Page 14 of Wings
But the Heavy Kings didn't run on lies, and Doc had a way of knowing shit before you told him.
I picked up the phone, thumbs hovering over the screen. How did you explain that the routine pickup was actually a goddamnemotional ambush? That the contact was your brother's ex, the girl you'd enlisted to avoid wanting, now going by a different name and jumping at shadows?
Finally, I typed: "Doc, we have a complication. The contact is someone from my past. Might need alternate arrangement."
The response came so fast he must have been waiting: "Duke wants you. Now."
Three words that landed like a punch to the solar plexus. Duke didn't summon prospects at dawn unless shit had gone sideways. My mind ran through possibilities—had someone seen us? Had Ki been under surveillance? Had I already fucked up my chance at patching in?
Chapter 4
Kiara
Thekeyswouldn'tcooperate.My hands shook so violently that metal scraped against metal, missing the lock entirely. Third try—the key found home but my fingers couldn't manage the simple twist. Behind me, the hallway stretched empty, but I felt eyes everywhere.
Watching.
Waiting.
Like he might have followed me, might be standing at the stairwell door with that same shocked recognition freezing his features.
Finally, the deadbolt gave. I stumbled through, slamming the door behind me and throwing all three locks with movements more muscle memory than conscious thought. The chain rattled against wood. The bar lock slid home with its familiar thunk.
My knees buckled before I made it past the kitchen. I caught myself on the counter, fingernails digging into laminate as my body decided to revolt. Cold sweat broke across my skin, instantand drenching. My scrubs clung to my spine like wet tissue paper. The careful order of my apartment—white walls, beige carpet, everything in its place—warped and tilted.
No. Not here. Not in the middle of my kitchen where I'd have to see the evidence every morning.
I lurched toward the bathroom, one hand on the wall for balance. My stomach churned empty threats—nothing there to throw up. Didn't matter. My body wanted to purge something, even if it was just bile and bad memories.
The bathroom door banged against the wall. I dropped to my knees on cold tile, barely managing to lift the toilet lid before the dry heaves started. Nothing came up. Just painful spasms that made my ribs ache, my throat burn. My body trying to reject something that wasn't physical, couldn't be expelled no matter how hard I retched.
When the worst passed, I slumped sideways, sliding down the narrow space between toilet and tub until my back hit the wall. The tiles felt blissfully cold against my burning face. I drew my knees up, making myself as small as possible in the cramped space.
But it wasn’t just panic. There was more.
My body remembered Gabe's touch like a brand. Those few seconds of contact in the garage had lit up neural pathways I'd thought were dead. His fingers gentle against mine. The calluses that hadn't been there before—war had roughened the hands that used to fix bikes with methodical patience. The way he'd said my name like a prayer answered and a heart breaking all at once.
I shouldn’t be feeling this, though.
This need, this want.
"Not him," I chanted, pressing harder against the scar. Physical pain to combat emotional devastation. "Gabe left. Gabe's Heavy Kings. Gabe is Alex's brother."
Each fact was supposed to build a wall. Instead, they crumbled under the weight of other truths. Gabe's eyes going wide with recognition. Gabe stumbling on his prosthetic trying to reach me. Gabe organizing medical supplies with the same careful precision he'd once used on Alex's tools, back when we all pretended things were normal.
Five minutes passed. Maybe ten. My heart still raced but no longer felt like it would explode. Breathing came easier—still too fast, but functional. The tingling in my fingers faded to pins and needles, then to normal sensation.
I peeled off my scrubs with mechanical efficiency. Top first, the fabric clinging to sweat-damp skin. Then bottoms, having to sit on the toilet lid when my balance wavered. Everything went into a pile by the door. I'd deal with laundry later. Always later.
The shower handle turned easily to its familiar position—as far left as it would go. Scalding. Hot enough to hurt.
I rinsed quickly, efficiently. Conditioner. Body wash. The routine of getting clean when everything inside felt permanently stained. The water ran clear but I still felt dirty.
Marked.
Like Gabe's recognition had peeled back three years of carefully constructed armor, leaving me exposed and raw.
I couldn't stay here. The apartment walls pressed too close, full of white noise and the phantom sensation of fingers against mine. I needed air. Coffee. Another human voice to prove I still existed in the present and not in some garage where past and present had collided hard enough to leave wreckage.
