CHAPTER FOUR
Brick
The small border town appears like a mirage in the darkness, a scattered collection of lights breaking the endless black of the desert.
Agua Nueva, population 362, according to the battered sign we pass.
Too small to register on most maps, which is perfect for our needs.
The bullet graze on my side throbs with every heartbeat, a reminder of how close we came to disaster.
Imani's hand remains firmly pressed against the wound, applying steady pressure as we ride.
Her body is molded against mine, no longer hesitant or reserved like she was before.
Necessity has eliminated any pretense of personal space.
I guide the Harley down the town's single main street, scanning for threats disguising it as casual observation.
A gas station with an attached mini-mart.
A diner with neon signs flickering in the window.
A small motel at the edge of town—six rooms in a row, paint peeling, but cleaner than it looks at first glance.
Perfect.
I pull into the motel lot, cutting the engine.
For a moment, we just sit there, letting the silence wash over us after hours of hearing the wind and engine roar.
Imani's arms slowly release their grip on my waist, her fingers coming away dark with my blood.
"You need medical attention and soon," she says, her voice low but insistent.
"I'll handle it." I dismount, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at the wound. "Let's get a room first. Keep our heads down."
The office is a small building separate from the rooms, a buzzing fluorescent light casting everything in a sickly glow.
An elderly man sits behind the counter, watching a small TV in the corner. He barely looks up when we enter and I’m grateful for it.
The last thing I need is this old geezer noticing the blood on my shirt.
I figure it’s a good idea to keep my jacket closed to hide the bloodstain. "Need a room."
He eyes us for a split second before his eyes turn back to the TV. "Fifty cash. Check-out at eleven."
I slide three twenties across the counter. "Any place to get food this late?"
"Diner's open till midnight." He hands me a key attached to a plastic tag marked with the number 4. "Walls are thin. Keep it down."
I nod my thanks, taking the key.
The man's eyes linger on Imani for a moment too long, but there's no recognition there—just the usual male appreciation for a beautiful woman.
Even in my flannel shirt, dusty jeans, and with her hair windblown to hell, she has that effect.
We return to the bike, collect our bags, and head to room 4.
The door sticks slightly when I unlock it, revealing a space that's basic but clean—queen bed with a faded floral comforter, small bathroom, ancient TV on a particle board dresser.
Imani locks the door behind us, adding the security chain.
"Sit," she orders, dropping her bag and pointing to the edge of the bed. "Let me see how bad it is."
I almost argue out of habit, but the determination in her voice tells me it would be wasted breath.
Instead, I shrug out of my jacket, wincing as dried blood makes the fabric stick to my side.
"The medical kit's in the side pocket of my bag," I say, easing myself down onto the edge of the bed.
She retrieves the kit and returns to stand between my knees. "Shirt off."
Something flickers in her eyes as I peel the blood-soaked t-shirt over my head—something that has nothing to do with assessing me medically.
She kneels to examine the wound, her touch gentle as she cleans away the blood with antiseptic wipes.
"Just a graze," she confirms, her breath warm against my bare skin. "But deep enough to need stitches."
"You know how to do that?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
A wry smile touches her lips. "Harvard pre-med, remember? Plus a lifetime in cartel territory. I've stitched up worse than this."
She works in silence, her fingers steady and precise as she preps the wound, administers a local anesthetic, and begins to stitch.
I watch her face rather than her hands—the intense concentration, the slight furrow between her brows, the way she bites her lower lip when she's focused.
"You would have made a good doctor," I say, surprising myself with the observation.
Her hands pause for just a moment before continuing. "Maybe. In another life." There's no bitterness in her voice now, just accepting the way life has worked out for her. "Hold still. Three more stitches."
The final stitches go in quickly, followed by antibiotic ointment and a clean bandage.
Her work is good, efficient—better than many field medics I've seen.
"Thanks," I say as she packs away the supplies.
She nods, washing the blood from her hands in the bathroom sink. "We should get food, then rest. You need to replace the fluids you lost."
She turns from the sink, and our eyes lock across the small room.
Something intense passes between us, something I've been trying to ignore since the moment I first saw her.
For a heartbeat, we're frozen in place, the air suddenly thick.
I'm not sure who moves first, but suddenly she's right in front of me, her hands on my chest, my hands at her waist.
It's like gravity, inevitable and overpowering.
Her eyes search mine, a question in them I answer by slowly lowering my head.
The first brush of her lips against mine is tentative, testing.
The second is anything but.
Her mouth opens under mine, her fingers sliding up to grip my shoulders as I pull her closer, mindful of my injured side.
The taste of her—sweet with an edge of danger—goes straight to my head like a shot of the best tequila.
I tangle one hand in her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss as her nails dig into my skin.
There's nothing tentative about the way she kisses back, her body arching into mine like she's been starving for this as much as I have.
It's fire and gasoline, an explosion of desire that threatens to incinerate every professional boundary I'd tried to maintain.
My hand slides down to the small of her back, pulling her hips flush against mine.
