Page 5

A shiver runs through me suddenly, the kind that starts at the base of my spine and works its way up. The bar isn't cold, exactly, but I've been sitting here for over an hour in nothing but a T-shirt and sweatpants, and the adrenaline that kept me warm earlier is starting to fade.

I wrap my arms around myself and try not to make it obvious, but Angel notices immediately.

"You cold?" he asks.

"I'm fine."

He doesn't argue. He just stands up, shrugs off the black leather vest he's wearing, and holds it out to me.

I stare at it. "I can't—"

"Yes, you can." His voice is still calm, still patient. "Take it."

"But you'll be cold."

"I'll be fine."

I hesitate, then reach out and take the vest. It's heavier than I expected. Thick leather worn soft with age, and warmer than it has any right to be. I pull it on over my T-shirt, and it swallows me completely. The shoulders hang too wide, the hem falls almost to my thighs, and the sleeves would be twice as long if it had sleeves.

"Better?" Angel asks.

"Yeah." I pull the vest tighter around myself. "Thank you."

He nods and sits back down, and I realize there's a patch on the vest, a stylized phoenix rising from flames, with the words *IRON PHOENIX MC* stitched in bold letters above it, and *PROSPECT* stitched below.

"This is your—" I gesture vaguely at the vest.

"Cut," he says. "Yeah."

"Can you explain me what’s a prospect?”

He leans back against the booth, one arm stretched along the back of the seat. "Means I'm not patched yet. Still proving myself."

"Proving yourself how?"

"However they need me to." He says it simply, without resentment. "Run errands, handle security, keep an eye on things. Show them I'm serious about this."

"Are you?" I ask. "Serious about it?"

"Yeah," he says without the slightest hesitation. "I am."

There's weight in those words. History. Something that tells me this isn't just about motorcycles, brotherhood or whatever people join clubs for. This is something else. Something he needs.

I want to ask him about it. I want to know what brought him here, what he's running from or running toward, why he looks at me like he recognizes something in me that I haven't said out loud.

But before I can say anything, the woman from the bar appears beside our booth carrying two plates.

"Here you go, Angel," she says, setting them down on the table. Each plate has a tall stack of pancakes, golden brown and steaming, with butter melting on top and syrup already drizzled across them. "Best I can do on short notice."

"Appreciate it, Lou," Angel says.

Lou. So that's her name.

She looks at me, and there's something knowing in her expression. "You take care of yourself, honey."

"I will," I say, even though I'm not sure it's true.

Lou nods and walks away, and I stare down at the pancakes in front of me. They smell incredible, and I realize I'm absolutely starving.