Tw: cussing, discussions on moving a captor
Novel Attraction - Part 8
The air inside Templo was thick with smoke, sweat, and tension. Dim light from the hanging bulbs above threw long shadows across the room, catching the glint of rings tapping impatiently on the table.
They were all there—Bishop at the head, Taza silent at his side, Hank with his arms crossed, and Angel sitting lower in his chair than usual, eyes tired and lips set in a straight, unreadable line. His kutte hung open, his hands wrapped around a beer he hadn't touched.
Bishop was first to speak.
“Galindo wants her moved across the border. Multiple sites. Real careful shit—she’ll be tampering with both paper trails and digital ones.”
He leaned back in his chair.
“This isn’t a one-time job. Could be weeks. Months. Maybe more.” A heavy pause. “She ain’t a guest. But she’s not disposable either.”
“She ain’t trained for that kinda travel,” Taza said, arms folded. “That girl looks like she’s never even jaywalked.”
There was a low chuckle from Creeper—dry and without humor.
“She’s not the problem,” Bishop cut in. “It’s the cartel. They want her mobile. They want her working dirty. That means we’re her handlers.”
Angel’s knuckles flexed around the bottle, jaw tight. “She’s not property, either.”
Hank raised a brow. “You sure there, hermano? You already let her try to bolt once.”
Angel didn’t flinch. But the sting landed anyway.
Maps were rolled out onto the chapel table. Satellite images of desert scrublands, old cartel supply routes, half-buried sensor towers near the wall.
A line was drawn through the middle—the border.
Taza dragged his finger along a twisting side road. “We take her through here. Two nights off-grid. One by the dried arroyo. One through the tunnel.
He looked across the table. “We’ll need someone she trusts. To keep her from running again.”
Bishop lit a cigarette, blew smoke toward the ceiling. As table in the Templo groaned beneath the weight of maps, burner phones, printed dossiers, and oil-stained coffee cups.
Bishop’s hand moved slowly across the map, dragging a finger over the dry jagged terrain.
“We’ll be using the old tunnel. And if she spooks out there, that desert’ll eat her alive.”
There was a pause. Then Bishop added, voice even but deliberate:
“Maybe EZ should ride point on her.”
Angel’s head lifted, sharply. “What?”
Bishop didn’t flinch. He met Angel’s eyes like he expected the protest.
"Think about it. She’s scared. She looks at EZ like he’s the one tether to all her nerd shit.”
A few nods circled the room. Taza gave a slow shrug.
"He is the cleaner one between you two.”
Angel stood, suddenly. His chair scraped back across the floor. “She don’t trust him. Not really. She’s just not scared of him yet.”
The room went quiet again. A heavy quiet.
“That ain’t the same thing.” Gilly mumbled.
Angel started pacing. One hand dragging through his hair, the other clenched by his side.
“She talks to me. She’d bolt if it was EZ takin’ her across.”
Bishop tilted his head, unconvinced. “Would she?”
Angel stepped forward, leaning on the edge of the table with both palms flat. Voice low, dangerous.
"I’m the one she runs to, not from.”
The room paused at that. Eyes darted between Angel and Bishop, reading the tension under the surface.
Coco exhaled a slow breath, nodding once toward Angel. “He ain’t wrong, Bish.”
Taza tapped his pencil against the map. “EZ’s point on her. Angel’s lead on this.”
Bishop looked between them—then gave a single nod.
“Fine. But if she runs again out there—we don’t get another shot.”
His words echoed in the silence.
Angel nodded tightly. No fight left in him now. Just purpose.
“Camping,” Coco repeated with a low laugh, shaking his head. “This girl ain’t gonna last ten minutes in the open desert. The second she sees a scorpion or hears a rattler, she’ll bolt.”
He leaned forward on the table, toothpick twitching between his teeth. “You sure you don’t want me with her? I know how to track someone in that kinda terrain. I’ll keep her in line.”
From across the room, Hank gave Coco a long look. “She’s terrified of you, man.”
Coco raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just sayin’ what nobody else wants to.”
Taza folded his arms across his chest, voice low and matter-of-fact.
“If she runs in the desert, we won’t find her ‘til there’s nothin’ left. We can’t risk that. Not with how valuable she is to Galindo.”
Silence swept through Templo. Everyone knew what came next, but no one wanted to say it.
