Chapter 19 Digital to Reality
Chapter nineteen
Digital to Reality
Lena
He was everything I imagined and more dangerous in person.
Sal's Diner, noon, and I'm standing in the doorway like I'm about to perform surgery with a butter knife—technically possible but inadvisable on every level.
Zane's in the corner booth, wearing a black henley that's trying its best to contain biceps that have definitely thrown people through walls.
He's pretending to read a menu while actually tracking every exit, every patron, every possible threat. Including me.
Torch is parked outside in his Kawasaki, about as subtle as a cardiac event. He's texting Miguel updates, probably something like "She's here. Meeting someone. Male. Dangerous-looking." If only he knew the half of it.
I walk toward Zane's booth, and our eyes meet.
The recognition is instant, electric, a full-body systems failure that I'm trying to disguise as casual interest. We both know.
We know we know. We're about to pretend we don't know, which is the kind of recursive lying that makes my prefrontal cortex want to file a complaint with HR.
"Hi," I say, sliding into the booth across from him. My voice doesn't shake. Miracle number one.
"Hi," he responds, and his voice in person, without hypothermia or phone static, is a weapon of mass destruction aimed directly at my reproductive system.
"You're the guy from the diner yesterday," I say, loud enough for neighboring tables to hear. "The one who watched me—"
"Save someone's life, yeah." His eyes are doing things to my heart rate that would require medical intervention if I wasn't already a medical professional. "That was incredible."
"Just doing my job."
"Your job is at UNM Hospital. What you did yesterday was above and beyond."
We're having two conversations. The one people can hear—nurse meets admirer, cautious but interested.
And the real one, happening in the space between words, in the way his fingers twitch toward mine on the table, in the way I'm cataloging every new detail I couldn't see in the freezer: the gold flecks in his brown eyes, the way his jaw clenches when he's controlling himself, how his chest rises slightly faster when I lean forward.
"Can I buy you coffee?" he asks. Normal. Casual. Not like he's held my naked hypothermic body for three hours.
"Sure."
The waitress comes over—Dolores, according to her name tag, approximately 167 years old, definitely judging us both. She takes our order: two coffees, black, because apparently, we're both too committed to our tough personas to admit we might want sugar.
"So," I say when she leaves, "what do you do?"
"Security," he answers, which is like calling a nuclear bomb a firecracker. "You?"
"Nurse. Trauma."
"Must see some shit."
"Must cause some shit."
His lip twitches. Almost a smile. "Sometimes."
My phone buzzes.
Miguel: Who is he?
I type back:
Guy from yesterday. Wanted to thank me.
Miguel: Be careful.
Always am.
The biggest lie I've ever told, and I tell it while staring at a man who could destroy everything I've built, everything Miguel's protected, everything that keeps me safe.
"Your brother's having me watched," Zane says quietly, not a question.
"Your President wants something from the Ghost Clinic," I respond, equally quiet. "Protection, probably. Control, definitely."
"How do you—"
"Because that's what MCs do. They claim territory, even the medical kind."
"You know who I am."
"You know who I am."
"We're fucked."
"Completely."
The coffee arrives. We both drink it black, bitter, temperature somewhere between lukewarm and disappointing—a metaphor for our future if I've ever tasted one.
"Angel," he says, so quietly only I can hear.
"Diablo," I respond, and watch his pupils dilate.
"We're really doing this?"
"Apparently."
"Your brother—"
"Will kill you, yes."
"My club—"
"Will start a war, probably."
We stare at each other over terrible coffee, both fully aware of the catastrophe we're orchestrating, both completely unable to stop.
"I should go," I say, not moving.
"You should," he agrees, also not moving.
"This is insane."
"Our brand."
My phone buzzes again. Emergency at the warehouse district. Multi-vehicle accident. They need all hands. The universe's timing remains impeccable—saving me from myself by throwing other people's disasters at me.
"I have to go," I say, and this time I mean it. "Emergency call."
"The warehouse district?" He's already pulling out his wallet, throwing cash on the table. "That's not safe territory."
"Nowhere's safe territory for me."
I stand to leave, and he catches my hand. Just for a second. Just long enough for every nerve ending in my body to stage a revolt. His thumb brushes over my pulse point—checking my heart rate or claiming me, possibly both.
"Follow me to the van," I say, pulling my hand away before I combust. "We need to talk. Or not talk."
"Torch—"
"Can watch me give you medical information about the woman you saw me save. Completely professional."
"Nothing about us is professional."
"Then we better make it look good."
I walk out first. He follows thirty seconds later. Torch texts frantically from his bike, probably sending Miguel play-by-plays that would be hilarious if they weren't potentially lethal.
My Mobile Mercy Unit is parked around the corner. The faded paint proclaiming medical salvation, Santos Electric magnets stored in the back because I forgot to put them on this morning. I unlock the back doors, climb in, pretending to organize medical supplies.
Zane follows.
The door closes.
We're alone.
"This is a terrible idea," I say.
"The worst," he agrees, stepping closer.
"We should talk about—"
"We should."
"The ramifications—"
"Absolutely."
"The logistics of—"
He's close enough now that I can smell him—leather, motor oil, that soap that apparently does do laundry, and underneath it all, the copper-sweet scent of adrenaline that matches mine.
"Lena."
The way he says my name should be illegal. Is illegal, probably, in several states.
"We can't."
"We are."
"This will end with blood."
"Everything does." His hand comes up, hovering near my face, not touching. Waiting. Asking.
"Torch is watching," I whisper.
"Let him."
"You don't mean that."
"I mean everything when it comes to you."
"… I have to go," I say, and this time I really do.
"I know."
"This isn't over."
"It's barely started."
He reaches past me, opens the van door. Professional. Respectful. Like he didn't just set every nerve ending in my body on fire without actually touching me.
"Be safe," he says, loud enough for Torch to hear.
"Always am," I lie, loud enough for everyone to believe it.
I drive away, watching him in my rearview mirror, standing there like a prophecy of destruction I'm racing toward instead of away from.
My left ovary has composed an entire opera about his hands.
My rational brain has filed for early retirement.
And I'm driving toward a multi-vehicle catastrophe while being the protagonist of my own.