Chapter 16
Sixteen
Jagger
After a day in strip clubs with Ortega, seeing Adena is like stepping out of smoke into clean air.
Twenty minutes later, we're on our bikes heading out of the city, the sun starting its slow descent toward the horizon.
We stop in Ponchatoula at a small Cajun place with peeling paint and a handwritten menu. The woman behind the counter doesn't blink at our bikes or our clothes, just takes our order—fried catfish and hushpuppies for me, crawfish étouffée for Adena, sweet tea for both.
By the time we reach Manchac, the light's gone golden. I find a quiet spot off the main road—an old boat launch with a half-rotted dock stretching into dark water. The swamp's still, reflecting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
We follow the shoreline, gravel crunching under our boots as we walk. The sun's sinking, painting everything in that deep gold light that makes the world look softer than it is.
Adena exhales deeply. "God will find a way. Out of this. For both of us. I know He will," she says.
Her faith is the one thing I can't compete with—can't fake my way through, can't even pretend to understand.
It’s a wall between us that I can’t climb and can't blow up. It makes me feel like a ghost standing next to someone who’s actually alive.
So I do what I always do when I'm cornered. I move.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the box.
"Let me see something expensive," Ortega had told the jeweler. "My boy needs to show his woman he's serious."
The jeweler brought out trays. Ortega pointed at the flashiest one—white gold, princess-cut diamond, smaller stones down the band. The kind of ring that screams money.
"That one. She'll love it."
I bought it because I had no choice, because refusing would've raised questions I couldn't answer.
Now I stop walking and hold out the box.
I open it. The diamond catches the fading light, throwing fractured fire across her face.
"Just in case God doesn't give you what you want," I say.
A couple appears on the path behind us—older, tourists with cameras, not a threat, but I feel their presence regardless.
I take her hand, and she doesn't pull away. The ring slides on easily—perfect fit, like I knew it would be when I guessed her size this morning while Ortega made jokes about being whipped.
It sits there on her finger, glittering and heavy and real.
“Will you marry me?” I ask.
For one terrible second, she looks trapped. The light goes out in her eyes, replaced by the look of a bird hitting a window. I’ve just backed her into a corner she can't escape, and for a heartbeat, I hate myself more than I hate Ortega.
Then the actress takes over. She’s good. Too good. She smiles like this is the answer to every prayer she’s ever breathed.
“I will,” she says, her voice bright and high.
She extends her hand, admiring the stone, playing the part of the blushing bride-to-be for the tourists. It’s a golden moment—a performance I wish Marquez could see.
As she smiles, I feel the weight of what I just did sitting heavy in my gut. I’ve asked her to take the one thing she holds sacred—a covenant—and turn it into a tactical maneuver.
It wasn’t Marquez who forced her into this desecration. It wasn’t Ortega.
It was me.
And if her God doesn’t come through, this is a performance she’ll have to repeat in forty-eight hours.
Only next time, it’ll be in front of a priest, and she'll have to swear that she loves the man I’m only pretending to be.
Adena
I shift gears, throttle down as we hit the city limits, and the weight shifts with the movement—foreign, intrusive. The metal catches on my glove, pulls at the leather in a way that makes me hyperaware of it with every twist of my wrist.
My hand is rejecting it. I could have rejected him. Should have. The couple was barely paying attention, already moving past. There was no tactical need to say yes, no reason to let him slide that ring on my finger.
So why didn't I?
The fury rises hot in my chest—at him for putting me in this position, at myself for letting him.
I twist the throttle harder.
The Harley surges forward, engine snarling. The speedometer climbs—fifty, sixty, seventy. Wind slams into me, whipping my hair back, stealing my breath. My pulse pounds in rhythm with the engine.
Jagger glances back, sees me coming.
He opens up his throttle.
Good.
We rocket through the outskirts, side by side now, engines screaming in competition. A car honks as we weave around it. Another swerves. I don't care. I need this—the speed, the danger, the way it drowns out everything I can't afford to think about.
The streetlights blur into ribbons of gold. My thighs grip the seat, body low and aerodynamic, every muscle coiled tight.
Jagger edges ahead at a red light—doesn't stop, just blows through it. I'm right behind him, adrenaline spiking as I clear the intersection, the thrill of it sharp and electric in my veins.
We hit Canal Street doing eighty.
