Chapter 2 #2
"Count on it," I whisper, attempting to smile back at her. It feels like I’m leaving a part of myself behind in this apartment, but as I settle into the comfy leather seat, the heavy thud of the door closing feels like a vault locking shut.
For the first time in a week, the world feels small enough to manage.
We follow Alana until she pulls up outside the dorm.
Then we watch as she grabs her bags and steps inside the dorm’s locked doors; only when she’s safe behind glass and steel does Diesel swing the car toward the highway.
The exit from Los Angeles is a long pulse of gridlocked taillights and muffled quiet.
Diesel drives with one broad hand curled on the wheel, every motion deliberate.
He doesn’t bother with music, doesn’t break the silence with words.
He just maneuvers us through the river of red lights, intention radiating from him in waves.
The city blurs and thins away behind us, and still, Diesel says nothing; he simply drives, sharp and steady, the dark pouring past on either side.
His gaze flicks to the rearview mirror every few seconds, checking for a tail.
I watch his profile in the fading afternoon light. He has a nose that looks like it’s been broken at least once, a strong, stubborn jawline covered in dark stubble, and eyelashes that have no business being that long on a man that gorgeous.
I try to focus on the scenery outside my window. My mind keeps drifting back to the way he looked when he walked through the door. He’d come all the way from Vegas, probably at breakneck speeds, just because Alana called. He didn't ask questions. He didn't hesitate. He just came for me.
"You're staring," he says, his voice cutting through the hum of the SUV. He doesn't look away from the road, but a tiny muscle in his jaw twitches.
"I'm assessing," I counter, shifting in the leather seat. "It’s a personality trait. I’m an accountant, Diesel. I like to have all the data before I make a conclusion."
"And what’s the conclusion, Ren?" He glances at me then, his dark eyes hooded and unreadable. There’s a challenge in the look, a quiet heat that makes the interior of the SUV feel ten degrees hotter.
"That you're incredibly bossy," I say, lifting my chin. "And you like to be in charge."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips—a rare, fleeting thing that transforms his face from a mask of granite into something devastatingly handsome. "That isn’t exactly a secret."
"It was just an observation." I shrug, looking out the window at the passing landscape. The silence stretches. I can feel the weight of Diesel’s stare like a laser beam on the side of my face.
“Tell me what you know about this asshole. The stalker. Start at the beginning.” His voice is flat, but there’s an edge to it that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
Well, that’s a mood killer. “There isn’t much to tell. His name’s Kirk Voss. He was in my Advanced Accounting seminar last quarter. We were barely even acquaintances. I mean, I’m not exaggerating, Diesel. I literally just lent the guy a highlighter once.”
Diesel grunts. “You never dated him?”
“God, no.” The thought makes my entire body want to recoil. “I don’t date classmates.”
He snorts, but the tension in his jaw doesn’t ease up. “So, how did this creep get your number?”
“Academic project group. Everything’s on Canvas these days.
You have to use your real info or professors won’t let you submit…
” I trail off, suddenly imagining Kirk, and the mental image makes my skin crawl.
“He started DM’ing me for ‘help’ on homework, but I figured he was just socially awkward.
I never replied to anything except project stuff. ”
“Motherfucker.” Diesel’s grip tightens on the steering wheel, the big vein on his forearm standing out. Guy looks like he could pop the steering column clean off if he wanted.
“He escalated after midterms. The DMs switched from Canvas to Instagram. Then he started texting my phone. Not from his own number, obviously. Unlisted. Sometimes blocked. Always weird, like… not threats, but stuff like he was worried about my stress levels, and he said I should take better care of myself.” I pick at a loose thread on my pants, remembering the chill that crawled up my spine every single time his name popped up on my notifications.
“At first, I reported him for harassment, but the university didn’t do shit.
Warned him, maybe. If anything, it just made him get smarter.
I changed my number three times, but he just kept getting the new numbers.
Then I started getting emails from fake accounts and notes under my door. ”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Diesel mutters, all cold fury. His knuckles flex, and for a second, I seriously wonder what he’d do if Kirk were standing in the middle of the road right now. Run him over? Probably. Then reverse and do it again, just to be thorough.
He glances at me, his stare brooding and hot as hell, like he’s memorizing every detail. “You don’t have to worry anymore. He’s not getting near you. Not in Vegas. Not anywhere.” Every word is a dark, iron promise, carved out of stone. I believe him.
The sky begins to bruise into shades of deep purple and burnt orange as we hit the open desert.
The mountains in the distance are jagged silhouettes against the horizon, and the air coming through the vents smells drier, dustier.
It feels like we're leaving the real world behind, entering a whole different world.
Here, there are only the lines on the road and the man sitting next to me.
I lean my head back against the headrest, watching the way the dashboard lights cast a soft, green glow over Diesel’s hands.
Broad palms, calloused fingers, skin that looks like it’s seen more than its fair share of work.
They’re hands that know how to fix things. Hands that know how to protect things.
He’s Alana’s brother. He’s the guy who used to tease me when I was a teenager with braces and a crush I thought was well-hidden.
He’s a member of an MC that I don't fully understand, a man who lives in a world of chrome and leather and loyalty that runs deeper than blood. I’m a girl who likes order, who likes things to balance at the end of the day, who thinks that every problem can be solved with a well-organized ledger.
We don't make sense. We aren't a balanced equation.
But then he glances over at me, and I feel that jolt of electricity all over again.
It’s a Noticing Spiral, I realize. I’m noticing the way he breathes.
I’m noticing the way he smells. I’m noticing the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not looking.
And I’m trying to rationalize it as 'rescue-induced pheromones,' but the lie is starting to taste like ash.
The lights of Las Vegas begin to shimmer on the horizon, a neon mirage in the middle of the black desert.
It looks like a city made of broken glass and promises, bright and chaotic and entirely too much.
Somewhere in that sea of lights is Diesel’s house.
Somewhere in there, I’m supposed to find a version of myself that isn't afraid.
I look at Diesel one last time before the city swallows us whole, his profile etched in the light of the passing street lamps.
He looks like a guardian. He looks like a secret.
And the butterflies in my stomach do a frantic, terrified dance.