Tw: cussing, kidnapping, captivity, firearms (mentioned once)
Novel Attraction - Part 6
The soft hum of motorcycles, faint voices in the distance, and the sound of gravel crunching under heavy boots filtered into the trailer like a low, ever-present current. The early morning light bled in through the blinds in dull gold slants, cutting across the room in harsh, angled shapes.
You stirred slowly, blinking up at the ceiling like you weren’t entirely sure where you were.
Then it came back—the trailer, the Mayans, the locked door. Your chest tightened.
Your fingers clutched at the edge of the blanket as you sat up, the fabric oversized around you, still carrying a faint scent that wasn’t yours—clean detergent, leather, and something warm and worn-in. Angel’s hoodie.
You rubbed your arms, standing in the small bedroom end of the trailer with just enough room for yourself you dragged your own clothes back on.
Once you stepped beyond the curtian you scaned the room. A tray of food sat near the door on the counter.
Toast, some sliced fruit, and a bottle of water.
Your stomach clenched with both hunger and mistrust, you lifted the plate and sniffed it. “Seriously… what the hell do they want me for ?” you muttered under your breath.
You didn’t touch the food.
Instead, you drifted to the window, peeking out through the blinds like someone in hiding. The yard was starting to wake up—men laughing, swearing, working on bikes. The sounds were loud out there.
Angel was leaning against a stack of tires near the garage, his sleeves rolled up, tattoos stark against his forearms as he smoked a cigarette and talked with EZ, Coco and Gilly.
Your breath caught and you pulled back too fast, bumping your hip into the counter, hand going to your ribs protectively.
Ten minutes later, there was a knock—two soft taps and then the door creaked open without waiting for a response.
Angel stepped in, shutting the door gently behind him, eyes immediately scanning you where you stood barefoot on the vinyl floor, arms crossed over your chest like a shield.
“Didn’t touch the food,” he noted, glancing at the tray.
You didn’t hide your suspicion. “Could be drugged.”
Angel exhaled slowly, his head tilting back as if silently asking the ceiling for patience.
"It’s not,” he said. “EZ made it. He’s a dork, but he’s not gonna poison you.”
When you didn’t budge, he stepped over, sitting on the edge of the small table, making himself smaller, less of a threat.
"You still think we’re gonna hurt you,” he said gently.
You didn’t respond. Just looked at him with tired, wary eyes.
“I get it,” he went on, voice quieter now. “You got pulled into some mierda that’s not yours. You don’t know who we are. You don’t know why you’re here. You look at me like I might flip the fuck out any second.” He gave a small laugh. “Shit… I probably would too if I were you.”
Sunlight spilled harsh and unfiltered across the Mayans’ yard, baking the dusty gravel and bouncing off the chrome of parked bikes. The scent of motor oil, hot metal, and stale smoke lingered in the air like a second skin.
A few of the guys were posted up near the porch, leaning on beat-up folding chairs and crates—EZ, Coco, and Gilly all loitering with greasy hands and half-finished beers, the way they did when things were quiet.
Angel stepped out of the clubhouse, slinging a beer from the cooler before dropping into the shade beside them.
“You check on boy scout's roomie yet?” Coco smirked, dragging on a cigarette, his eyes gleaming with trouble.
Angel didn’t answer right away. He took a swig from the bottle and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, jaw flexing.
“She’s fine,” he muttered. “Didn’t eat.”
“She think we’re gonna poison her or something?” Gilly said with a low chuckle. “Shit, maybe its EZ’s cooking, that shits suspicious as fuck hermano.”
“It was toast and fruit,” EZ protested, deadpan. “I’m not that bad.”
Angel let the banter roll off him for a moment, squinting out toward the trailer.
That was enough to make Coco’s head tipped towards Angel with curiosity. He leaned forward, smoke curling from the corner of his mouth.
"Damn, bro. You look like you care.”
“She’s just a job,” Angel replied too fast.
Silence fell for a beat too long.
Then EZ snorted. “Right. A job. That why you gave her your hoodie? Or why you keep calling her querida like she’s your girl?”
Angel threw a stone at his brother—not hard, just enough to make him flinch.
“She looked cold,” Angel said simply, but even he didn’t believe his own brush-off.
Coco laughed, deep and amused, the kind of sound that said he’d seen this play out before. “Homie, I’ve seen you leave girls shivering in their little outfits in your truck. Don’t start playing knight in shining kutte now.”
