Chapter 12 Cat and Mouse
Chapter twelve
Cat and Mouse
Zane
She sent me to the wrong diner. Smart girl.
I'm sitting at Rosita's at 11:45 PM, black coffee cooling in front of me, when her text comes through.
My body's already on high alert—heart rate jacked, that copper taste of adrenaline, hands actually fucking shaking like I'm some virgin at prom instead of someone who's broken bones for less than this.
Angel: Wrong place, Diablo.
This is where you said.
Angel: Was. Now it's Murphy's. Two blocks east.
I should be pissed. Instead, I'm impressed. And harder than I should be from a redirect text. She's testing me, making sure I'm not some psycho who'll rage about changed plans. Making sure I can follow directions. Making sure I'm worth the risk she's taking.
Because she is risking something. The way she delayed a week, canceled twice, the careful paranoia—this isn't just meeting a stranger. This is betrayal of some kind. I can smell it on her even through text.
Nice try, Angel.
Angel: Had to know if you were dangerous.
I am dangerous. Just not to you.
Angel: That's what they all say before the documentary.
Fair point. Murphy's. I'll be there in 10.
Angel: I'm already there.
Of course she is. Probably watching from her car, escape route mapped, someone on standby. Good. In this city, careful keeps you breathing. Especially when you're crossing lines you shouldn't cross.
I throw cash on the table and head for my bike, ignoring the waitress's obvious relief that I'm leaving. Murphy's is close enough to walk, but the bike gives me options. Always have exits. First rule of survival when you wear Iron Talons colors.
Murphy's is exactly what I expected—harsh fluorescents fighting a losing battle with burnt-out bulbs, cracked vinyl booths that have seen better decades, the smell of grease and broken dreams. Safe. Public. Witnesses everywhere.
I don't see anyone in red.
I'm here. Where are you?
Angel: Not inside.
Angel.
Angel: Security cameras. I'm watching through the app.
Bullshit. No way she has access to Murphy's security system. But she can see me somehow—probably parked where she has sight lines through the window. Clever girl playing technical genius. I'll play along.
What am I wearing?
Angel: Black leather jacket that's seen some fights. Dark jeans. Boots that have definitely kicked in doors. Sitting in the corner booth like you're waiting for someone to try something.
She can definitely see me. The detail about my boots is too specific—there's still blood in the creases from last week's collection.
This feels like a test.
Angel: Everything's a test. You're passing.
What do I win?
Angel: Patience, Diablo.
I order coffee I don't want from a waitress who looks at my tats like she's memorizing them for a police sketch.
My body's staging its own revolution—pulse hammering, sweat under my collar despite the AC, dick hard enough to pound nails.
Twenty years of violence and I'm nervous about meeting a five-foot-nothing nurse.
Angel: You look nervous.
I look dangerous. You said so yourself.
Angel: You keep checking your phone. Your leg's bouncing. That's nervous.
Fuck. She really can see me.
Maybe I'm excited.
Angel: About meeting someone you've never seen?
I've seen your hands. Heard your voice. Know you named your vibrator José. That's more intimate than most marriages.
Angel: That's sad.
That's honest.
My phone buzzes with a photo. Her legs under a table. Red dress stopping mid-thigh, and Christ, she's small. Perfect. Those legs have probably run miles in hospital corridors, and all I can think about is them wrapped around—
Jesus.
Angel: You asked what I was wearing.
Another photo. Her hand on the table, those fingers that have been in my fantasies for weeks. There's a slight tremor. She's nervous too.
Angel: Still want to meet me?
I type back even as Miguel's voice echoes in my head: 'Stay away from anyone wearing skulls.' Every text is another betrayal. My thumb hits send anyway, because apparently my dick has overridden my hippocampus and is now making executive decisions.
More than ever.
Come inside.
Angel: Not yet.
This is torture. Deliberate, calculated torture. She's here, watching me squirm, sending photos designed to kill me, and I still haven't seen her face.
