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It’s been raining for three days straight. It hardly ever rains in California, but this year is different. And that’s about how many days of hunger it takes before I start digging into dumpsters for food. At first, I only searched for shit that was still wrapped up, uneaten.
By day five, my standards have hit rock bottom. I’ll take anything edible, not rotten or covered with dirty diapers or cigarette butts. The cash in my pocket isn’t for food. It’s for survival. I need to work out a plan, but I can’t do shit until my old crew gets sick of chasing me and starts gunning for the bikers whose bullets actually ended Demon’s life.
“Shit, Demon,” I hiss into the darkness. We were a team, two peas in a pod. This warehouse was the backdrop of our first time doin’ the dirty. I think I was fifteen, maybe sixteen. I thought it all meant something. But I guess that doesn’t matter now. He’s gone.
Anger flares in my chest. “Goddammit, Demon! Why? Why did you have to die?” I break down in tears, sobbing over the loss. My best friend, my man. My life.
“Stop it,” I say to myself because I’m getting sick of my own damn thoughts. Demon is gone, and he’s not coming back. I need to focus on the here and now, on surviving the shit show my life has become.
It’s hard to focus on anything when I’m so fucking cold and tired and hungry. Not to mention scared shitless. I’m a toughchica. I know that. I’ve done more fighting in my life than chilling, but this? This is some next-level shit. From the moment my Moms kicked me out of her place, I haven’t been alone, not like this.
Back in the day, I fell in with a bunch ofchicasfrom the east side, trying to survive and make a place for ourselves in the harsh streets of LA. Fierce, scrappy, determined. Together, we formedLasSangrientas, a sisterhood that became our lifeline, our blood.
We raised hell, asserting our dominance, gaining respect and fear equally. Life was brutal, sure, but there was a bond that made life bearable. It wasLas Sangrientasagainst the world, and for a while, it felt like we could take on anything. The streets forged us into a force to be reckoned with and we learned to be cunning, relentless, hard. We did some cold-blooded shit and got away with it.
A clap of thunder sounds so loud it vibrates the floor and I jump. Seconds later, a blinding flash of lightning illuminates the warehouse from the vents above. We haven’t had rain like this in forever.
Just as quickly as it comes, the light vanishes, plunging me into darkness once again. It’s fitting, really. But I can’t hole up in here forever. Angel Harbor is too close to the crew in LA. How fucked up is that?
Fuck, Demon, why’d you have to die?
I blink away the tears threatening to break loose again. I’m smarter than that. I know tears don’t change anything. I gotta keep moving, keep fighting. But the memories keep coming back—the worst day of my life.
Gritting my teeth, I force myself back to the present. It’s just another fight, another battle in the war that is my life. I’ve survived before, and I’ll survive now. I’ve got no other choice. Demon is gone and no one’s gonna save my ass but me.
This is my life now. They might think they’ve cornered me, but they’re wrong.
I ain’t done. Not by a long shot.
CHAPTERTWO
Nova
This is straight-up bullshit. Every time I step inside this sterile room and see my brother, Banger, laid out like a rag doll I’m hit with the same thought. It’s not right. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be strung up on life support with a gut wound that’d make a hardened soldier cry. He should be wide awake, flashing that lopsided smile, talking shit and cracking jokes.
Instead, he’s here, hanging on to life by the tips of his fucking fingers while I try my best to save his life.
It’s not the first time I’ve tried—and failed—to save a fellow brother. Still, every morning since we found him lying face down at a new development, I promise myself that I won’t lose another brother. Not this time.
And not Banger. Not only that, but Willow is missing. What the fuck is up with that?
“Come on, Banger. Wake up, brother.” It’s been over two days, and though his body is healing, he’s still in a coma. He hasn’t woken up yet. Emphasis onyet. But he will. I know it.
He has to.
As a trauma doc, I’ve seen my share of blood and death, and I’ve stitched up too many wounds to count. And each time I look at Banger, it’s like a grim reality of my tours in the army. The faces of fallen brothers haunt me, men I couldn’t save despite my best efforts. Faces like Private Reynolds, another dark-haired kid who bled out under my watch, a promising life cut too short.
Every time I change Banger’s bandages, I see Reynolds’ face. Each pulse of the monitor is another beat of the war drum, another reminder of those I couldn’t save.
But not this time. This time, I’m keeping Banger in the land of the living, come hell or high water.
I ain’t just a doctor. I’ve spent years living on the edge, dealing with life on the streets, and doing what I needed to survive. The MC is my family, and I’m not about to let one of my brothers go down without a fight. Every stitch, every bandage, every damn bead of sweat on my forehead is a promise. I’ve got you, Banger. And I ain’t letting go.
Sitting in this sterile room that’s too quiet for comfort is a real mindfuck. I’m not just battling for Banger’s life—I’m battling my own demons. But I keep my cool, keep the past from dragging me under.
I’ve been down that road before, feeling the icy grip of my own personal hell. But right now, I have to be the doctor, the brother that Banger needs me to be. I’ll stay strong and try like hell to keep the demons at bay. At least until Banger’s back on his feet, throwing around that smart-ass grin like he owns the world.
I sway on the stool, my vision tunneling into a narrow point of blackness like an overplayed film reel stuck on repeat. The monsters, the darkness, the demons—they’re back. It’s like a nightmare returning after an extended absence.
