Page 5 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

Except I could. I did. Three years of practice had made it second nature.

My ancient Honda sat under a light that actually worked—I'd learned that lesson the hard way. Keys already in my hand, threaded between my fingers like the world's most pathetic brass knuckles. The car chirped as I unlocked it, the sound echoing off concrete walls like a dinner bell for predators.

"Jesus, kid, when's the last time you ate actual food?"

I nearly jumped out of my skin. Doc materialized from behind a concrete pillar like he'd been waiting—which, knowing him, he had.

6 AM sharp, same as every week. Silver stubble caught the harsh garage light, making him look older than his sixty-eight years.

The smell of Old Spice cologne mixed with pipe smoke he swore he'd quit hit me like a nostalgia bomb.

"Doc." I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling my heart trying to escape through my ribs. "You can't sneak up on people like that."

"Wasn't sneaking. You just weren't paying attention." He looked me up and down with those sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. "So? When's the last time you ate?"

"I had—"

"Coffee doesn't count. Vending machine garbage doesn't count." He held out one hand. "Give me the supplies. You look like you're about to fall over."

I wanted to argue. Wanted to insist I was fine, that I didn't need anyone treating me like a child. But when I reached for my messenger bag, my hands shook. Not a little tremor, but full-on shaking like I'd been hit with electricity.

"That's what I thought." Doc took the bag with gentleness that contrasted with his gruff voice. I noticed his own hands had a tremor now—subtle, but there. New since the last time I'd really looked. Since the heart thing he refused to discuss beyond "getting old is hell, kid."

"I'm fine," I said automatically.

"You're not." He slung my bag over his shoulder, the medical supplies redistributing weight with a soft clink of glass vials. "You're running on fumes and stubbornness. When's your next shift?"

"Tomorrow night."

"So you've got thirty-six hours to remember you're human." He started walking toward his ancient Ford pickup, that determined stride that meant resistance was futile. "Come on. Breakfast. Non-negotiable."

"Doc, I really should—"

"What? Go home to that empty apartment and stare at the walls? Take another shower hot enough to peel paint? Reorganize your already organized kitchen?"

He knew me too well. Three years of these dawn exchanges had given him insight I wished he didn't have. He'd never pushed before, never insisted on more than our brief handoffs. But something in my face tonight—this morning—had tripped his paternal instincts.

"I'm not hungry," I tried one last time.

"Bullshit." He unlocked the truck, the door creaking like every joint in both our bodies. "Get in. I'm buying, and you're eating. Real food. Maybe even vegetables if I'm feeling particularly cruel."

I climbed into the passenger seat because arguing took energy I didn't have. The truck smelled like motor oil and pipe tobacco. Safe smells. Honest smells.

Doc settled behind the wheel, my messenger bag carefully placed behind his seat where no one could grab it through a window. Always thinking, always planning. We had that in common, at least.

"There's a new security protocol," he said as he started the engine. It turned over smooth despite its age, because Doc maintained everything in his life with obsessive care. "For the pickups."

I made a noncommittal sound, too tired to process new information.

"Young guy," he continued, navigating out of the garage with practiced ease. "Prospect. Military type. Good head on his shoulders."

The words washed over me without sticking. Another face to memorize, another person to trust or not trust. The mathematics of safety got more complex every day. I let my head rest against the window, watching streetlights blur past like a countdown to something I couldn't name.

The Sunrise Diner squatted on Route 47 like it had been dropped from orbit in 1963 and decided to stay.

Chrome and cracked vinyl and dreams that had expired with the warranty.

Doc held the door for me, bells chiming our arrival to the three other customers who didn't bother looking up from their coffee and existential crises.

Red vinyl booths sat down one wall, each one patched with duct tape in slightly different shades. Everything smelled like bacon grease and strong coffee, with an undertone of lemon cleaner.

"Hey there, Doc." Donna appeared with a coffee pot already in hand, her beehive hairdo defying gravity.

She'd been working here since the pyramids were new, probably.

Her uniform was pink polyester that had survived countless wash cycles, name tag slightly crooked but polished to a shine. "Your usual booth?"

"Thanks, darling." Doc guided me to a corner booth. The vinyl wheezed as we sat, releasing the ghosts of a thousand previous occupants.

