After I put my shirt back on.
And check my pulse one more time—still 120.
Post-orgasmic tachycardia. Another first.
Chapter four
Tracking Prey
Zane
Candy's perfume clings to my leather cut like a mistake I haven't made yet. Her voice in my head from an hour ago. Both feel permanent.
I’m sitting in the Iron Talons clubhouse at 2 AM. Candy's trying to climb into my lap for the third time tonight. Joker's making jokes that aren't funny. Brick's silent in the corner. Ghost knows something's different. Keeps looking at me.
Can't stop thinking about the sounds she made. Counted them. Seventeen moans. Three gasps. One perfect break. Then Spanish—cursing in Spanish when she came. Lost count after that. First time I've lost count of anything since Emma.
"You're distracted," Ghost says. Not a question.
"Yeah."
"The wrong number?"
"Yeah."
He nods. Doesn't judge. That's brotherhood. Knowing when your brother's lost to something. Someone. Emma knew that look. Called it my 'gone forever' face. She was right then. And he’s right now.
Can't stop thinking about her voice when she said forty-five was too old. The way she paused when I said it out loud. Like she was calculating. Thirty-one. Young enough to have a life ahead. Old enough to know better. Does it anyway.
Candy slides closer. "You want company tonight, Zane?"
"No."
"You never want company."
"Then stop asking."
She doesn't. They never do. Think they can fix what's broken. Can't fix what's not trying to be whole. Emma tried. Died trying. Angel's not trying to fix. She's just... existing. In the chaos. Like me.
Pull up my laptop. The trace from Digger is narrowing. Medical professional in Phoenix. Weekend shifts. Lives alone—no roommate noise during our call. Drinks wine. Makes tamales. Latina—the Spanish when she came confirmed it. Natural, not learned. First language saved for when control breaks.
Forty tamales. Stress-cooking about me. Like I've been checking my phone every five minutes since she came.
Her sound. That perfect break in her breath. Then Spanish. Lost count. Started over. Seventeen moans. Three gasps. One perfect break. One Spanish prayer.
"Earth to Zane." Joker's in my face. Bad move.
"Back up,” I growl out of instinct.
"Just saying, you're gone, brother. Whoever she is, she's got you twisted."
It’s not your fucking business.
Ghost sits next to me. "You gonna find her?"
"Yeah."
"That smart?"
