My temper unhooks.
Not because of Cherry. Not even because Lady saw the name.
Because the enemy knows it.
That means someone is watching closer than I thought. Close enough to know who sends texts to my phone. Close enough to know what words will put distance between me and Lady.
Close enough to touch her life.
Carmen is behind it.
“Pack a bag,” I say.
She laughs, but her eyes shine now, angry and scared, but refusing to let either win. “There he is.”
“I’m taking your ass to Vice Ink.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
“Then here’s an answer anyway. No.”
“Lady.”
She steps into her heels and grabs a cropped leather jacket from the closet. “I’m going to Eclipse. I’m doing my set. I’m not running because some asshole sent a picture of a flower.”
“You’re not hearing me.”
“I hear you fine.” She points at the door. “You want to protect me? Clean up your little whore problem. Handle your club shit. Figure out who’s watching me. But don’t stand in my bedroom with another woman texting you and expect me to climb obediently onto the back of your Harley.”
I swallow the first answer because it’s ugly.
The second one ain’t much better.
“Cherry ain’t my woman.”
Lady’s smile is pure Miami. Beautiful enough to get a man robbed.
“Neither am I, remember? You couldn’t even answer me.”
Then she walks out.
For three seconds, I let her.
Three.
That’s all the space my pride gives her before my brain comes back online.
I follow her through the condo, past the kitchen island with untouched coffee cups, past the framed magazine covers, past a wall of photos where Lady stands beside celebrities, DJs, models.
At the private elevator, she stabs the button.
I reach past her and press my thumb to the panel, cancelling the call.
She turns slowly. “Move.”
“No.”