Page 10 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

"He's my new pickup guy. For the supplies." The words fell between us like stones in still water. "He's Heavy Kings now."

Stephanie's coffee cup froze halfway to her mouth. The shop noise continued around us—the espresso machine's hiss, someone's laptop keys clicking, Maya calling out a mobile order—but our table had become a bubble of suspended time.

"Wait, wait, wait." She set the cup down with exaggerated care, both hands raised like she was trying to physically hold back the universe. "Gabe, the guy who sent you postcards from Syria that you kept in your jewelry box, is now a biker? Your contact for the medical supplies?"

My face burned hotter than my latte. "I didn't keep them in my jewelry—"

Her look could have cut glass.

"Okay, yes, fine." The admission tasted like defeat. "But that's not the point."

"Ki, you kept his postcards in the same box as your grandmother's rosary and your mom's wedding ring.

That's the definition of precious." She leaned back, processing.

"The same Gabriel Moreno who you said had hands that could fix anything broken?

Who you described—and I quote—as 'sunshine in human form'?

That Gabriel Moreno is now running medical supplies for a motorcycle club? "

"I was nineteen when I said that." My voice came out smaller than intended. "And probably drunk."

"You were stone sober and doodling butterflies while you talked about him." She pushed the cinnamon roll toward me. "Eat something and tell me everything. Start with how he looks. No, start with how you almost gave yourself a coronary texting me. Actually, start with—"

"He has a prosthetic leg now."

The words cut through her momentum like a blade. Stephanie's nurse face appeared—the one that processed terrible information without flinching.

"Combat injury?"

"I think so. He stumbled trying to . . ." I stopped, the memory of him moving toward me too fresh, too raw. "Something happened overseas. He's different. Harder. There's this weight to him now, like he's carrying ghosts."

"But he recognized you?"

A laugh escaped, bitter as burnt coffee. "Immediately. Even with thirty pounds gone and a name change and three years between us. He said my name like—" I pressed my fingers to my eyes, trying to block the memory. "Like it hurt him to say it."

"Ki." Stephanie's voice went gentle. "How did it feel? Seeing him?"

"Like getting hit by lightning." The truth spilled out before I could stop it.

"Like every nerve ending remembered him at once.

We touched for maybe five seconds—just fingers, just reaching for the same vial—and I felt it everywhere.

God, Steph, he still smells the same. How is that possible? After war and years and everything."

"Do you still have feelings for him?"

"No!" The word came out sharp enough to turn heads at nearby tables. I lowered my voice, hunching forward. "No. Absolutely not. That's—it's impossible."

"Because?"

"Because he's Alex's twin brother." I ticked off points on trembling fingers. "His twin. Do you understand how fucked up that would be? And now he's Heavy Kings, the same life I ran from. Leather and motorcycles and probably guns. I can't—I won't go down that road again."

"But Gabe isn't Alex." Stephanie's tone stayed reasonable, which made me want to throw things. "You always said he was different. Kind. That he tried to protect you when things got bad."

"From Alex. He tried to protect me from Alex." The memory tasted like ash. "Never said anything, never called him out, just quietly fixed whatever Alex broke. Including me."

Stephanie waited, letting the silence stretch. She'd learned that sometimes I needed space to find words for things that didn't want to be spoken.

"He'd show up after the bad nights," I continued, staring at my coffee like it held answers. "Always had some excuse. Needed to borrow a tool. Wanted to check Alex's bike. Looking for something he'd left behind. But really, he was checking on me. Making sure I was . . ."

Breathing. Upright. Not visibly damaged.

"He'd reorganize whatever Alex had thrown around. Fix the cabinet door that got slammed too hard. Replace the coffee mug that got swept off the counter. Never said anything about it. Just quietly put things back together while Alex slept it off."

"That sounds like someone who cared."

"He left." The words came out flat, final. "The day after graduation, he enlisted and left. No real goodbye, no explanation. Just gone."

I didn't tell her about the going-away party.

How Gabe had looked at me across the bar like he was trying to memorize my face.

How his jaw had tightened every time Alex's hand got too possessive on my waist. How he'd disappeared early, claiming an early flight, and I'd spotted him later in the parking lot sitting in his truck, staring at nothing.