Gilly leaned over, slapping a hand to Angel’s shoulder. “Just don’t go catching feelings for someone that belongs to Galindo, man. That shit don’t end cute.”
Angel didn’t say anything this time. He just stared off toward the trailer, lips pressed in a firm line, thumb dragging over the bottle label like he was peeling it just to keep his hands busy.
"It’s ain't like that,” he said finally.
The metallic clack of the trailer’s lock disengaging made you freeze, body still curled under the scratchy blanket. Light poured in from the doorway as EZ stepped inside, wearing a crooked, almost too-casual smile like he knew how weird this was but was trying to pretend it wasn’t.
"Hey. Morning,” he said. “Figured it might be good for you to get some air. Come stretch your legs a bit.”
You blinked at him, wary. Everything about this felt loaded—like a test with no right answers. But the four walls of the trailer were starting to feel like they were closing in. You slowly nodded, rising from the seat and tugging the hoodie around yourself like armor.
Outside, the sun was unforgiving and the lot was alive—bikes being tuned, men laughing in too-loud bursts, dogs barking from somewhere behind the warehouse.
You stayed close to EZ, trying to keep your head down, heart thudding as you scanned the space.
Then you saw Coco, leaning against a post, arms crossed, and that familiar glint of mischief—or danger—sparked in his expression.
EZ noticed. He slowed, letting you set the pace, voice softening.
“He’s not gonna hurt you, you know,” he said. “Coco’s just… Coco. He don’t know how to talk to people sometimes.”
You gave him a look, one that tried to be brave, but your fingers curled in the hem of the sweatshirt.
He pulled a gun on me. It didn’t feel like a misunderstanding.
Angel must’ve seen you tense, because he was suddenly there, coming around the corner like he’d been watching all along. His kutte hung open over a white tee, and his brows pulled tight the second he saw your expression.
“¿Qué pasa, querida?” he asked, stepping between you and Coco without thinking.
You looked up at him, voice small. “He… he scared me. Yesterday.”
Angel didn’t even glance at Coco when he spoke. "Then he don’t get near you again,” he said, voice low and certain. “Lo juro. I’ll handle it.”
EZ lifted both hands in a gesture of peace. “We’re just trying to let her breathe a little, bro. You said she needed to feel safe.”
“Yeah,” Angel muttered, “and she ain’t gonna feel that if she’s flinching every time someone gets loud.”
Angel guided you toward one of the plastic chairs by the edge of the lot, away from the noise, from Coco’s teasing eyes and Gilly’s curious glances. He crouched in front of you once you sat, resting his arms on his knees.
“You okay?” His voice was softer now, but it carried that familiar gravity he held when it was just the two of you.
You hesitated, then nodded—just a little. “You’ve given me no idea why I’m even here.”
Angel’s jaw worked, something unspoken flashing behind his eyes. He reached out slowly, giving you the chance to pull away, and when you didn’t, his hand found yours. Big, calloused, warm.
“You’ll know when you need to, querida,” he said.
You were sitting at the edge of the lot again, tucked into a plastic chair beside Angel, a paper plate of food, that had materialized from somewhere, balanced on your knees, untouched.
The sun had shifted past its highest point, leaving the yard in a hazy, golden stretch of quiet. Bikes sat idle, and a few prospects were muttering about chains and tires in the distance.
Angel was lounging beside you in a fold-up camp chair, legs stretched out and hands laced behind his head. He’d been trying to keep things light—pointing out dumb things the guys were doing, telling you about how EZ once crashed a moped trying to impress a girl in high school.
“Swear to God, he told her it had ‘racing mods’ and then dumped it two blocks later,” Angel chuckled, tossing a stone across the dirt. “Still got the scar on his elbow. Ask him.”
You gave a reluctant smile. For a few seconds, it felt like you were just two people hanging out. Then Coco showed up.
He swaggered over, a cigarette dangled from his lips.
“Ayo,” he said, waving lazily in your direction. “Didn’t mean to scare ya yesterday, Thumbelina.”
Your brows knit together. “Thumbelina?”
“You’re, delicate ass is all ‘oh no please don’t hurt me’? It fits.”
Angel shot him a look, jaw tightening.
“Cállate, cabrón.” He leaned toward you. “Don’t listen to him. His idea of charm is threatening a vending machine when it eats his quarters.”
