He stopped three feet from Riley. She was trembling, her wet boots pressed flat against the muddy asphalt.
"You're Riley," he said. It wasn't a question.
"I didn't hurt her," Riley whispered, her voice barely audible over the rain.
The man looked at her battered boots, the dirt on her face, and the torn flannel shirt—the very shirt missing the sleeve she had used as a tourniquet. The hard lines of his face softened by a fraction of an inch.
"My name is Garret," he said quietly. "Roxanne is my mother."
Riley stopped breathing.
Garret unclipped a spare helmet from the handlebars of his bike and tossed it. Riley fumbled, barely catching it against her chest. It was heavy, matte black, and smelled of leather and gasoline.
"She lost three pints of blood on that pavement," Garret said, his voice echoing in the wet alley. "The trauma surgeon said if that makeshift tourniquet hadn't been applied exactly when it was, she would have bled out in under four minutes. She’s awake. And she refuses to go back to sleep until she sees the ghost who pulled a nine-hundred-pound bagger off her leg."
Riley stared at the helmet, then up at the circle of imposing outlaws. None of them were glaring at her. In fact, the animosity she expected to see was entirely absent. Wade gave her a slow, respectful nod.
"We didn't tear the city apart to bury you, kid," Garret said, gesturing to his bike. "We tore it apart to find you. Now, put the lid on. The Queen is waiting."
The private wing of Seattle General was quiet, a stark contrast to the roaring highway and the rain-slicked alleyways. Two massive men in leather cuts stood outside Room 412. They stepped aside seamlessly as Garret escorted Riley through the doors.
The room smelled of antiseptic and expensive flowers. There, propped up in a bed of pristine white sheets, was Roxanne.
She looked smaller without her leather armor, her leg elevated and encased in thick bandages and metal braces. But her eyes were just as sharp as they had been on the asphalt.
"Look what the storm dragged in," Roxanne rasped, a faint smirk playing on her pale lips.
Riley stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed, her dirty canvas backpack clutched tightly in front of her. "You look terrible," Riley blurted out.