Chapter 9 Phone Sex
Chapter nine
Phone Sex
Lena
Phone sex with a stranger whose face I'd never seen was the hottest thing I'd ever done. Which, considering my brother Miguel would literally dismantle said stranger with his bare hands if he knew, probably qualifies as both a medical emergency and a death wish.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Again. It's becoming a pattern, like my inability to maintain normal sleep schedules or make choices that wouldn't make my dead parents spin in their matching graves.
Friday night, 1:47 AM. I'm in bed after a twelve-hour shift that included a machete wound (MC-related, but not Miguel's MC, thank God), two overdoses (fentanyl's having a moment), and a gentleman who superglued his penis to his stomach (still don't ask).
My scrubs are in the hamper, I've showered twice, and I'm pretending this is a normal Friday night activity—lying in bed, waiting for a call from Bad Decision.
The name fits. Every interaction with him is a terrible choice I'm making with enthusiasm.
I heard Miguel's bike pull up twenty minutes ago.
My brother, who has his own place three blocks away but installed a Ring camera on my door "for safety" and shows up whenever he sees my lights on past midnight.
Because apparently being thirty-one doesn't exempt me from big brother surveillance.
The methodical footsteps on my stairs, then the quiet—he's sitting on my couch, cleaning his Glock.
The same ritual from when I was seventeen and he was twenty-one, playing parent with a gun instead of a rulebook.
When the phone rings, my heart rate spikes to marathon levels despite my horizontal position.
"Can't sleep," he says instead of hello, and his voice is rougher tonight. Exhausted, maybe. Or drunk. Or both.
"Same," I admit, though my insomnia is 90% anticipation, 10% the Mountain Dew I mainlined at midnight, and 100% guilt about what I'm about to do while my brother—who dropped out of college to raise me—sits guard in my living room.
"What are you wearing?"
I laugh, but it's got an edge. "Really? That's your opening?"
"I've been thinking about it all day."
"Thinking about what I'm wearing?"
"Thinking about taking it off you."
My thighs clench involuntarily. This man and his voice are going to be listed as cause of death on my autopsy report, right under "gross familial betrayal" and "terminal poor judgment."
"Old t-shirt," I tell him, keeping my voice low. "Underwear that's seen better days. Very sexy."
"What color?"
"The shirt or the underwear?"
"Both."
"Gray shirt from a 5K I never actually ran. Black underwear that's mostly held together by hope and denial."
He groans, this low sound that goes straight to my core, completely bypassing the part of my brain screaming about loyalty and blood bonds and the fact that Miguel has killed people for less than what I'm about to do.
"Take them off."
"That's presumptuous."
"Angel. Take them off."
It's not the command that does it—it's the way his voice breaks a little on "angel," like he needs this as much as I do.
My rational brain (remember her? She used to make good choices before Miguel started wearing Coyote colors) is screaming about stranger danger and family loyalty.
My hands are already pulling off my shirt.
"They're off," I whisper, quiet enough that Miguel won't hear from the living room.
"Good girl."
Two words. Two fucking words and I'm soaking wet, my body committing treason at the cellular level.
"Don't—" I start.
"Don't what? Don't tell you how good you are? Don't tell you how perfect you sound when you're desperate?"
"Diablo—"
"Touch yourself. I want to hear you."
This is insane. I'm a medical professional. I save lives. I have certifications and continuing education credits and a brother who joined a motorcycle club to keep me safe. I should not be spreading my legs for a stranger's voice while said brother maintains his weapons thirty feet away.
My fingers find my clit anyway.
"Tell me," he says. "Tell me what you're doing."
"Touching myself," I breathe, circling slowly, keeping my voice barely above a whisper. "Thinking about your hands instead of mine."
"How wet are you?"
"Embarrassingly."
"Be specific, Angel. Medical professional like you should know about being specific."
I slip a finger inside, then two, biting my lip to stay silent. "Soaking. Dripping. My body's having a whole physiological response here—vasocongestion, myotonia, increased lubrication—while trying to be completely silent because apparently stealth orgasms are my new specialty."
"Why so quiet, Angel?"
"Thin walls. Nosy neighbors. The usual." The lie slides out easier than my fingers slide in, which should probably concern me more than it does.
"Keep going," he says, and I can hear him stroking himself, the rhythm in his breathing. "Tell me how you're touching yourself."
"Two fingers inside," I whisper, barely audible. "Thumb on my clit. Thinking about your hands, those tattoos, what SINS and RAGE would feel like pressed against my thighs."
"Jesus, Angel—"
"Are you—?"
"Stroking my cock thinking about you? Yes. Thinking about how tight you'd be, how wet, how you'd taste—fuck—"
My fingers speed up, chasing the orgasm that's building like a storm front. "I'm close—"
"No. Not yet. Slow down."
"That's not fair—"
"Slow down, angel. Be good for me."
Those words again. "Good" like I'm something worth praising instead of the disaster human betraying her only family for a stranger's voice. I slow my fingers, whimpering quietly into my pillow.
"Good girl," he rumbles. "So good for me. Now tell me—what do you need?"
"You," falls out before I can stop it. "Need you here. Need your hands, your mouth, your—"
"You want this?" His voice is strained now, control slipping. "Want me to make you come?"
"Yes, please, yes—"
"Then come for me, angel. Now. Quiet."
