CHAPTER SIX
Brick
The alley feels like a trap, but I’m determined we’re getting the hell out of this shit.
All we need to do is make it to the clubhouse, and we can do that.
"This way," she says, leading us deeper into the maze of back streets.
I catch her arm, pulling her into the shadowed doorway of a closed shop. "We need to find somewhere safe. Regroup, figure out our next move."
She scans the area, her tactical mind working. "There's a safe house my family maintains about six blocks from here. Off the books, even Diego doesn't know about it."
"You sure?"
"My mother set it up years ago. Used it when she needed to disappear from my father's world for a while." There's pain in her voice when she mentions her mother. "I'm the only one with the access codes now."
We could go there, or right to the club. “How far is it?”
“Only a couple of blocks away.”
Mmm, it would be smarter to go there.
The club is about ten blocks away. We could go to the safe house, let things cool off, and then reconvene.
We make our way through the streets, sticking to shadows and avoiding main areas.
The last thing I want is more attention on us, but if I had my damn cut on then people would know not to fuck with us.
We have the Ramirez cartel in our back pocket, and their people are everywhere.
Motherfucker.
With every step it feels like we might run into more trouble, but Imani goes on, leading us to a modest apartment building that looks like a thousand others in this part of the city.
She punches a code into a hidden keypad beside an unmarked door.
The lock clicks open, and we slip inside to find a narrow staircase leading to the upper floors.
"Third floor," she says quietly. "End of the hall."
The apartment is small but good enough—clearly maintained and recently used.
It's furnished like a temporary refuge rather than a home, with the basics but nothing personal except for a single photograph on the side table: a younger Imani with a woman who must be her mother.
Honestly, it more looks like an AirBnB than anything else.
"Nice place," I say, checking the windows and exits out of habit.
"My mother believed in having options. I don’t remember a lot about her, but I remember odd things she’d tell me as a child," Imani replies, moving to what looks like a communications setup in the corner. "She said a smart woman always has somewhere to run. It’s almost like she wanted me to know about the life I was born into, before I even understood it, if that makes sense."
“It makes plenty of sense.”
I watch her work, noting how naturally she moves through the space.
This isn't just a safe house—it's a piece of her family history, a connection to the mother she lost.
"Are you thinking about trying to contact your father?" I ask.
She shakes her head, frustration evident. "No, he said he’d make contact with me first, but…I want to hear from him." She turns from the equipment, and I can see the worry she's trying to hide. "This doesn’t feel right, and it’s getting to me, Brick."
The confirmation of what we already suspected settles between us like a lead weight.
Diego's betrayal goes deeper than just selling us out—it's compromised Mateo's entire organization.
"We're going to figure it out," I tell her, though I'm not sure how. "Once we reach the clubhouse, Amara will have resources we can use."
She nods, but I can see the doubt in her dark eyes.
The woman who impressed me the first moment I met her is showing cracks in her armor.
I find myself studying her more intently—the way she moves with unconscious grace, the subtle scent of her perfume cutting through the dust and sweat of our journey, the intelligence that flashes in her eyes when she's processing information.
Everything about her draws me in, even though I should know better than to get involved with someone I’m on a protection detail with.
"You're staring again," she says without looking at me, unpacking her bag.
"Thinking," I correct, though she's not wrong.
"About what?"
About how you make me forget why I'm here.
About how protecting you has become personal in ways I didn't expect.
About how much I want to taste those lips that always seem to be set in that determined line.
"About how to keep you alive," I say instead.
She pauses in her unpacking, something flickering across her expression. "Is that all I am to you? A mission? A quest? An assignment?"
The question catches me off guard with its directness. "You were," I admit. "When this started."
"And now?"
Now you're the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing on my mind before I sleep.
Now the thought of someone hurting you makes me see red in ways that have nothing to do with the club.
"Now it's complicated," I say.
She moves closer, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her dark eyes. "Complicated how?"
"Imani..." I start, but she's standing right in front of me now, her hand coming up to rest on my chest.
"Tell me," she says softly.
The words get caught in my throat as her fingers trace over the fabric of my shirt.