But Coco wasn’t done. He blew smoke away from you and held up both hands like he came in peace.
“Look, I ain’t tryna be the villain here. I didn’t know you were gonna be so... fragile. I thought maybe you were one of those undercover cartel types—like that girl in Miss Congeniality, but y'know with more guns and shit. ”
Angel sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Coco…”
“What?” Coco grinned. “I’m just saying, she’s got that whole ‘terrified creature’ vibe. Kinda adorable, if you ignore the fact she probably thinks we’re gonna sell her to organ harvesters.”
You looked away, unsure if it was safe to laugh or if it would only encourage him. Angel noticed.
“Hey.” His voice dropped as he turned fully toward you. “Querida, mírame. Don’t let him get in your head. He talks out his ass.”
You glanced up, chewing your lip. “He’s not… totally wrong. I don’t know what to think.”
Angel’s face softened. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, close enough you could smell the leather of his kutte and the faint trace of motor oil clinging to him.
“Think this,” he said, voice steady. “If you were really in danger, I wouldn’t be out here talking about dumb stories and trying to make you smile.”
“...You’re trying to make me smile?”
He smirked. “Mierda, you noticed?”
Later, Coco plopped down on the edge of a workbench, watching Angel carefully spoon more rice onto your plate like you were a guest at a family barbecue and not a woman being held under lock and key.
"So, what, we’re playing house now?” he asked, more amused than anything.
Angel didn’t look up. “Nah. She’s just eating. You should try it sometime. Might help with the whole resting felon face.”
You finally cracked a tiny smile, which Coco caught.
“See? Told you I’d grow on you.” He gave you a two-finger salute. “Watch your back, girl. I’m charming as hell once you stop all the crying and shit.”
Angel rolled his eyes as he handed the rice to you.
Then "Puta madre, querida" he muttered as he took the spoon and made an exaggeration out of eating a bite himself.
You were inside the trailer again, sitting by the window, watching the club from a distance. Your knees were tucked under your chin, a paper cup of cold coffee cradled in your hands.
Outside, Angel stood by his bike, talking to EZ and laughing—at first. Then Bishop called him over with a clipped, “Angel. Need a word.”
Angel’s shoulders dropped the second he heard that tone. He followed Bishop behind the garage, hands in his pockets, posture loose—but only on the surface. His jaw tightened just enough to give away that he already knew this wasn’t going to be a good conversation.
Bishop didn’t waste time. “She’s getting comfortable.” His voice was low but direct, laced with that gritty edge that meant he was half-daring Angel to push back.
Angel didn’t look surprised. He just nodded once, slow.
“Yeah. She’s scared shitless, Bishop. You want her screaming 24/7? Drawing attention?”
“Don’t play dumb.” Bishop took a step closer, looking him dead in the eye. “You’re getting soft. You forget what she is?”
Angel’s mouth pulled into a humorless smirk. “Please she thinks we’re kidnapping her to sell her organs, and flinches when a bike backfires. Least we can do is make her comfortable, right?”
“She’s not your girl, Angel. She’s a job.” Bishop paused, made sure Angel was listening. “And when the job ends? Galindo doesn’t keep loose ends. You know what that means.”
Angel blinked slowly. His jaw flexed once, then again. He looked away, teeth grinding together behind closed lips. The words hit harder than they should have—and Bishop saw it.
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” Bishop added, quieter now. “You get too close, it’s gonna fuck with your head. And that’s gonna get someone killed.”
Angel didn’t answer. He just nodded—too stiffly to mean he agreed. His fingers twitched at his side like he wanted a cigarette, or maybe to hit something.
The evening heat was beginning to settle, but you still sat cross-legged on the trailers bench seat in a pair of trackpants and a loose t-shirt, your damp hair tied back loosely after a quick shower. The place smelled faintly of Angel’s cologne and the faint citrus scent of the soap EZ had brought you.
Angel leaned against the kitchenette, arms crossed, watching you talk to EZ with an unreadable look on his face.
EZ sat opposite you on the trailers dinning chair, legs stretched out, shoulders relaxed, smiling gently as you asked questions—about bikes, about club patches, about what a “kutte" was and why the men seemed to follow Bishop like he was some kind of general from an army.
You didn’t notice it, but Angel’s jaw clenched every time you laughed at something EZ said.
You felt safe around EZ. He didn’t have that sharpness in his voice, that heat in his stare. He looked at you like he was on your side—and for a woman freshly kidnapped, that counted for a hell of a lot.
