Page 32 of Devil's Azalea

Great. So how the fuck am I supposed to get inside?

I pop the saddle, tuck my helmet away, and start walking. Nothing urgent, nothing suspicious—just a woman out for a cold evening stroll. I keep to the opposite sidewalk, breathing slowly as I pass, each exhale curling in frosty clouds. My eyes stay casual, brushing over the building like I barely notice it.

Don’t stare. Don’t slow down. Just act like another pedestrian. Nothing to see here.

But I feel it. That tight pricking along the back of my neck. I hate that feeling—like I’ve already been seen.

Shit.

I keep walking until I hit the end of the block, then pivot and start back. Still no plan. No backup. No warrant. I could try to bluff my way in—say I’m Rafael’s fiancée or some bullshit. But then what? He’d laugh and tell them to kick me out on my ass. After all, he stole my flash and knows I’ll be coming for it. He’ll be ready.

And seriously? I’d rather set myself on fire than let anyone think I’mhisanything ever again.

I pace the block once. Then again. By the third time, I know I’m pushing it. Someone has probably already noticed me circling.

I veer off onto a side street to buy myself a minute. Think.Think.I need a way in, not a one-way ticket to security lockdown.

Then, just as I turn the corner, a delivery bike zips past me, and I freeze mid-step as inspiration strikes.

I glance around, and sure enough, there’s a small takeout and dine-in restaurant across the street. The kind of spot that might send food deliveries to high-rise fortresses with paranoid billionaires inside.

Will it work? Who knows. But I’m trying it anyway.

I wait for the traffic light to change, then cross the road towards the restaurant, spotting another delivery bike parkedoutside.Jackpot.The second I step inside, heat wraps around me like a hug from heaven. God, it’s delicious. My fingers and ears tingle as they thaw.

A bored-looking girl behind the counter barely glances up. “Hello, welcome to Bael’s Fried Chicken. Do you want to dine in or take out?”

I summon a sheepish smile and lean on the counter, lowering my voice. “How would you like to make an easy five hundred bucks?”

That gets her attention. She straightens, eyes narrowing. “Would I have to commit a crime?”

I chuckle. “No, nothing like that. Just a small favor.”

She gives me a long look, then tilts her head. “Go on.”

“I think my fiancé is cheating on me,” I say, layering my voice with just enough hurt. “I saw some woman go into his building with him, and now he won’t take my calls or buzz me up. I need to borrow your delivery bike and uniform. Just for a little while.”

Her face lights up with delight. “Ohhh, you want to pull the ol’ fake delivery trick and catch him red-handed?Brilliant.” She leans closer, grinning like we’re planning the heist of the century. “I’ve got you, sister,” she whispers with a wink.

Relief floods through me. Phase one: complete.

I dig out my wallet, count off five crisp hundreds, and slide them across the counter. Her grin stretches wide as she tucks the cash away.

“Wait here. I’ll get the bike keys and a spare uniform.” She turns to go, then glances back. “What size are you?”

“Eight. I wear a size eight.”

“Cool. Back in a flash.” And with that, she disappears through a door marked ‘Staff Only’.

I return my wallet to my pocket. That’s going on the agency’s tab. Definitely an operational expense.

While I wait, I glance around the restaurant. It’s mostly empty, save for a woman and her kid in the far corner. I quickly look away before we can make eye contact. The fewer witnesses to remember my face, the better.

The girl comes back carrying a bag with the restaurant’s logo. “Here’s your order, ma’am. Everything you need is inside,” she announces as she hands it over. “Just make sure you return the bike in an hour, or I’m toast.”

“I’ll be back before then,” I assure her.

“There’s a public restroom a few buildings down. You can, y’know, change—” she wiggles her brows suggestively “—among other things.”