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat—part surprise, part need—that nearly undoes my last shred of control.
My mouth leaves hers to trace the elegant line of her jaw, the pulse point at her throat.
"Brick," she gasps, her head falling back to give me better access. "We shouldn't?—"
"I know," I murmur against her skin, even as my teeth graze the sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder. "Tell me to stop."
Her hands tighten on my shoulders, but instead of pushing me away, she pulls me closer. "I don't want to."
The rawness in her voice brings me back to myself, enough to slow down and lift my head to meet her eyes.
They're dark with desire, but clear. Present. Like she’s making a conscious choice.
"This complicates things," I say, my voice rougher than usual.
Her lips curve into a small smile. "Everything about this situation is already complicated."
She's right, of course.
But adding this—whatever this is between us—to the mix could be disastrous.
Or it could be exactly what we both need to get through what's coming.
The decision is taken out of our hands by the sudden noise of a vehicle pulling into the motel lot, headlights sweeping past our window.
We break apart instinctively, both moving to opposite sides of the curtain to peer out.
A pickup truck, nothing suspicious about it, but the threat of danger is enough to cool the heat between us.
The bubble of isolation bursts, reality flooding back in—we're being hunted, we're injured, and I have a run to finish.
"I'll go get us some food," I say, pulling a clean shirt from my bag, careful not to disturb the fresh bandage. "You stay here, lock the door."
"No." She crosses her arms, back to business as if that kiss never happened. "We stay together, just like before."
"Imani—"
"We already established this. Splitting up is what they'd expect." Her expression softens slightly. "Besides, you just took a bullet for me. The least I can do is help you get dinner."
There's logic in what she says, and honestly, I'm not in top form right now.
Having backup isn't the worst idea.
"Fine," I give in. "But we keep it quick. In and out. No drawing attention."
We make our way to the diner, walking close together like the couple we're pretending to be.
Her hand finds mine as we near the entrance, fingers intertwining like something a typical couple would do.
After what just happened in the room, the touch feels different now—charged with awareness, complicated by desire.
The diner is nearly empty—just a trucker at the counter and an elderly couple in a booth near the back.
A tired-looking waitress shows us to a booth by the window, dropping menus in front of us before wandering off to refill coffee cups.
"Order something hearty," Imani says quietly, scanning the menu. "You need protein after losing that much blood."
I raise an eyebrow. "I know the drill, doc."
A small smile tugs at her lips. "Old habits."
The waitress returns, pen poised over her notepad.
We order—steak and eggs for me, a club sandwich with fries for Imani, coffee for both.
As the waitress walks away, I scan the diner again, looking for the exits, seeing if there are potential threats, lines of sight.
Old habits of my own, I suppose.
"If we ride through the night, we could reach Chihuahua by morning," Imani says, keeping her voice low.
I shake my head. "Too risky. You're exhausted, I'm hurt, and night riding in an unfamiliar area is asking for trouble. We get a few hours' rest, head out before dawn."
She doesn't argue, just nods her agreement.
Smart woman.
Knows when to push and when to yield.
Our food arrives, and we eat in silence.
The steak is overcooked, the eggs rubbery, but it's hot and filling.
Imani picks at her sandwich, her mind clearly elsewhere.
"Penny for your thoughts," I say, watching her push a french fry around her plate.
She looks up, meeting my eyes. "I was thinking about Diego. Twenty years he's been with my father. Twenty years of absolute trust. Hell, he was my mother's trusted ally before he was my father's."
"People change. Loyalty has a price," I say, though the words feel hollow even to me.
"Not his." She shakes her head. "There's something else happening here. This doesn't fit his pattern."
"What's your theory?"
She leans forward slightly, keeping her voice barely above a whisper. "What if he's being controlled? Threatened? Forced to cooperate?"
"It's possible," I admit. "But it doesn't change our situation. He betrayed us, willingly or not."
"I know. I just..." She trails off, frustration evident in her expression. "I hate not understanding the game being played around me."
I can relate to that feeling. It's the same gnawing uncertainty I've felt every day since Lashes disappeared. Pieces missing from the puzzle, shadows moving just beyond what I can see.
"We'll figure it out," I tell her, more certainty in my voice than I actually feel. "Once you're safe with the club, we can piece this together."
She studies me for a moment. "You mentioned your friend Lashes before. You think there's a connection between her disappearance and what's happening now?"
The question catches me off guard.
I haven't spoken much about Lashes to anyone outside the club, afraid that voicing my fears might somehow make them more real.
"There could be," I say carefully. "The timing lines up. She disappeared three months ago during that ambush at CatsandJava. No trace of her since then, no ransom demand. Just... gone. Just the fucking video. They want us to know they have her. But, there’s some club shit along with that. You’re not privy to that information, and we know who was rolling the dice behind the scenes. I just… I’d be a fool to think the gun and drug trafficking your father’s associated with couldn’t be part of what’s going on here. Whoever has her, they’re good at what they do."
"They’re professionals."
"Exactly."
Something shifts in Imani's expression. "Tell me everything you know about her disappearance. Every detail."