Every nerve ending where she touches feels like it's on fire.
This is dangerous, but I can't seem to care about the risks right now.
"You make me want things I have no business wanting," I admit roughly.
Her lips curve into a small smile. "Such as?"
Instead of answering with words, I cup her face in my hands, my thumb tracing the elegant line of her cheekbone.
Her skin is soft as silk, warmed by the desert sun.
She leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment.
When she opens them again, the heat I see there nearly undoes me.
"Brick," she whispers, and hearing my name on her lips in that breathless tone breaks whatever restraint I was clinging to.
I lower my head slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants to.
But she doesn't move—instead, she rises on her toes to meet me halfway.
The kiss starts soft, tentative, a question asked and answered.
But the moment her lips part under mine, something ignites between us.
My hands slide into her hair, tilting her head back as I deepen the kiss.
She tastes like danger and desire, like everything I've ever wanted and shouldn't have.
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer as she kisses me back with a hunger that matches my own.
Years of walls and control crumble under the assault of her mouth, her body pressed against mine.
I back her against the wall, my mouth leaving hers to trail down the column of her throat.
She makes a small sound—part gasp, part moan—that goes straight to my head like the finest tequila.
"We shouldn't," she breathes, even as her head falls back to give me better access.
"I know," I murmur against her skin, tasting the salt and sweetness of her. "Tell me to stop."
Her hands slide up to grip my shoulders. "I can't."
The honesty in her voice, the admission that she's as lost in this as I am, makes me lift my head to look at her.
Her lips are swollen from our kiss, her eyes dark with desire, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.
She's beautiful.
Not just physically, though she's stunning enough to stop traffic.
The urge to claim her, to mark her as mine, rises with such intensity it frightens me.
This isn't just attraction anymore.
This is something much more dangerous.
I force myself to step back, breaking the spell between us.
The loss of contact feels like tearing away part of myself.
"We should get some rest," I say, my voice rough. "It’ll be a long day tomorrow."
Hurt flashes in her eyes before she masks it with icy composure. "Of course. The assignment."
"Imani—"
"It's fine," she says, turning away to busy herself with checking her weapon. "You're right. We need to stay focused."
But it's not fine, and we both know it.
The tension between us has shifted into something intense and unresolved, crackling in the air whenever we look at each other.
I settle into the chair by the window, positioning myself to watch the street while she takes the bed.
Silence stretches between us, filled with all the things we're not saying.
Hours pass. I can tell from her breathing that she's not sleeping any more than I am.
Every small sound she makes—the rustle of sheets, a quiet sigh—sends awareness shooting through me.
Around three in the morning, she cries out in her sleep.
Not loud, but sharp with terror.
I'm on my feet and beside the bed before I consciously decide to move.
"Imani," I say softly, not wanting to startle her awake too suddenly. "Hey, you're okay."
She jerks awake, eyes wide with fear before focusing on me.
For a moment, she looks young and vulnerable, nothing like the strong cartel princess she usually presents to the world.
"Nightmare?" I ask gently.
She nods, pushing herself up to sit against the headboard. "The same one I've had since I was five. My mother and brother... their blood on the floor..."
Without thinking, I sit on the edge of the bed and pull her into my arms.
She resists for a moment, then melts against me, her face buried in my chest.
"I can still hear the gunshots," she whispers. "Still smell the gunpowder and blood. Sometimes I wake up thinking I'm still that little girl, hiding behind the couch while men kill my family."
I hold her tighter, one hand stroking her hair. "You're safe now. I've got you."
"Do you?" she asks, lifting her head to look at me. "Have me, I mean?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning.
She's not just asking about protection—she's asking about something deeper, more personal.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "I do."
She searches my eyes, looking for something.
Whatever she finds there seems to satisfy her, because she relaxes against me again.
"Tell me about your family," she says after a while. "What happened to your father?"
The subject I never talk about, the wound I keep buried.
But something about the darkness, about holding her in my arms while she shares her pain, makes me want to tell her.
"Armed robbery," I say finally. "Fifteen years ago. He held up a liquor store to get money for food and rent."
"He was desperate?"