Angel’s hands flexed where they were folded over his chest. He shifted from one foot to the other, barely able to stand still.
"You know,” Angel muttered, interrupting as EZ started to explain something about the club’s hierarchy, “You don’t have to listen to everything he says like it’s gospel. He didn’t invent the MC world.”
EZ glanced at his brother, eyebrows lifting slightly in silent warning.
You blinked, glancing at Angel, surprised by the edge in his voice. “I was just making conversation"
Angel shrugged, brushing off your concern with false nonchalance.
"Sure, querida. Just don’t want you thinking little bro’s the only one with answers.”
He gave EZ a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes and walked over to the small fridge, yanking it open a little too hard and grabbing a bottle of water. His body language was loud even when he was quiet.
His silence crackled more than EZ’s words ever could.
You watched him with a hint of confusion but didn’t push. You couldn’t tell if you’d said something wrong… or if EZ had. Either way, the warmth in the room dipped several degrees.
As the conversation continued, you leaned slightly toward EZ without realizing it, comforted by his calmness, his ability to keep things light.
You didn’t see the way Angel’s eyes tracked the motion. The way he swallowed, like something bitter had lodged in his throat.
“You really think he’s that charming?” Angel asked suddenly, voice flat.
EZ laughed, dry and amused. “Relax, hermano. I’m not gunning for your hostage.”
“I ain’t worried,” Angel snapped—too quickly, too defensively.
You looked between the two, unsure what had shifted. Something in Angel’s tone made your brows furrow, but you smiled awkwardly, trying to keep the peace. “I like talking to both of you… You just explain things differently.”
Angel didn’t reply. He gave you a brief glance, but there was distance in it now. Not from lack of care—too much, if anything.
But it was like he didn’t know how to sit still in his own skin when you weren’t looking at him like you did EZ.
Angel had spent years in his brother’s shadow—EZ, the golden boy, the clean-cut smart one, the favorite.
Angel had clawed his way through blood and pain to be who he was, and now, here you were, all softness and scared eyes… leaning toward EZ like he was somekind of savior.
Angel ran a hand over his face and stood.
"I’m gonna check on the lot,” he said to no one in particular. “Don’t stay up too late.”
He opened the trailer door and hesitated. Looked back.
His voice was low. Rougher than usual. And before you could answer, the door clicked shut behind him.
You barely noticed the time slip past after Angel had walked out. EZ had said something about checking in with Bishop and left too, leaving the trailer dim and still. You sat near the window, the soft hum of the club lot outside rising like static.
Distant bass from a speaker someone had dragged out of storage.
It was almost easy to forget you were a captive.
Then the trailer door creaked open again. Angel stepped in, backlit by the golden spill of sunset behind him, casting long shadows across the cramped space. He didn’t say anything at first—just kicked the door shut with his boot and walked toward the small fridge, pulling out a bottle of beer. His movements were tight, a little too sharp, like he hadn’t shaken off whatever had crawled under his skin earlier.
You noticed the beer in his hand before anything else.
Not threatening… but not entirely casual, either. Something about the way he held it—tight-fisted, like it was holding him together more than he was holding it.
You tucked your legs up on the couch, voice soft and cautious. “...Can I have some?”
Angel stopped in his tracks. Eyebrows raised, beer half-lifted to his lips. “You wanna drink with me now, querida?”
There was a quiet humor in the way he said it, but it was laced with that same bitterness from before. He walked over and flopped into the side of the table EZ had used earlier, watching you with unreadable eyes. A flicker of something softer passed through him, though, when he saw how hesitant you looked.
He took a sip, then offered you the bottle wordlessly.
You reached for it carefully—still unused to the lack of boundaries, the strangeness. Your fingers brushed his, and he held on for just a second longer than necessary before letting go.
From your spot near the window, you could see the lot starting to fill up—people arriving on bikes, a few cars pulling in, girls laughing as they leaned out of passenger windows. It was loud, wild, alive—a world apart from the stale, quiet space of the trailer.
You watched with beer in your hand, tiny sips the taste was still unfamiliar. Angel followed your gaze and let out a short laugh, shaking his head.
"It’s not as fun as it looks,” he muttered, taking the beer back for a drink. “Just noise and bad decisions dressed up as a good time.”
You tilted your head, brows furrowed. “at least there outside.”
