Chapter 2 — Sienna #2
Walt's eyes shift to me, quick assessment, then back to Diesel. "Didn't know you were seeing anyone. In all these years, I've never seen you with a woman."
"Well, now you have." Diesel's voice is flat, giving nothing. "Things change."
"Apparently." Walt pulls two beers, sets them in front of us, and his eyes are knowing in a way that makes my skin prickle. "You got a name?"
"Sienna," I say before Diesel can answer for me.
"Pretty name. You know what you're getting into with this one, Sienna?"
"I'm figuring it out as I go."
Walt's mouth twitches. "That's probably the smart approach." He slides the beers closer. "Let me know if you need anything else."
Diesel picks up his beer and moves to a table near the window. One that has clear sightlines to the door and the rest of the bar.
Strategic positioning. Of course.
I follow and sit across from him, aware that we're visible now, that people are watching without being obvious about it.
He takes a drink and I do the same, the beer cold and bitter and something to do with my hands.
"How long do we stay?" I ask quietly.
"Long enough for people to see us together and talk about it.
Long enough for word to spread that I've got someone with me, which doesn't happen often, so it'll spread fast." He leans back in his chair, casual, like this is just a normal evening.
"An hour, maybe two. Depends on how fast the pictures start circulating. "
"And we just sit here and make conversation?"
"That's generally what people do when they're out together, yeah."
"What do we talk about?"
"Anything you want." He takes another drink. "Just make it look real. Make it look like you want to be here with me instead of anywhere else."
I take another sip of beer and calculate what someone would talk about if this were real instead of performance. What questions someone would ask if they were actually getting to know this man instead of pretending to.
"How long have you been with Vigil?" I ask.
"Fourteen years. Joined when I was twenty-three, been here ever since."
"That's a long time. Do you ever think about leaving? Doing something else?"
His eyes sharpen on me, and I realize I've asked something he wasn't expecting. Something that cuts closer than safe small talk.
Good. Let him wonder if I'm reading him or just making conversation.
"No," he says. "I don't think about leaving."
"Why not? You're smart, you're capable, you could probably do anything you wanted if you left the club behind."
"Because the club isn't something I do. It's what I am." He sets his beer down and his hand moves across the table to cover mine where it's resting on the worn wood. His palm is warm and rough with calluses. "I don't have a life outside Vigil. I don't want one. This is it for me."
This is the second time he's touched me deliberately and it still feels like strategy instead of want. His thumb moves across my knuckles, slow and deliberate, and I catch movement in my peripheral vision. Someone at the bar pulling out their phone, angling it toward us.
"They're taking pictures," I say quietly.
"I know. Good. That's what we want." His thumb keeps moving across my knuckles, the motion surprisingly gentle for someone who's only touching me because he has to.
"What about you? What do you want when this is over?
When your father's not a threat anymore and you don't need Vigil's protection, what's the plan? "
"I don't know yet. I've spent so long planning how to get out that I haven't thought much about what comes after."
"You should. You need something to move toward, not just something to run from."
"Is that advice or observation?"
"Both." His eyes are steady on mine. "Running gets you out. But it doesn't give you a reason to stay out."
I leave my hand under his even though I want to pull away, even though his touch feels like something everyone in this bar can see and I'm on display in ways I spent years learning to avoid. In my father's world, visibility was liability. Being noticed meant being used.
Here, visibility is the point.
"What happens when the pictures reach my father?" I ask.
"He reacts. Hopefully loud, hopefully angry, hopefully in a way that tells us this wasn't his idea and he didn't see it coming." His eyes are flat and steady on mine, and there's no pretense now. "We learn what kind of reaction it is, and that tells us more about you than we knew before."
"You mean you learn whether I warned him this was coming."
"That's exactly what I mean." His thumb stops moving but his hand stays on mine.
"You're Victor Crane's daughter. You walked into our territory with perfect timing and perfect information, and that's either the bravest thing I've ever seen or the most calculated.
Until you prove which one it is, I'm assuming you're exactly what you look like. "
"Which is what?"
"Someone playing us. Someone working for your father, feeding us information that's just real enough to be convincing until you're in deep enough to do real damage."
The word sits between us like something sharp.
I should be angry. Should be offended or defensive or something other than what I actually am, which is tired of people looking at me and seeing my father's name instead of me.
But anger is wasted energy and I learned a long time ago not to waste energy on things I can't control.
"I'm not lying to you," I say quietly.
"Then you won't mind proving it."
"How am I supposed to prove something that's true? You've already decided I'm lying. Anything I say or do, you're going to interpret through that lens. So tell me, how exactly do I prove I'm not what you think I am when you're looking for evidence that I am?"
He's quiet for a moment, studying my face like he's actually considering the question instead of just dismissing it.
"By staying," he says finally. "By not flinching when your father comes for you. By being exactly where you are when it gets dangerous instead of disappearing the second things go bad. By showing me that this is real and not a game you're playing with my brothers' lives."
"And if I do all that? If I stay and I don't flinch and I'm still here when the danger comes? Will that be enough or will you just find another reason not to trust me?"
"I don't know yet. Ask me after we see what your father does."
Someone walks past our table, close enough that I can smell perfume and cigarettes. Diesel's hand tightens on mine briefly before releasing.
The moment breaks and he's leaning back again, casual, like we were just having a normal conversation instead of him telling me he thinks I'm lying.
"Come here," he says.
"What?"
"Come sit next to me. People who are together don't sit across from each other like we're having a business meeting. We need to look like we actually like each other."
He's right. Of course he's right.
I stand and move around the table, sliding into the chair beside him. Immediately the proximity is different.
Our thighs are touching. His arm drapes across the back of my chair. When he shifts to look at me his face is close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his eyes are dark and assessing and never stop working.
This is what couples do. This is what it looks like when two people want to be close to each other.
Except he doesn't want to be close to me. He's performing.
And I'm performing.
And everyone in this bar is watching us perform and believing it, and the only people who know it's fake are the two of us sitting here lying with our bodies while we tell each other the truth with our words.
His hand is still on my shoulder and we're sitting close enough that I can feel the heat of him on my skin.
"You're calculating right now," he says quietly. "I can see it. Trying to figure out what I want to hear."
"I'm always calculating. That's what I was trained to do."
"Good," he says.
"Good?"