I'd wanted to go to him. To ask why he was really leaving. To beg him to take me with him.

Instead, I'd gone back inside to hold Alex's hair while he threw up tequila and promises to do better.

"Maybe he had reasons," Stephanie suggested carefully.

"Everyone has reasons." I picked at the cinnamon roll, pulling off a piece covered in icing. "Doesn't change the leaving."

Stephanie flagged down Maya for to-go cups before I could protest. "We're walking," she announced, transferring our lattes with the efficiency of someone used to managing IV drips. "Fresh air. Vitamin D. All those things humans need to survive. Unless . . . have you become undead?"

"I'm not a vampire," I muttered, but let her herd me toward the door.

"Could've fooled me. When's the last time you saw actual daylight? Not parking garage fluorescents or hospital lighting. Real sunshine?"

I didn't answer because we both knew it had been weeks. Maybe longer. Night shift schedule meant sleeping through the day, and my days off were spent in the apartment with blackout curtains drawn.

Stephanie linked our arms, a gesture that looked casual but provided subtle support.

Three years of friendship had taught her my tells—the way I walked too fast when anxious, how I unconsciously checked over my shoulder every thirty seconds, the white-knuckle grip I kept on my coffee cup like it was a lifeline.

"Let me walk you home," she said, steering us around a man hosing down the sidewalk in front of his store.

She squeezed my arm. "Ki, you're disappearing.

Not just the weight—though honey, you're starting to look like a strong wind could knock you over.

But you're fading out. Going ghost. And now with this Gabe situation—"

"There's no Gabe situation." My voice went sharp enough to cut. "There's a medical supply arrangement that's become complicated. That's all."

"Whatever you say."

We passed the hardware store where I'd bought my extra locks. The owner waved through the window—Mr. Maxwell, who'd shown me which deadbolt would hold against a determined intruder without asking why a young woman needed to know that.

"You need to tell Doc about this," Stephanie continued. "If you're not comfortable with the new arrangement—"

"I already decided." The words tumbled out before I'd fully formed the plan. "I'm giving thirty days notice. Time to train a replacement, then I'm gone. Maybe Seattle. Maybe Portland. Somewhere it rains."

Stephanie stopped walking so abruptly I stumbled. We stood in the middle of the sidewalk while morning traffic flowed around us—a fixed point in a moving world.

"Ki, you can't run." Her nurse voice had been replaced by something fiercer. Friend voice. Sister voice. "You have a life here. A job. Friends."

"Friend. Singular." I gently corrected. "And I have a job that requires me to steal. To break federal laws every shift. To risk my license and freedom so bikers don't die from treatable injuries."

"You save lives—"

"I'm a liability." The truth tasted bitter as the cooling coffee. "Three years, Steph. Three years of perfect drops, and the first time there's a complication, I literally drop everything and run. You think Doc's going to trust someone that unstable with his network?"

"You're not unstable. You're traumatized. There's a difference."

"Tell that to the morphine vials I shattered.

" I started walking again, needing movement.

"Tell that to my hands that still won't stop shaking.

Tell that to my brain that's already calculating how fast I can pack, which routes have the least traffic cameras, how much cash I can pull from ATMs before anyone notices I'm gone. "

"That's not living, Ki."

Her words hit like a physical blow. I hunched forward, arms wrapping around my middle like I could hold myself together through pressure alone.

"I know." The admission came out whispered. "But it's the only way I know how to survive."

We walked the rest of the way in silence. Stephanie's presence was steady beside me, our arms still linked, her silence saying more than words could.

She wouldn't abandon me. Wouldn't judge me. But she wouldn't enable me either.

My building came into view—all concrete and security features, as welcoming as a minimum-security prison. I punched in the first code, fingers steadier now that I had a plan. Running always calmed me. Having an exit strategy made the present bearable.

"Call me if you need anything," Stephanie said at the inner door. "Day or night. Promise?"

I nodded, already knowing I wouldn't. I'd gotten too good at drowning quietly, at sinking without making waves. It was safer for everyone that way.