I hesitate, then make a decision.
If we're going to trust each other with our lives, holding back information makes no sense.
So I tell her—about how she was ambushed at the cafe, how long we’ve been searching, how we were sent a video of her bound to a chair, how there was a man in front of her speaking Arabic.
About the three months of searching, the false leads, the dead ends.
Imani listens without interrupting me, her sharp mind clearly cataloging every detail. When I finish, she's quiet for a few moments.
"My father mentioned a new player moving into the border territories about four months ago," she finally says. "Someone with connections and resources, specializing in high-end human trafficking. Girls with certain... qualifications."
My blood runs cold. "What kind of qualifications?"
"Education. Breeding. Skills. Girls who could be 'refined' for wealthy clientele." Her expression is grim. "We were investigating, trying to identify the organization, when the attempts on my life started."
The pieces click into place with sickening clarity. "They targeted you because you were getting too close."
She nods. "And if they're the same people who took your friend, or even the people who might have her now…"
"Then she might still be alive." The thought sends a surge of hope through me.
"It's just a theory," Imani cautions. "But if I'm right, it explains why they want me alive, not dead. I'd be quite the prize for their collection."
The casual way she says it like she's discussing the weather, not her potential fate as a trafficking victim sends a surge of anger through me.
"That's not happening," I say, my voice dropping lower, harder. "Not while I'm breathing."
Something flickers in her eyes—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. "You barely know me, prospect."
"I know enough."
The moment stretches between us, and that feeling comes back, along with the heat neither one of us wants to talk about.
She's the one who breaks it, glancing at her watch.
"We should head back. Get some rest while we can."
I pay the bill, and we walk back to the motel in silence, the night air cool against our skin.
The few street lights cast long shadows across the empty road.
In the distance, a coyote howls, the sound echoing across the desert—lonely, haunting.
Back in the room, reality reasserts itself.
One bed. Two of us.
The memory of that kiss between us comes rushing back and I know I can’t be in the same bed as her.
I’ll be too damn tempted to do more.
I grab a spare pillow and move toward the small armchair in the corner.
"Don't be ridiculous," Imani says, setting her bag on the dresser. "You're injured, and that chair would cripple a healthy man. We're both adults. We can share the bed."
She's right, of course. It’s the rational, practical solution.
Still, I hesitate, knowing the tension between the two of us won’t just come to a halt.
"I don't bite, Brick," she adds, a hint of a smile softening her features. "Unless specifically requested."
Her joke breaks the tension, pulling a low chuckle from me, even though I should know better. "Fair enough. But if I bleed on your side, don't say I didn't warn you."
We take turns in the bathroom, the routine of preparing for bed almost surreal given the circumstances.
When Imani emerges in a tank top and sleep shorts, her hair loose around her shoulders, I have to remind myself of our situation—we’re being hunted, we’re in danger, how I need to be professional.
Not the time to notice how the soft cotton clings to her curves or how different she looks with her guard down, softer somehow.
I take my turn in the bathroom, washing away the desert dust as best I can with a quick shower, careful to keep the bandage dry.
When I return to the room wearing just sweatpants, Imani is sitting on the edge of the bed, checking her weapon one final time before placing it on the nightstand.
She glances up, her eyes briefly tracing the tattoos across my chest and shoulders before returning to my face. "Which side do you prefer?"
"I'll take the one closest to the door," I say, the decision automatic.
Placing myself between her and potential threats is second nature now.
She nods, sliding under the covers on the far side of the bed.
I follow, wincing slightly as I settle onto my uninjured side, facing the door.
The bed isn't large, but we manage to maintain a couple of inches of space between us.
I reach over and switch off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness broken only by thin strips of neon light filtering through the gaps in the curtains.
Sleep doesn't come easily.
My body is exhausted, but my mind is racing, processing the shit that happened today, planning our next move, thinking about all the threats coming our way.
From her breathing, I can tell Imani is awake too, her thoughts likely as turbulent as my own.
"Brick?" she says softly into the darkness. "Thank you. For taking that bullet. For getting us this far."
Her thanks catches me off guard. "Just doing my job."
"Is that all it is? A job?"
The question hangs in the air between us.
Is it just a job?
It started that way—a run, an assignment, a responsibility to the club.
But something has shifted, turned into something a little more complicated.
Hell, the kiss we shared earlier is proof of that.
"Not anymore," I admit finally. "Not after today."
She's quiet for so long I think she might have fallen asleep.
Then I feel her hand, warm and sure, finding mine in the darkness.
"Get some sleep," she whispers. "I'll watch your back."
The unexpected role reversal—her protecting me—pulls a smile from somewhere deep inside me. "I thought that was my line."
"We protect each other," she says simply. "That's the deal now."
Her hand remains in mine as sleep finally claims me, her words echoing in my mind.
We protect each other.
An unexpected partnership to say the least.
And right now, in this dingy motel room in the middle of nowhere, hunted by unknown enemies, I'm surprised to find I wouldn't want it any other way.