Chapter 6 Voice in the Dark
Chapter six
Voice in the Dark
Zane
Her voice might be my destruction. What the fuck am I doing?
I texted her before I could stop myself. My eyes drop back to my phone.
For the record, I didn't need to either.
Three dots appear immediately. Disappear. Then nothing.
She's probably saving my number right now. Probably as something like "Don't Answer" or "Terrible Life Choice" or "That Idiot from the Internet."
Good. She should. She should run far and fast from whatever this is.
My phone buzzes.
Stop making me like you. It's inconvenient.
How am I making you like me?
You know Hozier. You take care of some kid named Dylan. You're rebuilding a car at 1 AM instead of sleeping like a normal person.
Maybe I'm not normal.
Thank god. Normal is overrated.
Goodnight, Diablo.
Goodnight, angel.
I stare at our conversation until my phone screen dims. Then I do something I haven't done in two years.
I save her number.
Not with her name. Don't know her name. Don't need to know it yet. Names make things real, and real in this city means dangerous. Real means choosing sides. Real means someone probably ends up bleeding.
I save her as Angel, because if I'm going to hell, at least I'll have good company.
I go back to the Chevelle, pick up a wrench, try to focus on something fixable. But my mind keeps drifting to her voice, her laugh, the way she said "Diablo" like it was a prayer and a curse at the same time.
In Phoenix, in this life, there's no such thing as neutral territory.
Everyone belongs to someone. Everyone has colors, has loyalty, has blood on their hands or blood they'd spill.
And here I am, falling for a voice in the dark, not knowing whose side she's on, whose sister she might be, whose protection she might be under.
Ghost always says the most dangerous enemies are the ones you don't see coming.
But what if the most dangerous thing isn't an enemy at all?
What if it's an angel who saves lives with the same hands that send photos of pink vibrators?
What if it's already too late to walk away?
I look at my phone one more time. Angel in my contacts. Such a simple word for something that's about to complicate everything.
The Chevelle needs new spark plugs. The carburetor needs adjusting. The transmission needs work. All things I can fix with these hands that know how to break but never heal.
Unlike whatever this is with her, which feels like something already broken that we're both choosing to shatter completely.
Tomorrow can't come fast enough.