Chapter 10 Brothers and Burdens
Chapter ten
Brothers and Burdens
Zane
Ghost mentioned the Ghost Clinic and my blood ran cold.
Monday morning, Week one of Month two of whatever the fuck this has become. I'm at the clubhouse, trying to focus on the weapons shipment we're moving Thursday, when Ghost drops the name like a casual grenade.
"You hear about that Ghost Clinic?" He's cleaning his Glock, methodical and calm like he's not about to destroy my world. "Mobile medical unit. Helps the underground. No questions, no insurance, no cops."
"Yeah?" My voice stays level. Twenty years of violence has taught me to hide everything, but my pulse is hammering.
"Run by some angel nurse. Cruz girl, I think I heard.
Or maybe Gonzalez? Fuck, I don't know—someone said she's connected to Coyote but keeps the clinic neutral.
Parks everywhere—Home Depot, Walmart, wherever people need help.
Patched up Rope's kid last week when he split his head skating.
" Ghost looks up. "We should put her on payroll.
Keep her safe. Woman like that, doing God's work in devil's territory. "
Cruz. Gonzalez. Not her, then. Can't be. Phoenix has thousands of nurses. The odds of my Angel being the Ghost Clinic angel are—
But the brother. The protective brother with the key and the bike and the barely controlled violence.
"I'll look into it," I manage.
"Good. Anyone fucking with medical angels in our territory gets dealt with. Even if Coyote thinks she's theirs."
The irony tastes like copper. I'm the enforcer who's supposed to protect angels while corrupting one with voice notes and phone sex.
My phone buzzes.
Dylan: Need to talk. Emergency.
Fuck. Kid never says emergency unless it's real.
Where?
Dylan: Your place. 20 minutes.
I make excuses to Ghost, drive home with my head spinning. The Ghost Clinic. Coyote connections. Meeting her tonight while lying about everything.
Dylan's already at my garage when I pull up, pacing like a caged animal. Kid looks wrecked—pale, shaking, the whole works.
"Jessica's pregnant," he blurts out. "Maybe. She took a test. It was positive. She took three more. All positive."
Jesus Christ. Another fucking complication.
"How—"
"I know how!" He's almost crying. "We were careful, but that one time—fuck, Z, what do I do?"
I think about Emma. About the choices she never got to make. About the baby she talked about wanting someday, the future that died with her in that bathroom.
"What does Jessica want?"
"She doesn't know. She's scared. Her parents will kill her. Actually kill her."
"Dylan." I grab his shoulders, make him look at me. "You stand by her. Whatever she decides. You don't run, you don't panic, you don't make this about you. You stand by her."
"But what if—"
"No what-ifs. She decides. You support. That's how this works."
The hypocrisy tastes like blood. Here I am preaching loyalty while planning to meet someone whose brother would probably put me in the ground if he knew. Kid, take advice from literally anyone else.
"Mom's gonna lose her shit."
"We'll deal with that when we have to."
"We?"
"Yeah, kid. We."
He hugs me, which—fuck. When did I become the stable adult in anyone's life?
After Dylan leaves, I sit in my garage, staring at my phone. I need to test something.
Heard about something called Ghost Clinic
The dots appear immediately. Then disappear. Long pause. Too long. She's choosing her words like weapons.
Angel: Why do you ask?
Careful. She's being careful. Protecting something. Or someone.
Curious about angels in hell
Angel: That's poetic for a Monday
Answer the question
Angel: The Ghost Clinic is Switzerland. Neutral territory. No colors, no clubs, just help. That's the deal.
Neutral territory she says, like her brother wouldn't go scorched earth if he knew who she was texting. Like there aren't already battle lines drawn she doesn't even know about.
Still meeting tonight?
Angel: Having second thoughts?
No. You?
Angel: Every second. But yes
Angel: Midnight. Doc's Diner. Route 66
Angel: What if you know me? What if we've met before?
Would that change things?
Angel: Everything. It would change everything.
She has no idea how right she might be.
I'll be there
I'm about to put the phone down when Candy walks into the garage. Candy, the club whore who's been trying to upgrade her status by targeting Ghost, apparently now going for the nuclear option.
"Hey, Z." She's doing that walk, the one that's supposed to be sexy but just looks desperate. "Ghost's at the shop."
"I know."
She moves closer. Too close. "You look tense."
"I'm fine."
"I could help with that."
And then, because my life isn't complicated enough, she suddenly clutches her stomach, runs to the corner, and pretends to vomit. The performance is Oscar-worthy if you've never seen actual morning sickness.
"Shit," she gasps, wiping her mouth. "Sorry. Morning sickness is a bitch."
Morning sickness. Candy's "pregnant." With Ghost's baby, supposedly.
Except she's not. The vomiting is too performed. The hand on her stomach too theatrical. I've seen enough real pregnancy scares today to know the difference. She's faking, trying to lock down Ghost, secure her position. Dangerous game for a dangerous woman.
"Congratulations," I say flatly.
"Don't tell Ghost yet. I want to surprise him."
She leaves, and I'm left with another secret, another lie, another ticking bomb in an already explosive situation.
My phone buzzes.
Angel: Scared
Me too
Angel: Good scared or bad scared?
Both
Angel: Same
Angel: Diablo?
Yeah, angel?
Angel: What if this ruins everything?
I look at my hands. SINS and RAGE. Truth in advertising. Everything I touch turns to ash anyway.
What if it doesn't?
She doesn't respond, but she doesn't need to. We both know this is a terrible idea. We both know her brother would kill me if he knew who I was, what I am, what I've done. We both know the clubs would go to war over less than this.
We're going to do it anyway.
Twenty-four hours until I meet my angel at Doc's Diner, where everything either begins or ends. No middle ground in our world—just love or war, salvation or destruction.
Her brother's shadow looms over it all like a diagnosis neither of us wants to acknowledge: Terminal, with complications of gunfire.