My orgasm hits like a medical emergency—full-body, systems-failing, someone-check-her-vitals intense. I bite my pillow hard enough to taste fabric softener, my body convulsing while I fight to stay silent, knowing Miguel's tactical hearing could pick up a mouse fart from three rooms away.
"Fuck, fuck, angel—" His voice breaks into a groan, and I know he's coming too, can hear it in the way his breathing goes ragged.
"Again," he demands when he can speak. "Give me another."
"I can't—too loud—Miguel's—"
"You can. Quietly. You're so good, so perfect. Come again for me. Silent."
My fingers are already moving, oversensitive clit protesting and begging simultaneously.
It takes less than a minute before I'm falling apart again, silent scream trapped behind clenched teeth, my body shaking while I pray to every deity that my brother's focused on his Glock and not the suspicious silence from my bedroom.
"Such a good girl, coming for me," he murmurs, and I'm gone, a third orgasm rolling through me like an aftershock, my body trembling while tears leak from my eyes—from pleasure, from guilt, from the knowledge that I'm destroying everything Miguel built to keep me safe.
We breathe together for a moment, two strangers in the dark, connected by nothing but bad decisions and electronic signals.
A knock on my bedroom door. My blood turns to ice.
"Lena?" Miguel's voice has that particular edge—not quite threatening, not quite concerned, perfectly balanced on the knife's edge of 'I will murder whoever is making my sister make those sounds.' "Who are you talking to at 2 AM?"
Panic floods my system like contrast dye in a CT scan.
"Izzy!" I call back, voice too high, too breathless. "Bad date story. You know how she is."
"At 2 AM?" There's weight in those three words. Fourteen years of raising me, knowing my tells, reading my lies like prescription labels.
"Time zones! She's in... Hawaii. For work. Nursing conference."
The silence stretches like a pulled tendon, painful and wrong. Miguel's not buying this. He knows my friend Izzy works at Presbyterian and has never been further west than Vegas.
"Open the door, Lena."
It's not a request. I throw on the shirt, wipe my face, and open the door six inches.
Miguel stands there in his Coyote Fangs colors, the tattoo on his neck seeming to pulse with every heartbeat.
My brother, my protector, my parent by default, looking at me with eyes that have seen too much and know too much.
"You're flushed," he observes.
"It's hot."
"It's November."
"I'm menopausal."
"You're thirty-one."
We stare at each other, fourteen years of history crackling between us like live wires.
"Tell 'Izzy' I say hi," he finally says. "Tell her we should catch up soon."
Translation: I know you're lying and I'm going to find out who you're really talking to.
"Will do," I manage.
He turns to leave, then pauses. "Lock your door, Lena. Both locks. Bad things happen to good people."
The front door closes with deliberate softness—Miguel's never slammed a door in his life. Controlled violence is his brand. I wait until I hear his bike start, wait until the sound fades, then return to my bed on shaking legs.
"Still there?" I whisper into the phone.
"Brother, not roommate," Diablo says. Statement, not question.
"Yeah."
"Protective brother who has a key."
"And a gun. And a motorcycle club. And a body count I don't want to know about."
"Sounds familiar."
My stomach clenches. "You're in a club too." Not a question.
"I looked you up," I admit, deflecting. "Online."
Silence. Then: "Find anything interesting?"
"Iron Talons MC. Saw your bike. Black Harley with skulls on the pipes."
My stomach turns saying the name out loud, like Miguel might somehow hear it through time and space, recognize it, connect the dots with his tactical precision.
"That obvious?"
"You have SINS and RAGE tattooed on your knuckles. Subtlety isn't your strong suit."
He laughs. "Fair point."
I've screenshot everything, like a totally normal person who isn't betraying their brother's trust. The MC's page, the bikes, the few grainy photos where I can see broad shoulders and dark hair but no faces.
Evidence of my treason, saved right next to photos of Miguel and me at our parents' funeral, both of us too young to be orphans.
"Angel?"
"Yeah?"
"I need to see you. Real life. Please."
My heart stops. Actually stops. This is how I die—not from the Mountain Dew addiction or the poor life choices, but from having to choose between the stranger who makes me come and the brother who made me survive.
"That's—"
"Dangerous, I know. Stupid. Probably the worst idea either of us has had."
"And we've had some spectacularly bad ideas."
"Yeah." A pause. "But I need to see you. Touch you. Make you come with more than just my voice."
My body clenches at the thought while my conscience hemorrhages guilt.
"When?" I hear myself asking, even as I imagine Miguel's face when he inevitably finds out.
"Tomorrow. Midnight. Doc's Diner on Route 66."
Doc's Diner. Neutral territory. Not Coyote ground, not Iron Talons ground. Smart. Like he knows there might be complications.
"Okay," I whisper, and somewhere in the multiverse, a better version of me is honoring Miguel's sacrifices instead of sneaking around like our mother did before she drove them both into that truck.
"Angel—"
"I know. This is insane."
"The insanest."
"That's not a word."
"It is now."
After I hang up, I lie in the dark, replaying Miguel's face, that careful control that means he's cataloging every detail for later analysis. What am I doing? This isn't just dangerous—it's a declaration of war against the only family I have left.
My medical brain diagnoses the situation: Acute Familial Betrayal Syndrome with a poor prognosis.
My vagina, however, has already started planning what underwear to wear.