Angel looked at you then—really looked at you. There was something heavy behind his eyes. He leaned back, beer resting on his knee, fingers tapping the label. “You think EZ’s the good one, huh?” he asked, voice low but not accusatory. “The one with all the right answers.”
You glanced at him, surprised by the shift. “No I—”
“Nah, it’s fine. I get it.” He offered a small, forced smile. “He’s got the face, the words, the college brain. I’m just the one who makes the mess.”
You stared down at your hands, unsure how to navigate the tension. “I don't really know ... either of you, Angel.”
Angel’s eyes searched yours for something—for a lie, for sympathy, maybe. But all he saw was sincerity. Cautious but there.
He scoffed under his breath and looked away.
“Your right you don’t know shit about me, querida.”
You passed the bottle back to him, your fingers touch his again. He looked down at the contact, then up at you, slower now. Like maybe he didn’t want to keep pretending he didn’t care what you thought.
Outside, the party was kicking off.
A few of the girls were dancing on the hood of a car, and you turned to watch, transfixed by the sheer freedom in it all.
You didn't excatly want to be out there, but you wanted to be outside.
Angel followed your gaze, then leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You wanna go out there?”
You shook your head quickly. “… It’s like watching a movie.”
Your voice was small—almost drowned out by the music thumping just beyond the trailer’s thin metal walls. "Would I be allowed out there?"
The sun had dipped behind the clubhouse by now, casting the lot in that golden-orange haze of early evening. It made everything look softer, even if it wasn’t.
Angel was lounging, beer bottle balanced on the table between you, gaze somewhere in the middle distance—until you spoke.
He blinked. Turned toward you slow. The bottle tilted slightly in his hand. “What’d you say, querida?”
You glanced back toward the window, toward the celebration happening just beyond the door. Women laughing, someone revving an engine, a flash of red solo cups passed around. You swallowed the dry air in your throat and repeated yourself, quieter.
"Would I be allowed out there?”
For a moment, Angel didn’t answer.
Not because he didn’t hear you. But because the weight of the question sat somewhere in his chest he didn’t know how to touch.
You weren't asking like someone looking for permission. Not really. It was the way you'd said it—with that tentative curiosity, like you were already preparing for the “no.” You weren’t a guest.
Of what kind you didn't know.
And yet, the way your eyes lingered on the flicker of firelight outside, the way your fingers clutched the blanket on your lap, made it hurt more than it should’ve.
Angel exhaled hard, leaned forward, arms resting on his knees.
“It don't really look like a ‘you’ crowd out there.”
He rubbed a hand down his face like he was trying to scrub off the guilt. You didn’t say anything. Just nodded slowly, lips parting like you had more to say but weren’t sure if you were allowed to speak it aloud.
You looked down at your lap, blinking slowly. The party outside suddenly felt much farther away. Not dangerous, necessarily—but untouchable. Like a glossy postcard of a life that had already closed its gates.
Angel saw the way your shoulders curled in slightly. Saw the question dying on your tongue before you could ask it again. And it made something twist in his gut.
He stood up abruptly, beer bottle thunking onto the counter harder than necessary. Walked to the window. Looked out.
The sun had almost disappeared now, and the lights strung around the lot glowed soft and golden. People were laughing, leaning close, drinks being passed, phones lit up for photos. EZ was out there, probably charming a few people as usual. Coco was laughing with Gilly near the fire barrel. And you were in here—locked in quiet.
He hated that he didn’t know the answer either. "You wanna feel normal for a bit, querida?” he asked suddenly, not turning around.
"Put on one of EZ's hoodies in the closet,” he said, nodding toward the corner. “Zip it up, keep your head down. We’ll get you outside long enough to pretend the trailer doesn’t have locks.”
You didn’t move for a moment, processing his words.
Then, slowly, carefully, you stood. The hoodie was way too big for you—hanging off your shoulders. You zipped it up, pulled the hood over your head. You didn’t say anything.
Angel watched you as you crossed the trailer. Watched the way you hesitated at the door, fingers grazing the handle.
“Stay close,” he said, voice rough. “I mean it, don't try anything"
When he opened the door, the noise hit you like a wave.
The scent of grilled meat and burning wood.
The kind of chaos that felt alive.
Without thinking, his arm came up around you, hand resting against your back.
Nobody even looked at you.
They had their own noise. Their own rhythm. You were just another shadow at a biker's side.
