And I just made one.
Chapter 8
Darling
I don’t sleep.
Not really.
The Saints Outlaws keep the party going until the sky over Miami fades from black to that strange gray-blue that comes right before the sun decides to punish the entire city. Boots thud through the hallway outside the back room, heavy and careless. Men laugh like the night hasn’t wrung every ounce of violence and whiskey out of them.
The bass finally dies sometime close to dawn, but the echoes of it stay inside my ribs.
And underneath that, deeper, there’s another echo I can’t shake.
Diablo’s mouth on my skin.
His hands.
The way he looked at me like I was the only true thing left in his world.
I stare at the ceiling, watching faint neon from Vice Ink’s sign bleed through the narrow window and paint the walls red and blue. Every time I close my eyes I see the same moment replaying.
Diablo standing between me and Carmen.
She stays.
The words circle my head like vultures.
It should feel like a victory.
Instead, it feels like the moment before a war breaks open. Especially since he walks out right after. After her. Leaving me locked in this room to cry myself to almost sleep.
The sky outside turns pale and sticky, the kind of morning Miami specializes in. Humid air creeps through the cracked window. Somewhere outside, a siren wails and fades. Somewhere closer, a car stereo is still thumping reggaeton like the city never learned the concept of sleep.
I roll onto my side, the mattress creaking softly. My body is heavy with exhaustion, but my brain refuses to shut down. My ribs ache where they always ache. My throat feels raw from holding back too many words. Between my thighs feels… tender, and I hate that my mind goes right there, hate that my skin remembers Diablo before it remembers my pride.
Carmen’s voice slips back into my head. “I’m protecting what my father built. You’re risking everything. For what? A Calle Ocho stray?”
I press my face into the pillow, trying to shove the thought away.
That’s exactly what she wants.
A soft knock interrupts the spiral before it digs too deep.
Not aggressive. Not the sharp knock Carmen gave the door last night.
Vice’s voice rumbles through the wood, half amused, half business. “Prez said this goes in here.”
The door opens slowly and Magic steps inside carrying a travel cage.
For half a second my brain doesn’t process what I’m looking at.
Then white feathers shift inside the bars and my heart leaps straight into my throat.
Inside the cage is my cockatoo.
Snow-white body. A ridiculous crest that pops up like he’s permanently offended by everything. Black beak that looks too sharp for how silly he acts. His eyes lock on me and his whole body goes rigid like he’s about to deliver a speech to Congress.