“Then we don’t let her out of reach.”
He flicked ash off his cigarette, eyes scanning the map, but his words hung like smoke in the air.
“Zip tie her to someone. At the wrist every night, til the job’s done.”
There was a pause—a heavy, shifting kind of silence, like the room itself was holding its breath.
Angel looked up sharply, mouth opening like he wanted to argue, but there was nothing to say. This was cartel business now. Galindo made the rules. The club just enforced them.
Taza glanced toward Angel, then over to the others. “Not Coco,” he said flatly. “She’s already scared of him. That’ll just make her more likely to do something desperate.”
Coco rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath as he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.
“A'ight. Let her be someone else’s problem.”
Angel’s fingers were curled into fists in his lap, his boot tapping rapidly under the table. You could see the conflict in him—he hated the idea. Of chaining you like an animal. But he also knew they were right.
She runs again, and it could get her killed.
Bishop stood, chair creaking beneath him.
"Move at dawn. One truck. One tunnel. Angel, you keep her quiet, cooperative, and calm. If she bolts again—you do what you gotta.”
He didn’t say what that meant.
Angel gave a slow nod, though it looked like the weight of it added years to his face.
Later, outside the clubhouse, Angel leaned against his bike. Night had fallen. Crickets chirped, dogs barked in the distance, and inside the clubhouse the music had started up again. partying going on like the world hadn’t shifted.
Lit a cigarette. Let the silence press against his chest.
In the shadows near the trailer where you were kept, a dim light was on. He could just make out the shape of your silhouette, small and still behind the window, knees tucked to your chest like you were trying to disappear.
“Querida,” he muttered to himself, voice low and broken.
“What the hell did we drag you into?”
He flicked ash into the gravel, then looked toward the dark desert stretching out beyond the lot.
The inside of EZ’s trailer smelled like cheap pine cleaner and cologne, both trying to cover something more metallic underneath—like rust or old blood.
The place was neat, controlled—EZ’s nature in contrast to the chaos that constantly lived outside its thin aluminum walls.
You sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders tight, hands clenched in your lap. You wore one of EZ’s hoodies—your own clothes had started to smell like the warehouse, like fear. The fabric hung off you like armor too big for its soldier.
The door opened behind you with a soft creak.
EZ entered first, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Angel followed—slower, heavier. He looked at you immediately. You didn’t meet his eyes.
"We need to talk, querida,” Angel said gently.
His voice was soft—too soft. Like someone breaking bad news to a child.
You looked up at him, your eyes already glossed with the beginnings of panic.
EZ stayed standing near the small kitchenette. Angel moved to crouch in front of you, close enough to reach out—but he didn’t.
“Galindo wants the work started,” EZ said. “First site’s across the border.”
You blinked. “The border? As in... Mexico?”
EZ nodded once. “There’s an underground tunnel. It’s safe. Or—safer. That's where we're gonna take you.”
Your breath caught. You looked between the brothers, your heartbeat thudding loudly in your ears.
“Why can’t I just... do it here? Why do I have to go there?”
Angel leaned forward a little, hands resting on his knees.
“Because they don’t want just the data changed. They want the documents too. Originals. In places you can’t reach from a laptop, querida.”
Your voice dropped to a whisper. "Jesus fucking christ”
EZ’s expression softened for the first time. He walked over, crouched next to Angel.
“You’re not gonna be alone. You're safe.”
He said it like a promise. Like a man used to being believed.
Your breath eased just slightly.
He saw the way your shoulders dropped half an inch. The way your eyes settled on EZ’s face instead of his. His stomach twisted.
He wanted to reach for your hand—but it was folded into EZ’s hoodie sleeve.
After a moment, EZ stood up again, gave Angel a small nod, and stepped outside, giving the illusion of privacy without granting it.
The second the door shut, Angel sighed, quiet and long. He rested his elbows on his thighs, lacing his fingers together.
“I know you trust him,” he said, not bitter—just quiet. "Golden boy's always been good at makin’ people feel safe.”
Your eyes drifted to his and then back to a spot on the wall as you listened.
“You’re not cargo to me, querida,” he added. “I know it feels like you’re being passed around. Moved like product. But I swear... we ain’t gonna let anything happen to you. Not in that desert. Not in Mexico. Not ever.”
