. Rhett’s hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her closer, while Emily gripped his jacket like it was the only thing holding her upright.

Her body pressed against his, the warmth of him searing through the cool night. She gasped softly when his mouth trailed from her lips to her jaw, the scrape of his stubble sending a shiver down her spine. Her fingers curled tighter in his leather.

For the first time in years, she felt alive. Wanted.

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Then it hit.

The low, grinding roar of a semi-truck passing on the highway cut through the night, its gears groaning, echoing like a growl in the dark. Too familiar. Too close to the sound that had haunted her nights — the sound that always came before his voice.

Her chest seized. Air cut off.

Her hands flew to Rhett’s chest, shoving hard. She stumbled back, panic crashing through her like a storm. Her vision blurred, her pulse spiking so fast it hurt.

“Emily.”

Rhett’s voice snapped sharp, his hands lifting instantly, no longer touching her. But she couldn’t hear him over the roar in her head. She couldn’t breathe.

“Emily, look at me.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, but his voice came again, steadier this time. “Eyes on me. Right here.”

Her gaze snapped open — and found his.

Dark, steady, unflinching. Not angry. Not demanding. Just there. Solid.

“Breathe,” he said quietly, his eyes never leaving hers. “You’re here. With me. Not with him. Not anymore.”

Her chest heaved, each breath ragged, but the storm inside her slowed under the weight of his gaze. His eyes held her, grounded her, pulled her piece by piece back into the night air, back onto that quiet stretch of road where only he existed.

Finally, the panic broke. She gasped, a sob tearing free, and folded into herself, wrapping her arms around her knees.

Rhett didn’t move. He just stayed close, his voice low and even. “I’ve got you, Emily. You’re safe.”

She met his eyes again, tears streaking her face. And for the first time, she believed it.

Emily hadn’t said a word.

When Rhett tried to ease her back toward the Harley, she stood frozen on the shoulder of the road. Her arms hung limp, her eyes glassy, staring past him like the world had gone black around her. She wasn’t here. She wasn’t anywhere.

Rhett’s gut twisted. He’d seen men rattled after a fight, seen brothers gutted by grief — but this was different. This was deeper, rawer.

“Emily,” he said softly, crouching a little to catch her eyes. “I can take you back, but you have to hold on.”

Nothing. Just a shallow breath, her gaze drifting right through him.

“Damn it.” Rhett pulled his phone free and dialed.

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Twenty minutes later, headlights cut through the dark. A battered Lincoln rolled to a stop, its engine quiet compared to the roar of Rhett’s bike. The driver’s door opened, and Ghost stepped out. His pale eyes flicked from Rhett to Emily, reading the scene in a single glance.

Rhett stood, frustrated but steady. “She can’t ride like this. I don’t trust her not to fall.”

Ghost didn’t speak right away. He just nodded, calm as always, and walked to the back door of the car. He opened it without a word, then looked at Emily.

“Come on,” he said quietly, his voice low, rough like gravel but steady as stone.

Emily blinked, barely, but it was enough. Something in Ghost’s calm drew her forward. She moved like she was sleepwalking, her steps slow, her shoulders bowed. Rhett stayed close until she slid into the backseat, curling against the window like she needed to vanish into the glass.

Ghost shut the door carefully. His pale eyes met Rhett’s in the dark. No judgment. Just a firm nod.

“I’ll take her back.”

Rhett swallowed hard and nodded back. “I’ll follow.”

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Back at the clubhouse, Rhett trailed the Lincoln into the lot. He killed the Harley’s engine and watched as Ghost opened the back door, offering Emily his hand. She hesitated, then took it. He guided her inside without force, just quiet patience.

Cherry was waiting at the stairs, her arms already reaching. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you settled.”

Emily disappeared into her care without a sound, the door closing behind them.

Rhett stood in the common room, fists tight at his sides. The silence in his chest burned worse than any fight he’d ever been in.

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Hawk leaned against the bar, his grin faded for once. “She’s carrying ghosts of her own, huh?”

“Something,” Rhett muttered.

Tank pushed his chair back with a grunt. “You don’t get eyes like that unless someone’s carved you hollow first.”

