My stomach drops before I even turn.
A black Harley glides up behind the Lamborghini, chrome catching the streetlights as the bike rolls to a stop like it owns the curb.
Diablo doesn’t wear a helmet. He cracks his neck. His dark hair falls slightly out of place from the ride. He strokes his beard and his eyes lock onto me with an intensity that cuts straight through the noise of Ocean Drive.
The world narrows.
Mateo glances over his shoulder, confused. “You know him?”
Disco leans forward, crest up, and announces, loud and delighted, “¡Diablo!”
Heads whip toward us like that name is a match.
Diablo doesn’t look at Mateo.
He looks at me.
And he says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Get out of the car.”
Mateo laughs awkwardly, glancing between us.
“Bro, we’re kind of in the middle of something.”
The phone is still pointed at us. Thousands of viewers watching in real time.
The comments start flying faster.
Who’s that?
Is that her boyfriend?
Oh shit this just got real.
That’s a biker.
Diablo finally shifts his gaze toward Mateo.
It isn’t loud.
It isn’t dramatic.
It is lethal.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
The temperature around us drops. Even the valet pauses, hands hovering like he doesn’t want to be caught in whatever this is.
Mateo straightens slightly, suddenly unsure of himself in a way he clearly is not used to.
My pulse pounds against my ribs.
He should not have this effect on me.
I should laugh.
I should tell him to fuck off.
