12. Luna
Chapter 12
Luna
I wake slowly, my body tender in places I never knew could feel so wonderfully sore. I reach out across the rumpled sheets, expecting to find Saint's warm body beside me, but my hand meets only empty space.
Last night replays in my mind—his hands, his mouth, the way he filled me so completely, the tender care he took with me afterward. Heat rises to my cheeks at the memory, but there's something else too—a fullness in my chest that wasn't there before. The realization hits me with startling clarity—I’m in love. I love him.
I've known him less than a week, and yet I've given him everything—my body, my trust, and now my heart. The thought should terrify me, but instead, I feel strangely calm, as if some part of me has always known this was inevitable from the moment our eyes met across that parking lot.
Stretching, I rise from the bed, my muscles protesting pleasantly, and gather fresh clothes. The thought that Abuela and I have officially been evicted from our apartment doesn't panic me as it should. With Saint, I feel anchored regardless of where we are.
After a quick shower, I head to the medical room to check on Abuela, but when I push open the door, I find an empty bed, sheets thrown back, and medical equipment disconnected.
My heart lurches in panic. "Abuela?" I call, checking the small bathroom. Empty.
I rush from the room, nearly colliding with Sophie in the hallway.
"Whoa, what's wrong?" she asks, steadying me with a hand on my arm.
"Abuela's gone," I gasp, trying to keep my voice from trembling.
“Gone?” Sophie's eyes widen. “What do you mean, gone?”
"She's not in her room!”
"Okay, don't panic," Sophie says, her calm demeanor helping to slow my racing heart. "Let's find Angel and the three of us can search the clubhouse. She can't have gone far. We’re still in lockdown.”
We find Angel in her room, looking over some paperwork for her nonprofit. When we explain the situation, she immediately sets her work aside.
"We'll find her," she assures me, dividing the clubhouse into sections for us to search. "Sophie, take the east wing. I'll check the offices and chapel. Luna, you check the kitchen and main areas."
We split up, and I hurry toward the kitchen, trying to imagine what in the world made Abuela leave her room. The thought of her wandering the clubhouse alone, possibly collapsing somewhere, makes my throat tight with fear.
As I approach the kitchen, the familiar scent of chorizo and eggs wafts through the air, accompanied by the sound of laughter and what sounds suspiciously like...scolding in Spanish?
I push open the kitchen door and freeze at the sight before me.
Abuela—my frail, disapproving abuela—stands at the stove wearing an apron over her housecoat, spatula in hand, presiding over a sizzling pan. Around her, a half dozen burly bikers sit at the table, watching her work with expressions of childlike anticipation.
"?No toques!" she slaps Ghost's hand away from a plate of what appears to be freshly made tortillas with her spatula. "Not yet."
Holy shit. What am I seeing?! She just slapped Ghost—the intimidating president of the Shadow Reapers—with a spatula! And he actually looks chastened as he withdraws his hand and mumbles, "Yes, ma'am.”
The domestic scene is so unexpected, so bizarrely normal, that for a moment I wonder if I'm still in bed dreaming.
"This is amazing," Hawk says around a mouthful of something that looks like a breakfast burrito. "Where'd you learn to cook like this?"
"I was born knowing," Abuela replies with such matter-of-fact confidence that the men roar with laughter.
I stare, dumbfounded, as my pint-sized Abuela banters with these big, burly, dangerous men as comfortably as if they were old friends at our kitchen table. She's transformed, reinvigorated, standing straighter than I've seen her stand in years.
Saint stands at Abuela's side, chopping onions with efficient precision. “How’m I doing?” he asks.
"You're learning," Abuela tells him, nodding approvingly at his knife skills. "Maybe there is hope for you yet."
"Does this mean I'm earning your blessing to ask for Luna's hand in marriage?” Saint’s voice is teasing, but there’s an undertone of seriousness that makes my breath catch.
Abuela scoffs, but I detect a hint of fondness beneath her brusque exterior. "It takes more than good knife skills to convince me you deserve my nieta. But..." she pauses, eyeing him critically, "you are making progress."
"I'll win you over, senora," Saint promises with that confident grin that makes my knees weak. "I'm a patient man when something's worth waiting for."
"We will see," Abuela replies, but there's less hostility in her tone than I've ever heard her direct toward Saint. "First, prove to me you can make proper coffee."
Marriage? They're talking about marriage?
I back away from the doorway, overwhelmed by what I've just witnessed. Abuela, apparently recovered enough to be bossing around a kitchen full of outlaw bikers. Saint, casually discussing marriage as if it's a foregone conclusion. The easy camaraderie between my grandmother and these men she initially regarded with such suspicion and fear.
My mind is blow. Completely blown.
I need to find Sophie and Angel, to share this miraculous transformation. I turn quickly, intending to retrace my steps, when I nearly run into Cherry.
Her appearance is so different from our previous encounters that I barely recognize her. Gone is the aggressive confidence, the revealing clothing, the perfectly styled hair. Instead, she looks disheveled, her makeup smudged as if she's been crying, her shoulders hunched defensively.
"Luna," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank God I found you."
I try to just ignore her and step around her, but she grabs my arm.