Rhett’s jaw locked, anger boiling under his skin. “Then I need to know who.”

Ghost returned, lowering himself into a chair without a word. For a long moment, the firelight caught in his pale eyes. Then his voice came, low and final.

“She’s running from a man. Not a ghost. Ghosts don’t leave scars like that.”

The words hit harder than a fist. Rhett shoved away from the table, pacing.

“I can’t protect her if I don’t know what I’m protecting her from.”

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Later, in his room, Rhett sat on the edge of his bed, phone in his hands. No name. No lead. Just the memory of Emily’s hollow stare and the sound of her shallow breathing.

Grim would tell him to wait. To give her time. But patience had never been Rhett’s way.

He opened the club’s contact list, scrolling through numbers. If Emily wouldn’t tell him, he’d dig until he found out himself.

Because whoever had put that kind of fear in her… Rhett swore to himself they wouldn’t breathe for long once he had a name.

Rhett had spent half the night pacing the clubhouse, the other half staring at the ceiling of his room while the memory of Emily’s vacant eyes gnawed at him.

By morning, he couldn’t take it anymore. He lit a cigarette, sat on the edge of his bed, and pulled up the club’s contact list.

The first call went to a guy in Oklahoma — a cousin of Diesel’s who ran a chop shop and always kept an ear open for trouble. No leads.

The second, to a fence in New Mexico. Nothing.

By the fourth call, Rhett’s patience was gone. His tone had sharpened into a blade, his words clipped and biting. “Think, damn it. Seventeen, dark hair, maybe using a fake name. If you’ve seen a girl running scared, I need to know.”

Every answer came back the same. Silence. Confusion. Dead ends.

Rhett slammed his phone onto the table, the crack of it turning a few heads in the common room. Hawk raised a brow from the bar. “You trying to break it or just scare it into talking?”

Rhett shot him a glare that shut him up quick.

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Grim found him later, sitting outside on the porch, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers.

“You look like hell,” Grim said simply.

Rhett didn’t look up. “She’s broken, Dad. Somebody did that to her. I saw it in her eyes. And I can’t do a damn thing about it because I don’t even know who.”

Grim was silent for a long moment. Then he sat beside his son, elbows on his knees. “You can’t swing fists at shadows.”

Rhett’s jaw tightened. “Then I’ll find the shadow’s name and drag him into the light.”

Grim exhaled slowly. “Careful. You push too hard, you spook her. And if she thinks you’re digging behind her back—”

“I don’t care.” Rhett’s voice cracked sharper than he meant. He dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head. “I can’t just sit here while she’s… like that. I won’t.”

Grim studied him, quiet. Finally, he clapped a heavy hand on Rhett’s shoulder. “Then make damn sure when you find the truth, you’re ready to carry it. Some scars don’t heal clean, son. Not even with blood.”

Rhett crushed the cigarette under his boot and stood, his eyes hard. “Then I’ll carry it for her.” By the second day, Rhett had burned through half his contact list.

He’d called bikers, fences, even a bail bondsman who owed the Vipers a favor. Every time, the answer was the same. Don’t know her. Never seen her. Sorry, brother.

Rhett’s fist slammed against the clubhouse payphone, the metal rattling on its chain. “Somebody’s lying,” he muttered under his breath.

“You’re wound too tight, kid.”

Hawk’s voice drifted from the doorway. He leaned there, cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes sharp but not mocking this time. “Not every road’s got a map. Some stories don’t want to be found.”

Rhett turned, his glare sharp enough to cut. “This isn’t a story. She’s flesh and blood, and someone put that fear in her. I see it every time she closes her eyes.” His jaw worked, teeth grinding. “I’m not letting her carry that alone.”

Hawk blew smoke into the night, then shrugged. “Then keep digging. Just don’t bury yourself in the process.”

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Rhett dug harder. He rode out alone, stopping at truck stops and bars, asking questions, pressing for answers. He described Emily in vague details, careful not to give too much away, but every dead end twisted his gut tighter.

At one bar, a man laughed when Rhett asked if he’d seen a girl on the run. “Son, half the damn county’s full of runaways. Can’t save ‘em all.”

