Page 86 of Gatsby's Starlet
Mystic's voice, left side, close. I didn't look at him right away. Reached for my cut off the back of the chair instead, shoved into it, the leather heavy and real in my hands. Something that didn't shift.
“I'm good,” I said. Low. Even.
Beat passed anyway.
“You sure about that?” Quieter this time. Not pushing. Just watching.
I looked at him. “Does it matter?”
Flat. Because it didn't. Not right now. Not with engines running outside and everyone already moving. We didn't get the luxury of being anything but what the situation needed.
He held my gaze a second longer, something dark and knowing sitting behind it, something that said he got it, more than I wanted him to, but he didn't call it out. Just gave a single nod and stepped past me toward the door.
That was enough.
I grabbed my piece off the table. Checked it without thinking, the weight settling into my hand the way it always did. Solid. Reliable. That helped, just enough to pull everything tight where it belonged.
Outside, the humid air hit hard. Hotter than it had any right to be. Engines lined up in the drive, headlights cutting through the dark, long shadows thrown across the gravel. That low, quiet danger the place got right before things turned.
I headed straight for my bike.
Boots on gravel. Grip on the handlebars the second I reached it. Swung a leg over and felt it settle under me the way it always did, like it knew me. Like it'd been waiting.
ThisI trusted.
Not empty houses. Not locked doors. Not her somewhere I couldn't reach.
My hands stilled on the grips for half a breath.
Pull it in. Make it clean. Messy doesn't get her back.
Something settled. Low and cold, down past the noise of it.
They took her.
No hesitation left on it. No edge. Just fact.
Everything in me locked around that, tight, unyielding, and that was the only direction left to go.
The engine roared to life beneath me and I leaned forward, eyes on the line of bikes ahead as they started to roll. Gravel kicked up under spinning tires. The night opened up in front of us.
No one rushed.
I watched it for half a second from where I sat, bars steady under my hands, engine rumbling low, and it hit the same way it always did. Not new. Not surprising. Just familiar in a way that settled something deep.
My gaze moved over them once — the cuts, the ink, the scars, that same look sitting hard and steady behind every set of eyes. The look that only showed when it mattered.
Men you didn't cross unless you were ready for what came after.
Men who didn't leave their own behind.
That landed clean.
Something tightened in my chest again, but it didn't spread this time. Didn't spiral. Just settled in deeper, colder, locking everything else down around it.
Good.
I leaned forward, adjusted my grip. Throttle rolled under my palm and the machine answered like it always did, responsive, ready. Something I didn't have to think about.