She hugged me tight, the kind of embrace that tried to transfer strength through contact. I held on longer than I should have, storing up warmth for the cold that was coming.

Then I was alone in my sterile lobby, fluorescent lights buzzing their harsh song, security cameras recording my every move. Three flights of stairs between me and my empty apartment. Thirty days between me and a fresh start.

The laptop screen glowed accusingly in my darkened living room. I'd been staring at the blank email for twenty minutes, cursor blinking its patient rhythm. How did you tell someone who'd trusted you with life-and-death secrets that you were bailing because you'd seen a ghost?

Draft one: "Doc, due to personal circumstances, I need to resign from our arrangement effective thirty days from today."

Too vague. He'd want details. Doc always wanted details, said the devil lived in them and angels too if you looked hard enough.

Delete.

Draft two: "Doc, I'm writing to inform you that I need to relocate for family reasons. I can train a replacement within thirty days to ensure continuity of supplies."

Lies. I had no family. No reasons except fear. And Doc had a nose for lies like a bloodhound had for fugitives.

Delete.

Draft three: "Effective thirty days from receipt of this email, I will no longer be able to fulfill my obligations to the Heavy Kings medical supply network."

Cold. Corporate. Like I was ending a business contract instead of abandoning people who might die without antibiotics for their gunshot wounds or sutures for their knife fights. People who couldn't go to hospitals because hospitals meant cops and cops meant prison.

Delete.

My fingers hovered over the keys. The apartment's silence pressed against my ears, broken only by the neighbor's TV bleeding through thin walls.

Some game show, canned laughter at regular intervals.

Normal people watching normal shows, not drafting resignation letters from illegal operations run by motorcycle clubs.

Draft four: "Doc, there's been a complication with the new security protocol. The prospect you sent is someone from my past, from before I was Kiara Mitchell. This connection compromises—"

The phone rang.

Not my cell—the landline I kept for exactly two purposes: hospital callbacks and pizza delivery. The caller ID showed the hospital's main number. My stomach dropped to somewhere around my knees.

"Hello?"

"Miss Mitchell?" The voice was crisp, professional, unfamiliar. "This is Janet from Hospital Administration. I'm calling regarding a matter that requires your attention."

My free hand clenched the laptop's edge. "Is there a problem with my schedule?"

"Not exactly. We need you to come in for a meeting tomorrow before your shift. There's been an anonymous complaint regarding medication diversion. Security will need to interview you as part of our standard investigation protocol."

The words floated through my brain without finding purchase. Anonymous complaint. Medication diversion. Security interview. Each phrase perfectly professional, perfectly reasonable, perfectly timed to destroy my life.

"Of course." My voice ran on autopilot while my mind screamed. "What time should I come in?"

"Three PM would be ideal. Simply check in at the main desk and ask for Director Harrison. He'll be conducting the interview along with our head of security."

"I'll be there."

"Excellent. And Miss Mitchell? This is merely routine. We investigate all complaints thoroughly, regardless of merit. Please don't let it cause you undue concern."

Undue concern.

Like being accused of stealing medications—which I actually did steal—was just a minor inconvenience. Like my nursing license and freedom weren't hanging by whatever thread this anonymous complaint had cut.

"I understand. Thank you for letting me know."

"Have a pleasant day, Miss Mitchell."

The line went dead. I set the phone down with exaggerated care, like it might explode if handled roughly. My laptop screen had gone dark, draft four abandoned mid-sentence.

Anonymous complaint.

Three years of perfect extractions, and suddenly—the morning after I encounter Gabe Moreno in a parking garage—someone decides to report suspicious activity?

The walls of my apartment seemed to contract, pressing closer with each breath. Someone knew. Someone who wanted me scared, off-balance, looking over my shoulder. Someone who understood that threatening my job was more effective than any physical threat.

But who?

My hands shook as I opened the laptop again. The half-finished resignation email mocked me. Thirty days notice assumed I'd have thirty days of freedom. Assumed I wouldn't be in handcuffs by tomorrow afternoon, my carefully constructed new life unraveling thread by thread.

I highlighted the draft and hit delete with more force than necessary.

New email. New approach.

"Doc, we have a bigger problem than the new pickup arrangement."