"Please," she whispers, glancing nervously over her shoulder. "I need to talk to you.”
I hesitate, eyeing her warily. "About what?"
Her hand trembles as she releases my arm. "Not here," she says, pulling me toward an empty alcove. Against my better judgment, I follow her. Something about the genuine fear in her eyes has caught me off guard.
Once we're alone, Cherry leans in close, her voice barely audible. "You care about them, don't you? Saint and the club?"
"Of course I do," I answer cautiously.
She nods, biting her lip. "I thought so.” She wrings her hands, genuine distress apparent in her posture. "I know you have no reason to trust me, but this is bigger than me or you. This is life or death."
A chill runs down my spine at her words. "What are you talking about?"
I study her face, searching for signs of deception. Her usual mask of bravado is gone, replaced by what appears to be genuine terror.
She glances around again, then reaches into her bra and pulls out a folded note. "This was slipped under my door last night. Read it, but please, please, don't let anyone see you."
I take the note reluctantly, unfolding it with trembling fingers. My blood runs cold as I read the typed message:
CLUBHOUSE WIRED WITH EXPLOSIVES. GET LUNA MARTINEZ TO PIER 17 ALONE BY 11 AM OR WE DETONATE. TELL ANYONE AND YOU ALL DIE. REMEMBER HOW GOLDEN TOUCH SPA WENT BOOM?
"I don't understand," I whisper, looking up at Cherry. "Why you? Why me?"
"I don't know," she answers, a sheen of tears forming in her eyes. Maybe because they think you belong to them and they want you back?"
I glance at my watch—10:15 AM. Less than an hour.
"We should tell Saint," I say, already turning toward the door. "Or Ghost. They'll know what to do."
"No!" Cherry's voice rises in panic before she checks herself. "The note implies they're watching. What if they are? If they see you talking to any of the brothers, they'll detonate immediately. Please, Luna. I know you have no reason to trust me, but I'm begging you. For once in my life, I'm trying to do the right thing."
"But—"
"Look," she lowers her voice even further, "I know what the Golden Touch looks like now. Nothing left but rubble. Do you want that to happen here? With everyone inside?"
The image of the clubhouse in flames flashes through my mind—Saint, Abuela, Sophie, Angel, all the brothers who've welcomed me despite having no reason to.
"How do we know this isn't some trick?" I ask, suspicion returning.
“We don’t.” Cherry grabs the note from my hands and shoves it back into her bra. “But do you really want to take that chance? I've seen how you look at Saint, how you've bonded with Angel and Sophie. If there's even a chance this is real, can you live with the consequences of ignoring it?"
She's right, and that's what terrifies me. If there's any possibility that this threat is genuine, how can I risk the lives of everyone in the clubhouse?
"Okay," I say finally, the decision settling like lead in my stomach. "I'll go. But I need to tell Saint something so he doesn't worry."
"No," Cherry shakes her head vehemently. "They'll be watching. Just slip out now, while everyone's distracted with breakfast.”
Every instinct tells me this is wrong, that I should run straight to Saint with this information. But the image of the Golden Touch Day Spa exploding into a ball of flames in the night sky flashes through my mind.
"I need to grab my shoes and a coat from upstairs and then I’ll sneak out. If anyone comes looking for me?—”
“I’ll cover for you,” Cherry says quickly. “I’ll say you went to lie down or something."
Twenty minutes later, I slip through a side exit of the clubhouse, my heart pounding so hard it’s nearly deafening. The compound is quieter than usual, with most members inside. I keep to the shadows, moving as quickly and quietly as possible until I reach the perimeter fence.
Finding a gap where the chain-link has been cut and hastily wired back together, I squeeze through, wincing as the sharp edges catch on my clothes. Once outside, I break into a run, heading toward the main road where I can catch a bus to the waterfront.
My mind races with scenarios, each worse than the last. What if it's a trap? What if the explosives are real but me going to the pier doesn't stop them? What if I've made a terrible mistake by not telling Saint?
But what if it's all true?
By the time I reach Pier 17, it's nearly 11 AM. The waterfront is surprisingly deserted for this time of day—no dock workers, no fishermen, no tourists. Warning bells sound in my head, but I've come too far to turn back now.
The wooden planks creak beneath my feet as I walk to the end of the pier. The water below is dark, choppy with small waves that slap against the pilings. Gulls cry overhead, their sounds eerily loud in the unnatural stillness.
The pier is deserted, shipping containers stacked in abandoned piles, the scent of salt and rotting fish heavy in the air. I realize I've made a terrible mistake.
I should leave. Go back to the clubhouse, confess everything.
I turn slowly, scanning my surroundings again. The warehouse buildings lining the waterfront stand silent and imposing, their windows like blank eyes staring out at me.
A flicker of movement catches my eye—a shadow shifting between two shipping containers stacked nearby. I squint, trying to make out a figure.
“I’m here. I came alone," I call out. "Just like you wanted."
As I take a step forward, I feel rather than hear someone approaching from behind. Before I can turn, pain explodes through my skull, bright lights flashing behind my eyes. I crumple forward, the world tilting oddly as darkness rushes in from the edges of my vision.