A delivery truck pulls out—too close, too sudden.
I slam the brakes, drop a gear, cut hard right. The truck's mirror misses me by inches. My knee nearly kisses asphalt as I lean into the turn. Then I'm through, heart hammering, hands vibrating on the grips.
Jagger's ahead, but not by much.
I crank the throttle wide open.
The Harley lunges forward like she's been shot from a cannon—ninety, ninety-five. The world compresses into pure speed and focus.
The Quarter rushes at us—narrow streets, pedestrians scattering, chaos. We should slow down, should be smart.
I don't want to be smart.
Jagger takes a corner too fast, rear tire sliding. He catches it, leans hard, powers through.
I match his line perfectly, feeling the Harley dance beneath me—alive, wild, hungry for more.
We're neck and neck on Decatur. A taxi lays on its horn as we split lanes. Someone yells. I don't hear them over the roar of the engines and the rush of blood in my ears.
One more block.
Jagger surges ahead—half a bike length, maybe less. I lean lower, wring every bit of speed out of the Harley, closing the gap inch by inch.
We hit the parking lot at the same time—so close I can't tell who crossed first.
Both engines die. Silence crashes down like a wave.
I rip off my helmet, chest heaving, hands shaking from adrenaline. My whole body's vibrating—electric, alive, wired so tight I could snap.
Jagger's off his bike, staring at me. His eyes are bright, wild—he felt it too. The rush. The danger. The way speed makes everything else disappear.
He knows exactly what that run did to me because he looks like it did the same to him.
Before I can think better of it, I grab his shirt and drag him forward, crashing my mouth to his. It’s messy and urgent and starved, and he lets out a low sound—deep and involuntary—that nearly wrecks me.
His hands come up fast, one cupping the back of my head, the other gripping my waist, pulling me so tightly against him I feel the shudder that runs through him.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I am.
The kiss sizzles—his breath mixing with mine, his grip tightening like I’m something he’s been holding back from far too long. I pour everything into it—fear, anger, want that terrifies me with its intensity.
A van passes. A whistle. Laughter.
Reality cold-slaps me. I rip away, heat tearing through my body.
“Inside,” he says, voice rough enough to undo me all over again. “Now.”
I don’t argue. I follow him up the stairs, legs unsteady, heart beating out of rhythm. I unlock the door. He steps in behind me, shuts it, and the room instantly feels too small for the amount of heat he brings with him.
He turns on music—loud, heavy, intentional. Cover. But also a warning.
Then he leans in, voice low enough to curl straight down my spine. “Kiss me like that again,” he murmurs, “and I won’t want you to leave.”
I stumble back, needing something to hold onto besides him. I drop into my chair and reach for my tools—Bible, aged paper, specialized inks. The normal calm they bring isn’t here. My hands won’t steady. My lips still tingle.
I flip through the pages for distraction and land on Hosea of all places.
Hosea.
A man told to marry because God said so—not because it was safe or made sense. A covenant entered through obedience, not desire.
Not just a love story. An assignment.
I close my eyes.
Lord… if this man, this ring, this insane situation is from You, give me clarity, courage, or brakes before I confuse adrenaline for Your voice.
When I look up, Jagger is watching me—arms braced on the counter, shoulders tense, waiting for permission to take this even further.
The message from Hosea won’t stop echoing: obedience first, understanding later.
I might actually need to marry him—for protection, for the job, maybe even because God is nudging me straight into something I never planned.
But what rattles me most is the flash of heat in my chest that whispers I could.
I could do it.
I could be his.
And that I want to be terrifies me more than the threat outside.
Jagger
Sunlight cuts through the blinds, dragging me awake.
Adena's beside me, still asleep. One arm tucked under the pillow, dark hair spread across the sheets in waves that catch the morning light. The ring glints on her finger where her hand rests between us.
Pressure settles behind my ribs at the sight.
I slip out of bed without waking her, bare feet hitting the cool hardwood as I pad to the kitchen. My phone's already lit up on the counter—text from Paco.
Warehouse. 10 A.M. Don't be late.
The coffee maker gurgles to life, filling the apartment with the smell of dark roast. While it brews, I move to the kitchen table where her work from last night is spread out—the original Bible and her copy side by side, surrounded by bottles of ink, brushes, scraps of aged paper.