Donna poured coffee without asking, the stream of liquid black as motor oil and probably just as useful for keeping engines running. "What'll it be?"

"Black coffee, wheat toast," Doc said. His usual. The man ate the same breakfast every morning, probably had since the seventies. "And for the young lady . . ."

I stared at the menu, words swimming. The exhaustion sat on me like a weighted blanket, making everything feel distant and underwater. Donna waited with practiced patience, probably used to zombies who worked night shifts and couldn't quite remember how to human in daylight.

"I . . ." My mouth opened without consulting my brain. "Chocolate chip pancakes, extra whipped cream, and hot chocolate with the little marshmallows."

The words hung in the air like a confession.

That wasn't my order. That was little Ki's order, the girl who used to bounce in diner booths and beg for birthday breakfasts.

The girl who colored paper placemats and made up stories about the people walking by outside.

The girl who'd ordered this exact meal with my ex-boyfriend on good mornings, before the drugs, before the fists, before everything went to hell.

Donna’s eyebrow arched.

I raised both hands. “Look, I just spent eight hours elbow-deep in other people’s bodily fluids. If I want sugar for breakfast, the universe can deal.”

Doc snorted behind his newspaper. “She’s got a point, Donna.”

“Fine,” the waitress said, mock-stern. “But I’m adding strawberries so you don’t scurvy on my watch.”

“Deal.” I winked at her. “Preventative medicine.”

"You want the rainbow sprinkles too, honey?" Her voice held the kind of maternal warmth that made my chest tight. "They're free for anyone who looks like they're running on fumes."

I nodded, unable to trust my voice. She bustled away, pink uniform swishing, and I risked a glance at Doc.

He was already reading the sports section, giving me the gift of pretending nothing unusual had happened.

But I caught the slight softening around his eyes, the way he turned the page more gently than necessary.

The silence stretched between us, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Doc had mastered the art of being present without being intrusive, of offering company without demanding conversation. I wrapped my hands around the coffee mug, letting the heat seep into fingers that always seemed cold these days.

"New security protocol's simple enough," he said, like we were continuing a conversation instead of starting one. "Young guy'll meet you at the usual spot. Goes by Wings. You’ll know him by his prosthetic leg. And the fact he looks like a biker, of course."

Prosthetic. Young. I filed the information away in the part of my brain that still functioned, the part that kept track of details that might matter later.

Donna returned with our food, setting my plate down with a flourish.

The pancakes were perfect circles, chocolate chips melting into puddles of sweetness, whipped cream piled high enough to ski down.

The hot chocolate came in a mug shaped like a teddy bear, tiny marshmallows floating like life rafts.

And yes, rainbow sprinkles scattered over everything like edible confetti.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"You eat up, sweetheart." She patted my shoulder, a touch so gentle I almost cried. "Sometimes we all need a little sweetness."

Doc rattled his newspaper, clearing his throat. "Says here the Cubs might actually have a shot at the division this year. Course, they say that every year right before they remember they're the Cubs."

I picked up my fork, cutting into the pancakes. The first bite hit my empty stomach like salvation. Sweet and warm and nothing like the protein bars and coffee that had been my diet for weeks. My phone buzzed on the table, and I almost ignored it. Almost.

Unknown number. Local area code.

I shouldn't have looked. Should have deleted it unopened, blocked the number, thrown the whole phone in the diner's grease trap. But exhaustion made me stupid, or maybe just human.

The photo loaded slowly, pixels filling in like a horrible puzzle. My old apartment door. The one with the faded blue paint and the brass numbers that never hung straight. The butterfly sticker I'd put up during the good times, when I'd thought love could be soft and beautiful and safe.

But it was the hole next to the door that made bile rise in my throat. Fist-sized, edges jagged where the drywall had crumbled. His knuckles had bled for days after that night. He'd been sorry, so sorry, baby girl, you know I didn't mean it, you just make me so crazy sometimes.

No message. Just the photo. Just the reminder that he knew where I used to live, that he remembered too, that some part of him was standing outside that door taking pictures instead of moving on with his life.

My hands shook as I deleted it. The phone clattered against the table, and Doc looked up from his paper.

"Everything alright?"

"Wrong number," I lied, the words automatic.