You nodded, but you didn't believe him.
After you fell asleep curled up on the bed, EZ re-entered the trailer, finding Angel in the kitchenette, nursing a beer.
He glanced once at your sleeping form, then back at his brother. “She’ll trust you more if you stop trying so hard.”
Angel scoffed softly, not turning around.
EZ leaned against the counter. “Why do you look like someone’s carving your ribs out every time she looks at me?”
Angel finally met his gaze. “Because it ain’t you dreaming of her crying, or her bein' put in that fucking pew bro."
The clock blinked 2:46 AM in faded numbers. Outside was still, blanketed in silence except for the distant howl of wind pushing sand across asphalt.
Inside EZ’s trailer, the shadows moved softly—your figure curled under a borrowed blanket on the bed, knees tucked into your chest, eyes wide open and red-rimmed in the dark.
Sleep hadn’t come. Fear had.
Didn’t know what the air would feel like south of the border. Didn’t know if you’d survive long enough to come back.
The door creaked open gently.
He stepped inside quietly, boots thudding against the floor with practiced care. No kutte. Just a hoodie and jeans, his hair mussed, eyes tired—but alert. He closed the door behind him, locking it out of habit more than concern.
When he saw you still awake, he paused.
"Couldn’t sleep, huh?” His voice was low, not teasing this time.
You shook your head, slowly, from where you lay.
Angel crossed the trailer without needing the light. He moved like he’d memorized every inch of this place. Instead of sitting beside you, he dropped onto the floor with a groan, back against the bed, stretching his legs out and letting his head lean back.
He turned his head slightly, just enough to see your outline in the dark.
“You ever been to the desert before?”
“No,” you whispered. “I’ve never even... left the country. Never had a passport. I’ve never even camped. And I don’t... I don’t speak Spanish, Angel. What if I mess everything up?”
He let out a soft exhale, running a hand through his hair.
“Querida... messing up would be running into a rattlesnake or pissing off a border patrol agent. But you? You’re gonna be fine.”
He adjusted his position, turning a little so his shoulder brushed your knee through the blanket.
“Mexico’s not as scary as people think. Yeah, there’s cartel shit. But there’s also real people. Good food. Sunsets that make you feel like the sky’s on fire. And if you’re lucky—if you keep your mouth shut and your head down—you get to walk out of there with all your fingers still attached.”
You didn’t laugh. But your lip twitched. Just a little.
You finally spoke, voice barely audible.
“It’s not just Mexico. It’s... everything. I don’t know how to do this shit, Angel.”
He tilted his head up to look at you more clearly now. You weren’t crying, but the tension in your body was clear—shoulders tight, chin drawn in like you were trying to disappear inside yourself.
“You don’t have to know any of it,” he said gently. “You just have to get through it. One day at a time. That’s all we’re doin’,”
You blinked at that. The idea that even they—these rough, dangerous men—were surviving on borrowed time and pieced-together plans.
“I feel like a fucking lamb surrounded by wolves.”
Angel reached up, just resting his hand over your blanket-covered shin, grounding you.
“Maybe. But this wolf ain’t gonna bite you, querida.”
He looked down then, almost bashfully.
"Unless you decide to start snoring out in the damn dessert. Then we got a problem.”
You smiled. Just a little. A tremble of light through the fear.
Angel didn’t say anything. He just leaned back again, adjusted until his shoulder bumped yours gently through the fabric of the blanket, and let the silence fall between you.
A silence that wrapped around the two of you like an understanding.
Angel was still on the floor beside the bed, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, arms resting casually over his knees. You were curled beneath the blanket, head sunk into the pillow, your breath slowing just slightly.
You weren’t asleep. Not yet. But your eyes blinked more slowly now. The panic had loosened its grip—still there, still coiled—but fading in the safety of his voice.
“It’ll be me, EZ, Coco and Gilly takin’ you. That’s the crew,” he said casually, like it was just a road trip. “EZ’ll keep his eye on you like he said. Coco’s got jokes… half of them ain’t funny, but he tries. And Gilly? Big guy. Quiet. But he’s solid.”
You tensed, just a flicker, when he said Coco. He noticed.
“I know,” he said gently. “Coco scared you. But he won’t hurt you, Querida. Not out there. We're be there to keep you safe.”
