My thumbs hover over the keyboard. This is the moment where smart people delete the number, block the contact, maybe seek therapy for their obvious self-destructive tendencies. Instead:
Rules.
Bad Decision:I'm listening.
Public place only. One hour maximum. No touching. No real names.
Bad Decision:All your rules, Angel.
Like rules matter when I'm meeting someone from Iron Talons. Like any rule could protect me from the catastrophic betrayal I'm about to commit. My phone screen might as well be a signedconfession: "I, Lena Cruz, am hereby choosing spectacular orgasms over fourteen years of my brother's protection."
Miguel texts three times while I'm staring at the screen. Just checking in.You hungry? Working tonight? Mom's altar candles need replacing.The kind of texts that really mean "I know you're up to something and I'm giving you room to confess."
"Who are you texting that's making you look like you're about to commit fratricide?"
Izzy drops into the chair across from me, stealing my coffee without asking because that's what best friends do. Isabella Reyes, fellow Weekend Option nurse, walking disaster disguised as competent medical professional. Her purple-streaked hair is pulled back in a bun that's fighting a losing battle with gravity, and her tattoo sleeves peek out from under her scrubs—colorful chaos that she claims tells her life story but really just makes parents clutch their children closer in the ER.
"The internet stranger," I admit.
"The one whose voice makes you forget your own name?"
"That's the one."
"He's from a motorcycle club, isn't he?" Izzy's not stupid. She's seen my browser history. "The good kind or the kind Miguel would literally dismantle?"
"Does it matter?"
"It matters if I'm gonna be an accessory to your murder or Miguel's."
I stay silent. Sometimes silence is its own confession.
"Jesus, Lena. At least tell me it's not Iron Talons."
My face must do something because her eyes go wide.
"Fuck. Okay. Running shoes and pepper spray. And I'm adding Miguel to speed dial."
"Izzy—"
"No, shut up. You're meeting tomorrow night? Where?"
"Rosita's."
She pulls out her phone, all business now. "I'm tracking your location. You text me every twenty minutes or I'm calling the cops, the fire department, and Miguel. In that order."
"Not Miguel."
"Especially Miguel if you miss even one check-in."
"Izzy, please—"
"Your brother would turn someone into confetti for looking at you wrong, and you're meeting someone from the MC that killed Carlos? The same Carlos whose funeral made Miguel punch a hole through his apartment wall?"
My stomach turns. The memory of that day—Miguel's knuckles bleeding, his voice cracking as he said "They executed him in a fucking strip mall, Lena. Like he was nothing."
"This is different," I whisper.
"Different how? Because this one makes you make sounds Murray from pediatrics is still asking about?"
