Bad Decision:Touch yourself.
In a van that smells like blood and Purell?
Bad Decision:You saved them. Touch yourself for me.
The adrenaline from the trauma, the exhaustion, his voice in my head from all those voice notes—it all crashes together. My properly sanitized hand moves between my legs, finding myself already wet because apparently my body responds to crisis by getting inappropriately aroused.
Bad Decision:Tell me.
Touching myself in a van that smells like blood and antiseptic. Thinking about your hands instead of mine.
Bad Decision:Good girl. My perfect angel.
Those words hit like always, making me work faster, chasing an orgasm that builds quickly—too quickly, like my body needs this release after all that death.
I'm close.
Bad Decision:Come for me. Now.
I do, biting my lip hard enough to taste copper again, my body convulsing in the driver's seat while somewhere in this city, Miguel's probably getting the report about Torch, about the warehouse, about his sister being there saving everyone regardless of colors.
Bad Decision:Tomorrow. Real diner this time.
I can't keep doing this.
Bad Decision:Yes you can. Tomorrow. Midnight. Mel's on Grand.
Why?
Bad Decision:Because I need to see you. Need to know you're okay after today.
I might not show.
Bad Decision:You will.
That confident?
Bad Decision:If you don't show, I'll find you anyway.
The threat should scare me. Instead, it makes me clench around nothing, already wanting more.
Wear something that doesn't scream 'I break kneecaps for fun.'
Bad Decision:Wear red again.
Why?
Bad Decision:Want to see you in the color of blood. Seems appropriate after today.
He's not wrong. Everything about us is blood and violence and terrible decisions wrapped in mutual obsession.
Fine. Red. Midnight. Mel's.
Bad Decision:Good girl.
I sit there for another twenty minutes, half-naked in a van that's seen too much, knowing tomorrow I'm meeting him again. Knowing this time we'll touch. Knowing everything's about to get exponentially worse.
My phone rings. Miguel.