He paused, letting the silence settle, his words slow and easy like the wind outside.
“It’s not like it’ll be hotels and room service or anything,” he added, lips twitching faintly. “We’ll be camping a bit. Desert stretches for miles... so wide it makes you feel small in a way that’s kinda good. Cleans you out a little.”
You watched him from the edge of your blanket, your fingers curled lightly under your chin. He wasn’t trying to sell it to you. He was just talking, steady and grounded.
“There’s a place, couple miles past the boarder—nothing but red rock and these weird little wildflowers that bloom for like a week, maybe two, after it rains. You ever see a flower push through sand? Like it’s got no business surviving, but it does anyway.”
You breathed out slowly. "You make it sound pretty" The image stuck with you. A flower in the sand. That’s what you felt like.
Angel never reached for you. He just stayed. A constant warmth at the side of your world when everything else was foreign.
His voice dropped a little, like he knew you were starting to fade.
"It’s not all bad, y’know,” he murmured. “They tell dumb jokes. EZ makes coffee strong enough to kill a horse.”
You blinked sleepily, your cheek pressing further into the pillow.
“It's all bad when you don't get a choice Angel” you whispered, the words slipping out.
Angel looked at you then. Really looked. He leaned his head back against the bed then, sighing.
The hum of the fridge was the only sound that filled the small trailer, steady and low like a heartbeat. Moonlight spilled through the crack in the blinds, casting pale stripes across the floor and the couch where you lay, half-draped in that worn blanket EZ had handed you earlier.
Angel stayed on the floor beside you, back pressed to the bedframe, knees drawn up. One arm slung lazily over a bent knee, the other toyed with the frayed hem of his hoodie sleeve. He didn’t try to move closer. Didn’t reach for your hand or offer his touch. Just sat there—his presence quiet, grounding.
You were starting to relax. Your breathing had slowed. But he could see the way your fingers still twitched now and then under the blanket, your mind refusing to let go of its worry completely.
So he spoke, voice low, almost like he was telling a bedtime story.
“You know… the desert’s not just heat and dust. There’s somethin’ about it. The stillness. The way the stars hit the sky with no lights around for miles. Shit’s kinda… beautiful. Even when it shouldn’t be.”
He glanced back at you over his shoulder, saw your eyes were open—soft now, not so wide with fear, but not quite ready to sleep.
He paused, stretching out one leg, letting out a breath as he stared up at the ceiling like he could see through it.
“We know that route. Desert roads, old tunnels, back trails no one uses anymore. It’s not gonna be easy, but… we’ll get you through it.”
You mumbled something—a sleepy hum more than words—but he caught the way your lips curved ever so slightly.
“And when the sun goes down out there?” he continued. “It’s like someone lit the whole world on fire. Orange, pink, purple—all of it bleeds together. Makes you forget for a second that you’re even in danger.”
You let out a soft sigh, shifting under the blanket again, body turning just a bit more toward him—though your eyes remained half-lidded now, heavy.
“You shouldn't be doing this,” you whispered almost absentmindedly, like the tendrils of sleep had you already.
Angel looked at you for a few seconds, before his brows drew together.
“I'm not dumb Angel, I know what this is" you whispered "What happens when they tell you to put a bullet in me?”
Angel’s jaw locked. His eyes flickered with something—grief? Anger? Shame?
"You’re not goin’ out like that,” he said simply, his tone enough for you to drop the topic.
Your hand slipped from under the blanket and dangled off the edge of the bed, fingertips brushing air just a few inches from Angel’s shoulder. He didn’t touch it. Didn’t even move. Just turned his gaze toward your face—watching the way your breathing slowed, the way tension gradually bled from your small frame.
For all your fear, there was a strength in you he admired. Not loud, not stubborn like most people he knew—but quiet. Stubborn in your trust even when it was terrifying.
He leaned his head back against the bedframe, eyes never leaving you, the corners of his mouth tugging into something tired but warm.
“You know, when I was a kid? I used to think the desert was cursed,” he murmured, voice almost lost in the air. “Like it swallowed people whole. But now... I think it just strips everything down. Shows you who you really are.”
A beat passed. Another. Then a soft noise from you—a barely audible sigh—and he knew you were finally slipping under.
He didn’t move. Didn’t dare.
“Buenas noches, querida,” he whispered to the dark.
