The coastal road finally gave way to the sleepy little beach town I'd been aiming for (weather-beaten boardwalk, salt-crusted streetlights, gulls screaming overhead). I rolled the Phantom to a stop in front of Driftwood Brew, a hole-in-the-wall café wedged between a surf shop and a vintage record store. The morning sun glinted off the chrome of my bike as I killed the engine, tugged off my helmet, and shook out my damp silver-blue hair. The air smelled like roasted beans, sea brine, and freedom.
Inside, the place was almost empty (just the low hum of an indie playlist and the hiss of the espresso machine). I leaned against the counter, ordered a large iced Americano with an extra shot, and dropped into one of the worn leather armchairs by the window. The first sip was cold, bitter, perfect. I kicked my boots up on the opposite chair, slid my shades down my nose, and let my head fall back against the cushion.
No missions. No Lilith breathing down my neck. And, best of all, no Seraphine watching my every move with those frost-blue eyes that saw straight through me.
Just me, the ocean across the street, and an entire day to do whatever the hell I wanted.
Pure bliss.
Ten minutes later the little bell above the door chimed.
She walked in like she owned gravity itself.
Mid-thirties, maybe late thirties (the kind of woman who'd stopped counting birthdays and started breaking hearts instead). Sun-kissed caramel skin, long chestnut hair spilling in thick waves over one shoulder. A white linen sundress clung to every lethal curve: heavy, round breasts straining against the thin fabric, nipples faintly visible because of course she wasn't wearing a bra; a narrow waist that flared into an ass so thick and juicy it made the dress ride just high enough to flash the bottom curve of her cheeks when she moved. Tanned legs for days, gold anklet glinting above strappy sandals. Big sunglasses hid her eyes, but the rest of her face was pure fantasy (plump lips glossed coral, cheekbones sharp enough to cut).
She ordered something sweet and creamy (voice low, husky, with a faint accent I couldn't place), then scanned the room. For a second I thought she'd take the empty couch on the far wall.
Instead she walked straight toward me, hips rolling like the tide, and dropped into the chair right beside mine (close enough that the scent of coconut sunscreen and warm skin flooded my senses).
I didn't even pretend not to stare.
Fuck me, I thought. She's exactly my type: built for sin, old enough to know what she wants, and currently pretending she didn't notice the seventeen-year-old predator undressing her with his eyes.
She crossed those endless legs, took a slow sip of her drink, and licked a trace of whipped cream off her lower lip with deliberate care. My cock twitched against the inside of my thigh, already half-hard just from proximity.
I was three seconds away from leaning over and introducing myself (something filthy and honest) when her phone buzzed on the table.
She glanced at the screen.
Every drop of color drained from her face.
She snatched the phone to her ear. "Hello? Yes, this is Camila Reyes…" Her voice cracked on the last name. Whatever the person on the other end said made her whole body go rigid. Eyes wide behind the sunglasses, hand flying to cover her mouth. "No… no, por favor, Dios mío… I'm coming right now."
She was up in a heartbeat, chair scraping loud against the wood floor, iced latte abandoned. She bolted for the door so fast the bell jangled like an alarm.
I was moving before I made the conscious decision (curiosity and instinct overriding everything else). I tossed a twenty on the table, grabbed my helmet, and sprinted out after her.
She was already flagging down a yellow cab at the curb, sundress fluttering around her thighs as she climbed in, door slamming. The driver peeled away before I even reached my bike.
Didn't matter.
I swung a leg over the Phantom, keyed the ignition, and the engine snarled to life. I caught the cab's taillights two blocks up, slid in behind it like a shadow, and followed.
Twenty minutes of coastal highway later, the taxi turned inland, tires humming over fresh asphalt. My pulse thrummed in my ears (part suspicion, part raw hunger). Wherever this woman was going in such a panic, I needed to know why.
The cab slowed, signaled, and pulled into the wide circular drive of St. Augustine's Medical Center (a sprawling complex of white buildings and glass, the biggest hospital for fifty miles).
Camila Reyes practically threw money at the driver and ran (bare feet slapping pavement after she kicked off her sandals, sundress riding higher with every desperate stride) straight toward the emergency room doors.
I rolled the bike to a stop in the fire lane, killed the engine, and watched her disappear inside, chestnut hair flying behind her like a banner.
Whatever had just shattered her perfect morning was waiting in there.
And for reasons I couldn't even explain to myself yet, I was going to find out what it was. The automatic doors of the ER whooshed open and swallowed her whole.
I slipped in right behind her, helmet tucked under one arm, melting into the chaos of the emergency ward like I belonged there: nurses rushing past with clipboards, the sharp stink of antiseptic and old blood, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, a baby crying somewhere down the hall.
Camila Reyes didn't even notice me. She was sprinting barefoot now, sandals abandoned in the taxi, sundress fluttering around her thighs as she zeroed in on the first white coat she saw: a tired-looking resident in teal scrubs, mid-thirties, stubble, dark circles under his eyes.
"Doctor!" Her voice cracked like a whip, thick with panic and that smoky accent. "My son: Mateo Reyes, sixteen years old, they called me, por favor, what happened?!"
The doctor glanced up from his tablet, recognized the name, and his face settled into the flattest, most professional mask I'd ever seen. He cleared his throat.
"Ma'am… your son is stable. He's in bay four, conscious, and being treated."
Camila clutched his sleeve. "Treated for what? What happened to my baby?"
The doctor exhaled through his nose, clearly fighting for his life to keep a straight face.
"Well… apparently your son engaged in sexual intercourse with an experienced woman. She warned him (repeatedly) that he wasn't ready for certain… advanced positions. Specifically, she told him he could not handle her weight in cowgirl. He insisted. He told her, and I quote, 'No, mami, you gotta ride me like that, I can take it.' She gave in."
Camila's eyes went wide. "And then…?"
The doctor pressed his lips together so hard they went white.
"Ma'am, his penis fractured. Complete corporal rupture. It, uh… it made a sound. Like a celery stalk snapping. He's in traction now. We've got an excellent urologist on call, but he's going to need surgery and several weeks of very careful recovery."
For one frozen second the entire ER seemed to hold its breath.
Camila's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. No sound came out.
Somewhere behind the desk, a nurse coughed into her elbow (definitely not a laugh). Another nurse suddenly became extremely interested in a blank computer screen. A janitor pushing a mop paused, shoulders shaking for no reason at all.
Camila walked like a ghost to the nearest plastic chair and collapsed into it. She stared at the linoleum floor between her bare feet, sundress riding high enough to flash the lacy edge of her panties to anyone who cared to look. Her hands were trembling in her lap. I could practically hear the thoughts detonating behind her eyes:
Sixteen years of Catholic school tuition.
Curfews.
Lectures about condoms and respect.
And now her baby boy was in the trauma bay because he begged a grown woman to break his dick in half trying to prove he was a man.
Externally, I was perfection: arms folded, expression calm, sympathetic even, just another concerned bystander.
Internally?
I was dying.
Tears streamed down my cheeks inside my skull. My abs were cramping from the effort of not howling. I had to bite the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood just to keep my face neutral.
The doctor patted Camila's shoulder with all the gentleness of a man who'd seen everything twice. "We'll update you as soon as he's out of surgery, ma'am. There's coffee in the family lounge."
He walked away.
Camila stayed seated, staring into the middle distance, probably recalculating every single life choice that had led to this exact moment.
I leaned against the wall, slid my shades back on, and let the biggest, most silent laugh of my entire demonic life rip through me like a tidal wave.
Mateo Reyes, whoever you are, little brother…
Respect.
Absolute legend.