What else are you wearing?
Angel: Black underwear. Matching set. First time in two years.
For me?
Angel: For confidence. For armor. For the terrible decision I'm about to make.
Which is?
Angel: Walking through that door.
Then walk.
Angel: I can't. Not yet.
Why?
Angel: Because once I walk in there, everything changes. Everything ends or begins and there's no middle ground.
She's right. I can feel it too—that precipice moment where you either jump or walk away forever.
Bet you're tiny. Could lift you with one arm.
Angel: That's presumptuous.
That's physics. I'm 6'3". You're what, 5'2"?
Angel: 5'3". And a half.
That half inch really makes a difference?
Angel: Every inch makes a difference. Ask any woman.
Fuck. This woman.
Let me see you.
Angel: You are seeing me.
Your face. Your eyes. Want to know if they're as dangerous as your voice.
Silence. One minute. Two. Three. My body's about to combust—heart rate probably 140, hands clenched to stop the shaking, that fight-or-flight taste of copper flooding my mouth.
The door opens.
Red dress. Dark hair like she's been running her hands through it. She's smaller than I imagined, curvier than her photos suggested, and absolutely fucking perfect. She doesn't look at me, walks straight to the counter like she doesn't know I'm here.
But I know it's her. Know it in my bones, in the way my body responds like she's gravity and I'm space junk caught in her orbit.
I see you.
She checks her phone, and I watch her smile. Small, private, dangerous.
Angel: Do you?
Red dress. Running shoes underneath it. Hands shaking slightly. Hair that looks like you've been pulling it. You're terrified and here anyway.
Angel: Maybe I'm someone else in a red dress.
No. You're you. You're perfect. You're also wearing running shoes with a sexy dress, which means someone smart told you to be ready to bolt.
She turns, finally. Looks right at me across the diner. Brown eyes that have seen too much—death, violence, the inside of bodies—but still manage to look amused. That crooked smile from her Instagram photo, except in person it's lethal.
Angel: Black leather, dangerous eyes, worth the betrayal.
Betrayal. Not risk. Betrayal. She's betraying someone by being here.
She doesn't move from the counter. I don't move from my booth. We just stare at each other across twenty feet of cracked linoleum and terrible decisions.
Come here.
Angel: No touching. My rules.
I won't touch. Swear on my sister's grave.
That's not something I say lightly. She must hear it in the text somehow because she stands. Smooths her dress. Takes one step toward me, then stops.
Angel: I can't.
Why?
Angel: Because if I come over there, I'm going to break every rule I made. And probably some laws. And definitely some promises.
Good.
Angel: Not good. Catastrophic.
Everything about us is catastrophic.
She takes another step. Another. I can see her internal war—every muscle tense, ready to run (those fucking running shoes), but moving toward me anyway like she's fighting gravity.
She sits across from me, and I catch her scent—sanitizer and sin, copper and clean, something medical under something sweet.
"Hi," she says, and her voice in person is everything. Soft, tired, with that accent that makes me want to learn Spanish just to hear her use it. But there's also guilt. So much guilt it's practically bleeding from her.
"Hi,” I breathe the words out.
She takes me in, raking her eyes from my head to my feet. "You're bigger than I expected."
I smirk. "You're exactly what I expected."
"Disappointing?"
I shake my head. "Perfect."
She laughs, nervous, and her hands fidget with the saltshaker. They're shaking—adrenaline, not fear.
"No touching," she reminds me.
"Your rules," I agree, even though every cell in my body is screaming to reach across the table.
"One hour." She eyes me, gesturing to the seat beside her.
"Your timeline."
"No real names."
I chuckle. "Diablo and Angel it is."
She looks at me then, really looks. "This is insane."
"The insanest."
"Still not a word."
"Still don't care."
She smiles, really smiles, and I know I'm completely, irreversibly fucked.
And somewhere in this city, someone's going to want me dead for this.
Worth it.
Worth every dangerous second of it.