Section 18
The Chair Wins
Lucky
I wake up convinced I’ve been folded incorrectly.
Every joint protests. My spine makes a sound it’s definitely not supposed to. My neck is stiff. The chair—my enemy—has succeeded in its mission.
“Motherfucker,” I hiss, trying to unfold myself.
I’ve survived gunshots and explosions.
The chair almost finishes the job.
Gia is already awake, looking at me with mild amusement. Or rage. Hard to tell with her. Which is sexy as—nope, not sexy. We’re professionals.
She sits on the edge of the bed, hair tousled, looking like she’s been planning things since 4 a.m. Diablo is draped across her legs like a smug fur missile.
“Morning,” I say. There may or may not be drool on my helmet padding, but there’s something uncomfortably moist against my face.
She glances at me. “You look like the chair won,” she says.
“It cheated,” I say. “I suspect structural malice.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “You can use the bed if you want.”
My brain shorts out.
“Oh—no, that’s—we’re up now. Might as well start early.”
She arches an eyebrow.
I immediately regret the phrasing.
“I mean work. Start work.”
“Mmhmm.”
I clear my throat. “Do you have a spare toothbrush?” That sounds safe. Professional, and minty fresh. Yeah.
“Yes,” she says, already turning away. “Check the drawer.”
I nod and head toward the bedside table.
The moment my hand touches it, I feel danger.
Too late.
The drawer slides open.
My brain registers colors, shapes, and immediate regret.
Gia lunges.
We hit the floor in a tangle of limbs and indignation.
“Give it back,” she snaps.
“I don’t know what it is!” I protest, holding up the object in question. “It vibrates and—why does it wiggle??”
“Do not describe it!”
She’s pinning me down trying to wrestle the bright pink monstrosity from my hands. I’m not even sure it can be called a dildo, but it undoubtedly seems I found her toy box. A rather intimidating one at that.
We realize simultaneously that she’s straddling me and that the way she’s wiggling makes it impossible not to notice
“…Okay,” I say carefully. “This is not on purpose.”
“Give it to me.”
“I will,” I say. “I just need one second to process what I’m looking at.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Hurry.”
I clear my throat. “For the record—purely biological—mornings are not my fault.”
“You’re unbelievable,” she scoffs, then adds through gritted teeth, “and you’re definitely getting harder.”
“Come on,” I say. “Don’t tell me you’re not—”
My back spasms, chair shaped and more painful than being shot.
I make a sound that is deeply unheroic.
She scrambles off me like she’s been burned.
We sit on opposite sides of the room, not looking at each other.
Diablo watches us both with intense disappointment.
“…Toothbrush is in the bathroom cabinet,” Gia says finally.
“Copy that,” I reply hoarsely.
We don’t speak again for a full minute.
But something is very, very different now.
I lock the bathroom door with a loud click and pull the helmet off. I drag a hand down my face and exhale slowly. The reflection in the mirror feels like false advertising.
The man looking back doesn’t match the one everyone thinks they’re talking to.
I turn slightly, checking the edge of my shoulder where skin meets fabric. I don’t lift my shirt. I don’t need to. I can feel the old pull across my back when I breathe too deep, the memory of heat and pressure and the sound afterward—ringing silence where the world should’ve been.
I straighten.
Helmet stays on, I remind myself.
It’s easier that way. Cleaner. Safer.
For everyone.
I rinse my hands even though they’re already clean and shut off the sink. When I open the bathroom door, the quiet hits me again. Red without music still feels wrong.
Gia is already dressed.
Of course she is.
Black suit, sharp lines, hair pulled back like she’s bracing for impact. Coffee in one hand, phone in the other. Diablo sits at her feet like a bodyguard with opinions, but perks up and pads over to me. He’s not so much wagging his tail as he’s shaking his entire backside.
“Good boy.”
Gia looks up, perfectly polished.
“Frank and the guys will be here in ten,” she says.
I nod immediately. “Got it.”
I follow her down to the empty club. She’s already three steps ahead of the room, mentally arranging people like chess pieces. There’s no hesitation in her this morning. No crack from last night’s silence.
If it affected her, she’s buried it beautifully.
That’s the thing about Gia Serrano.
She doesn’t fracture.
She compacts.
I don’t like the way Frank looks at her—like memory outranks authority. Like time grants permission. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and I recognize it for what it is.
Doubt dressed as concern.
“Anything you want me to do?” I ask.
She doesn’t look at me. “Stand where I tell you. Listen. Don’t speak unless I ask.”
Pause.
“Understood?”
“Crystal.”
She finally meets my eyes—or the helmet where my eyes would be—and nods once.
Last night was quiet.
This won’t be.
And whatever happens, I already know where I stand.