Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75348 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75348 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Hell, we weren't even going to continue fucking.
That was the decision I'd come to since the diner. It had to end. Three times was more than enough. We were only risking exposure if we let it happen again. We'd both clearly just needed the release. We'd gotten it. It was time to move on.
It was the only way.
Even if there was a dull ache in my core at the realization.
But it was my decision.
It was over with Fallon.
But the idea of something happening to him? Christ, there was a visceral reaction. A tightening in my stomach, a twisting in my chest. I could barely think past it as my men casually made jokes about it.
"Are you fucking serious right now?" I snapped, voice low, seething. "You're cracking jokes about this? When this is likely the same threat that is coming for our club? You think that's funny? That we could be next? I know there might not be any love lost with us and that club, but even we have to admit that they have a tight operation, that they know what they're doing. So if it can happen to them, it can damn sure happen to us. But, sure, go ahead, toast to their misfortune like it might not very well be you in a hospital bed or body bag the next time."
I didn't yell at my club often. You never wanted to run the risk of them calling you "emotional" or "hysterical" or ponder aloud if it was your time of the month that is making you such a bitch.
But because it was rare, when it happened, it seemed to have a little more impact. Drinks stopped pouring, laughs silenced, and my men all started staring off at the walls, thinking about the possibility in their near future.
I meant what I'd said.
If it could happen to the Henchmen, it could damn sure happen to us.
"That didn't do much to help morale," Chewy said, following me into the kitchen.
"Yeah, well, this isn't a fucking group therapy class," I said, taking a deep breath, trying to resist reaching for my phone, and texting Fallon. "They've barely been taking this threat seriously."
"Maybe because it isn't serious."
"Says a man who wasn't very nearly gunned down twice in the past few weeks," I hissed, turning on him. "They need to start taking this seriously. If I need to be a bitch about it, so be it. They don't need me taking shots and joking with them. They need me to keep them safe and out of graves."
"Alright, alright," Chewy said, holding up his hands. "I get it. It was just a little, you know, shrill."
Shrill.
Shrill.
Oh, if the bastard didn't have my father's favor, which made him damn near untouchable, I would have sent him packing a long time ago.
"As always, Chewy, it's been a fucking pleasure," I hissed, pushing past him.
"Where are you going?"
"Out."
"Aren't you the one bitching about danger?" he shot back.
"I'm sure you'd pretend to be sad for five minutes before taking over my position if I got killed," I snapped, making my way out of the clubhouse, then onto my bike, taking off until I was just far enough away to not be seen, then reaching for my phone.
Nothing.
No word.
With a knot in my stomach, I shot off a text with a simple question mark, not wanting to have anything suspicious in case someone else had his phone.
Then I waited, feeling sicker and sicker to my stomach as there was no response.
There was nothing else I could do.
I couldn't exactly show up at their clubhouse and ask if Fallon was okay.
And no one would ever think to tell me if something happened to him.
And it shouldn't have fucking mattered if something had happened to him.
But it did.
It mattered.
Because, despite absolutely everything about it being a terrible idea, he was starting to matter.
It was reckless.
Dangerous.
Stupid.
But there was no denying it either.
I was catching feelings for the president of a rival MC.
And I had no fucking idea if he was alive or dead.
Chapter Ten
Fallon
We were ambushed.
That was the only text any of us got for an excruciatingly long time.
Which only happened to be ten minutes, but it might as well have been a lifetime.
We had no idea where our men were, in what shape they were in, if we'd lost anyone, if we'd have an impossible talk to have with someone's wife, with someone's kids.
The brothers who hadn't been at the clubhouse descended on it in mere minutes, everyone waiting on bated breath and in silent agreement that we weren't going to say anything to any of the women until we had more information to give them. We could worry enough for all of them.
Finn moved in at my side, casting a worried glance at me.
Because it hadn't been our father who'd sent the text.