She untangles herself from me, straightens her scrubs, tries to fix her hair. She looks wrecked. Beautiful. Mine, even if she won't admit it. "Torch is going to report this."
"Let him."
"Miguel will—"
I cut her off. "I'll handle Miguel."
She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "No one handles Miguel."
"Then I'll die trying."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
I open the van door, step out into reality where we're enemies, where her brother would kill me for touching her, where my club would start a war over what we just did.
"Be safe," she calls after me.
"Never am," I respond, the truth for once.
I walk away, her taste still on my lips, her marks on my back, her "not yet" echoing in my head like a promise and a threat.
Tommy's waiting by my bike. "Ghost is pissed. Where were you?"
"Handling something."
He looks at me—really looks. Takes in my wrecked hair, the scratch marks probably visible on my neck, the general air of a man who just made the best worst decision of his life.
"Tell me it wasn't the Cruz girl."
I don't answer.
"Fuck, Z. You know what this means?"
"I know."
"This is war."
"Maybe."
"Not maybe. Definitely. Miguel Cruz will—"
"Miguel Cruz will have to get in line," I say, starting my bike. "I'm not giving her up."
"She's not yours to not give up."
I think about her legs around my waist, her "not yet" that sounded like "inevitably," the way she said my name like a prayer and a curse.
"She will be."
Tommy stares at me like I've lost my mind. Which, fair. I have. I lost it the moment she texted back, five weeks ago, starting this countdown to catastrophe.
"This ends badly, brother."
"Everything good does."
I drive away, knowing Tommy's right. Knowing this is unsustainable. Knowing Miguel's going to find out, Ghost is going to find out, everyone's going to find out.
Not caring.