"Broke, no job, debt collectors threatening the family. He saw it as his only option." I can still remember that night—the police at the door, my mother's screams, the way my world changed in a matter of minutes. "Got fifteen to twenty-five. Could be out in a few more years if he behaves himself."
"Have you seen him? Since he went in?"
I shake my head. "He writes letters. I keep them, but I've never opened them. Don't know what he could say that would make any difference."
Her fingers trace patterns on my chest as she thinks about what I’ve said. "Maybe he wants to explain. Tell you why he did it."
"I know why he did it. Doesn't change what happened after."
"What happened to your mother?"
The harder question.
The one that explains why I became the club's medic, why I'm driven to fix what's broken.
"She fell apart," I say simply. "Started drinking, then pills, then harder stuff. I learned to take care of her—basic medical stuff, managing her medications, keeping her functional. By the time I was sixteen, I was more of a parent than a child."
"That's why you became a medic."
"Partly. Also because I was good at it. Turns out I have a talent for putting people back together." I look down at her, noting how right she feels in my arms. "What about you? Ever think about going back to medicine?"
"Sometimes. But my father needs me in the business side. Someone he can trust to handle the legitimate operations."
"Is that what you want? Or is it what he wants?"
She's quiet for so long I think she might not answer. "I don't know anymore. For so long, I've defined myself by what the family needs, what my mother would have wanted. I'm not sure who I am outside of that."
"You're brilliant," I tell her. "Brave, strategic, tougher than most men I know. You could be anything you wanted to be."
She lifts her head to look at me again, something vulnerable in her expression. "You see me differently than most people do."
"How do most people see you?"
"Mateo Torres's daughter. A valuable asset. A potential threat. A prize to be won or a target to be eliminated." She pauses. "You're the first person in a long time to see me as just... me."
The admission hits me harder than it should.
This woman, who has everything money can buy, is starved for something as simple as being seen for who she is rather than what she represents.
"You're not just anything to me," I say quietly.
The words hang between us, an admission that changes everything. Her eyes search mine, and I can see the exact moment she makes her decision.
She leans up and kisses me, soft and sweet this time, not the desperate hunger from earlier but something more sincere.
I should pull away.
I should remember what the goal is, what my responsibilities are, the dozen reasons why this is a bad idea.
But when she looks at me like that, like I'm something she cares about, it’s hard to stop.
The kiss deepens gradually, her hands sliding up to cup my face as I gather her closer.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, she rests her forehead against mine.
"Stay with me," she whispers. "Tonight."
"Imani," I start, but she silences me with a finger against my lips.
"I know what I'm asking. I know it complicates things." Her eyes are steady on mine. "But I need you. Not the protector, not the prospect on a mission. You, Brick."
The simple honesty in her words breaks the last of my resistance.
Whatever consequences come from this, whatever complications it creates, I can't deny her.
I can't deny us.
"Okay," I say.
She smiles then, the first truly carefree expression I've seen from her since this all started. It transforms her face, making her look younger, happier.
But our moment is interrupted by the sound of vehicles pulling up outside—multiple engines, moving fast.
Through the window, I can see headlights converging on the building.
"Shit," I breathe, grabbing my weapon. "They found us."
The moment of peace shatters as reality crashes back in.
We're not just two people finding comfort in each other—we're hunted prey, and the hunters have found our scent.
"How?" Imani demands, already moving to gather our gear.
"Doesn't matter now," I reply, checking the magazine in my gun. "What matters is getting out of here alive."
The sound of boots on the stairs echoes through the building.
Multiple sets, moving fast. Professional again, just like all the others.
"Back exit?" I ask.
"Fire escape," she confirms, pointing to the window facing the alley.
We grab our essential gear and head for the window. Behind us, I can hear doors being kicked in, systematic searches getting closer.
As I help Imani onto the fire escape, I can't help but think about what almost happened between us.
What should have happened, if we'd had more time.
But time is a luxury we don't have.
The only thing that matters now is survival.
The fire escape creaks under our weight as we descend, the metal protesting after years of neglect.
Below us, the alley stretches into darkness—our escape route to whatever comes next.