The laugh ended when Rhett’s fist slammed into the wall beside his head, cracking the plaster. “I’m not asking to save them all,” Rhett growled. “I’m asking about her.”

The man stammered a denial, and Rhett stormed out, blood pounding in his ears.

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Back at the clubhouse, Rhett dropped heavily into a chair, his hands raw from where he’d punched through more than one wall in his search. Ghost sat across from him, silent as ever, pale eyes watching.

Finally, Ghost spoke. “You think fists will fix what’s broken inside her?”

Rhett dragged a hand through his hair, frustration burning hot in his chest. “No. But finding the bastard who put it there will.”

Ghost’s expression didn’t change, but his words were heavy. “Be careful, son. Hate can eat you hollow. You can’t carry her pain by killing it in someone else.”

Rhett leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his voice low and fierce. “I don’t care if it eats me alive. As long as she never has to be afraid again, it’s worth it.”

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That night, Rhett lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He could still see her face — the way her eyes had gone blank, the sound of her broken breaths.

He wanted her to trust him. He wanted her to let him in. But if she wouldn’t, he’d tear the whole damn world apart until he found the truth himself.

Because Rhett Maddox wasn’t just an enforcer. He was the son of the Black Vipers’ president. And he already knew — the day he learned who had put that terror in Emily’s eyes would be the day that man’s life ended. The night was quiet in the clubhouse. Too quiet. Most of the brothers had turned in, the bar dim and half-empty, the only sound the low hum of a jukebox no one was listening to.

Rhett sat alone at a corner table, his phone dark in front of him. He’d burned through every contact, chased every dead end. Nothing. Emily’s silence weighed on him like a chain, every unanswered question pulling tighter.

“Still digging?”

The voice was low, gravel rough. Rhett looked up, his jaw tightening when he saw Ghost standing there, pale eyes fixed on him.

“Why?” Rhett snapped. “You got something to say?”

Ghost stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until the firelight carved shadows deep across his scarred face. “I see how you watch her. I see what you’re carrying.”

Rhett’s fists clenched. His chair scraped back as he stood. “Don’t,” he warned, his voice sharp. “Don’t you dare tell me you’re looking at her like that.”

The air between them went razor-thin. For a heartbeat, Rhett thought Ghost might swing. Instead, the older man just shook his head.

“You think I’ve got eyes on that girl?” Ghost’s voice was steady, low, but laced with something darker. “No, boy. What I see when I look at her is me. Forty years ago.”

Rhett froze, breath caught in his chest.

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Ghost lowered himself into the chair Rhett had left empty, his movements deliberate. He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, his gaze locked on the fire across the room.

“I know that stare,” Ghost said finally. “The kind where your body’s here, but your mind’s trapped somewhere else. Vietnam did that to me. The jungle. The screams. The helplessness. You carry it back with you, and it never lets go. You learn to live with it, or it eats you alive.”

His pale eyes shifted to Rhett, sharp. “That girl’s carrying the same thing. Not from war. From someone who made her life into one.”

Rhett’s throat worked, but no words came.

Ghost reached into his cut and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He set it on the table between them. “I asked around, quiet. Didn’t give names. Just a description. A girl running scared. Somebody saw her in Amarillo a few weeks back. Said she looked like she hadn’t slept in days.”

Rhett snatched the paper, his heart pounding. It wasn’t much. Barely a thread. But it was more than he’d had in days.

“Why?” he asked, his voice rough. “Why’re you helping me?”

Ghost leaned back, the firelight reflecting in his pale eyes. “Because I know what it feels like to drown in silence. To carry something so heavy you think speaking it out loud will break you. I won’t watch her break. Not if I can help it.”

Rhett’s hands tightened on the paper. “And if I find the bastard who did this?”

Ghost’s expression didn’t change. But his voice was sharp enough to cut steel. “Then you won’t be alone when you make him pay.”

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Rhett stood there long after Ghost left, the faint clue burning in his hand. For the first time since Emily had shut down, he had a direction. A trail.

And the knowledge that the quietest, hardest man in the club — the one who carried his own battlefield scars — was standing behind him.

It didn’t erase the anger. It didn’t erase the helplessness. But it gave Rhett something he hadn’t had before.

Hope.