Section 10
Red Means Stop (Allegedly)
Gia
The bike idles, low and restless.
I dismount without ceremony. No looking back. If I acknowledge the thing we just did, it becomes a thing, and I don’t do things that complicate my supply chains or my sleep.
Lucky stays on the bike.
I straighten my coat, roll my shoulders once, and become myself again—the version with codes and bloodless decisions. The version who owns a building full of people pretending not to want things.
“Go back to work,” I say, because instructions are safer than goodbyes.
He nods, revs the engine, and pulls away without drama.
I tell myself the absence of regret means I’m in control.
I do not tell myself why my pulse doesn’t slow until he’s gone.
??
Red is alive when I step inside.
Bass rolling through the floor. Bodies packed tight enough to blur into one moving organism.
Home.
Diablo materializes at my side.
“Hey, menace,” I murmur, dropping a hand to his head. His tail thumps once against my leg like a gavel. He plants himself squarely at my heel.
Chaos, but selective.
I move through the club with practiced ease, nodding, gesturing, correcting a bartender with two fingers and a look. The staff read me the way sailors read weather. Nobody asks questions, because nobody needs to.
Lucky is already inside.
Corner. Wall. Helmet on.
He doesn’t watch me. That’s new. He watches everything else. A perimeter with a pulse.
I hate how competent he looks.
I hate that my body recognizes the shape of him before my brain does.
I do not examine that thought. Examination leads to conclusions.
This is… operational frustration.
??
A drunk guy spills a drink near VIP and starts puffing up like a wounded rooster.
Lucky is there before the problem becomes a problem.
Just a hand on a shoulder and a murmured sentence I can’t hear. The man deflates. Apologizes. Leaves.
I make a mental note I absolutely do not need to make.
At the bar, a woman leans in too close when I’m signing off on inventory. Says my name like it’s a dare. I smile once—noncommittal—and Diablo steps forward just enough to make his teeth visible.
She reconsiders her life choices.
Across the room, Lucky still doesn’t look at me.
That’s worse.
I tell myself I could go home with anyone tonight. I could pick one. Or two. I could forget the weight of a helmeted presence like a pressure system.
I do my job.
I sign paperwork. I approve a new DJ. I fix a lighting cue. I walk the floor with Diablo at my side like an omen with paws.
Once—only once—I pass Lucky close enough that the edge of his jacket brushes my sleeve.
Static.
I don’t stop. Neither does he.
We are professionals.
Near closing, I assign him to the lower floor.
“Stay there,” I say, voice neutral.
“Yes, boss.”
No jokes.
I hate that too.
When the lights come up and the last of the bodies spill into the street, Red exhales. The building settles into its bones. Diablo flops dramatically on the office rug like he’s been through war.
“You’re ridiculous,” I tell him, toeing his side.
He rolls over. Demands tribute.
I sink into my chair and stare at the ceiling for a full ten seconds.
This can’t happen again.
Not because it was bad.
Because it fit too easily.
Because he listened.
Because I don’t keep toys that learn me back.
I close my eyes.
Tomorrow, this will be handled.
Tonight, I let Diablo steal my chair and pretend my pulse isn’t still riding shotgun.
Red means stop.
I have always been very bad at obeying signs.