Page 4 of Tangled in Red

Going out with a friend. Be home later.

The reply came immediately. Who?

It was none of his business.

Brett shoved his phone into his pocket, ignoring the tremor in his hand. He’d deal with the fallout later. Right now, Diablo waited—someone who looked at him like he mattered, who texted him Spanish endearments, who made the hospital gift shop feel less like a dead end.

Back in the hallway, Diablo leaned against the wall, powerful arms crossed over his chest. Several nurses had found reasons to linger nearby, openly glancing at the tattooed man who looked like a straight-up rebel.

“Ready?” Diablo pushed off the wall, falling into step beside Brett.

“As I’ll ever be.” Brett tried for casual but missed by a mile.

* * * *

They headed toward the exit, passing the gift shop window where Edward watched them with open curiosity. Brett gave a small wave that his coworker returned with an exaggerated thumbs-up.

“Friend seems happy for you,” Diablo said as they walked through sliding glass doors into a wall of heat.

“He’s just excited to have gossip for his grandmother.” The parking lot stretched before them, heat rising in visible ripples from the asphalt. “My dating life isn’t exactly front-page news.”

“Dating life…” Diablo’s mouth quirked. “So this is a date?”

Brett nearly tripped over a parking block. “I didn’t mean…unless you—”

“It’s a date if you want it to be.”

Diablo’s grin was roguish, making Brett’s face heated up again. He stayed in a continuous state of embarrassment around the guy. If he didn’t learn how to control it, he’d spontaneously combust.

Brett’s heart skipped as he said, “Then it’s a date.”

Diablo nodded once, satisfaction evident in the slight upturn of his lips. He led Brett past rows of cars toward the far corner of the parking lot, where something massive waited in the afternoon heat.

The motorcycle wasn’t just transportation. It was a damn statement. The enormous machine of gleaming black metal and chrome caught the light, all aggressive angles and powerful curves. It had thick tires and handlebars that seemed impossibly wide.

The thing looked like it had been forged in some hellish foundry.

“That’s yours?” Brett stopped dead, his voice climbing an octave. “Meet my baby.” Diablo ran his hand along the seat with unmistakable pride. “Built her with my own two hands.”

Brett took an instinctive step back. “Cool. Very cool. I’ll just, um, follow you in my car.”

“She’s only intimidating to people who don’t know her.” Diablo swung his leg over the seat, the machine groaning under his weight. “Me vas a decir la verdad sobre tu brazo, cariño.”

“What does that mean?” Brett gripped the strap of his backpack tighter. He liked when Diablo talked in Spanish to him. He could pretend the guy was saying the most romantic things. Lord knew Brett could use that kind of thing in his life.

Between his job, his abusive uncle, and the sheer loneliness, he often fantasized that he had an entirely different existence.

“Hop on.”

He stared at Diablo as if he’d suggested they swim across the Atlantic. “On that?”

“Unless you want me to carry you on my back.” A hint of a smile played at the corners of Diablo’s mouth.

A mouth Brett was dying to kiss.

“I’ve never...” He crossed his arms then uncrossed them when his shoulder protested. “I’ve never been on a motorcycle before.”

“Are you saying I’m going to be your first?” A hint of seduction colored Diablo’s tone.

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