Page 73 of Wraith

“I’m so glad you’re alive. I thought I’d gotten you back just to lose you again,” he says.

The second rider removes his helmet, and I pause, not sure what I’m seeing. His cut says Goldie and marks him as the Vice President of the Twisted Devils. But he sure as hell doesn’t look like any biker I’ve seen. Sun-kissed blonde hair pulled up in a man bun, a gentle smile, spaced-out eyes, and he’s wearing workout clothes — not riding leathers, but yoga pants and some kind of tank top with symbols and a meditating guy on the logo.

“Who the fuck are you?” I can’t help saying.

Which isn’t the smartest thing to say to someone wearing a VP patch of a motorcycle club and who could probably have you hunted and killed with just a word, but, seriously, who the fuck is this guy?

He unstraps the yoga mat with practiced efficiency and tucks it under his arm as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Goldie, just like it says on the cut, brother,” Goldie says, and his voice is calm. Almost musical. “And you are?”

“This is Wraith. My ex and, uh, it’s complicated. But he’s with me,” she says firmly. “He saved my life.”

I eye him warily, because who the fuck wears such tight pants? I can see every fucking muscle in his ass.

Goldie holds up both hands in a peaceful gesture. “Release your worries. I’m not here to start anything, brother. Gator asked me to come along because he’s still prospecting with the Devils and wanted backup. I promised I’d be chill.” He smiles. It’s genuine. “And I’m very chill right now. I just spent the last two hours doing Yoga Nidra, so I’m in a very receptive headspace.”

I blink. “You did what?”

“Yoga Nidra. It’s a form of guided meditation that promotes deep relaxation while maintaining consciousness. Very restorative.” He shifts the yoga mat to his other arm. “I’ve been working on my nervous system regulation. The vagal tone. You know how it is in this lifestyle — lots of sympathetic nervous system activation, fight or flight, that whole thing. Gotta counterbalance it with some parasympathetic work.”

Gator releases June and turns to look at Goldie with an expression that suggests he’s heard this speech before and still doesn’t know what to do with it.

I don’t either.

“Let’s go inside,” Gator says. “Talk somewhere we’re not standing in a parking lot.”

The diner is mostly empty, it’s only occupants just a couple of truckers at the counter and an elderly woman in a corner booth. We take a booth in the back where I can see the entrance and the parking lot through the window. Goldie sets his yoga mat carefully against the wall, as if it might break if he’s not gentle with it.

A waitress appears with menus and a pot of coffee that smells like it’s been sitting on the burner since the Reagan administration.

“Coffee all around?” she asks.

“Please,” June says.

“Yeah,” Gator says.

“Actually,” Goldie says, and the waitress pauses mid-pour over my cup. “Do you have ceremonial-grade matcha?”

The waitress stares at him. “We have Lipton.”

“Lipton tea?”

“Yeah. Lipton tea.”

“Do you have any green tea? Even just standard Sencha would be fine.”

“Sir, we just have Lipton tea. In a bag. It has a yellow logo.”

Goldie considers this for a long moment, as if he’s weighing the spiritual implications of drinking tea from a bag in a roadside diner.

“I’ll take the tea, please. No cream, no sugar.”

The waitress nods slowly and retreats, and Gator shakes his head.

“You’re killing me, man,” Gator says to Goldie.

“Your body is a temple, brother. What you put in it matters.” Goldie folds his hands on the table in front of him, fingers laced together. “Besides, coffee spikes your cortisol. Not good for the adrenals.”