"Lena?" Miguel's voice has that particular edge—not quite threatening, not quite concerned, perfectly balanced on the knife's edge of 'I will murder whoever is making my sister make those sounds.' "Who are you talking to at 2 AM?"
Panic floods my system like contrast dye in a CT scan.
"Izzy!" I call back, voice too high, too breathless. "Bad date story. You know how she is."
"At 2 AM?" There's weight in those three words. Fourteen years of raising me, knowing my tells, reading my lies like prescription labels.
"Time zones! She's in... Hawaii. For work. Nursing conference."
The silence stretches like a pulled tendon, painful and wrong. Miguel's not buying this. He knows my friend Izzy works at Presbyterian and has never been further west than Vegas.
"Open the door, Lena."
It's not a request. I throw on the shirt, wipe my face, and open the door six inches. Miguel stands there in his Coyote Fangs colors, the tattoo on his neck seeming to pulse with every heartbeat. My brother, my protector, my parent by default, looking at me with eyes that have seen too much and know too much.
"You're flushed," he observes.
"It's hot."
"It's November."
"I'm menopausal."
"You're thirty-one."
We stare at each other, fourteen years of history crackling between us like live wires.
"Tell 'Izzy' I say hi," he finally says. "Tell her we should catch up soon."
Translation: I know you're lying and I'm going to find out who you're really talking to.
"Will do," I manage.
He turns to leave, then pauses. "Lock your door, Lena. Both locks. Bad things happen to good people."
The front door closes with deliberate softness—Miguel's never slammed a door in his life. Controlled violence is his brand. I wait until I hear his bike start, wait until the sound fades, then return to my bed on shaking legs.
"Still there?" I whisper into the phone.
"Brother, not roommate," Diablo says. Statement, not question.
"Yeah."
"Protective brother who has a key."
"And a gun. And a motorcycle club. And a body count I don't want to know about."
"Sounds familiar."
My stomach clenches. "You're in a club too." Not a question.
"I looked you up," I admit, deflecting. "Online."
Silence. Then: "Find anything interesting?"
"Iron Talons MC. Saw your bike. Black Harley with skulls on the pipes."
My stomach turns saying the name out loud, like Miguel might somehow hear it through time and space, recognize it, connect the dots with his tactical precision.
