“Don’t even think it,” I say out loud.
“Think what?” Tate stands in the doorway and pops his blue Mohawk into the room before he comes in. I turn to look. He steps inside and shuts the door. “I was going to give you what you wanted and leave you alone. But neither of us are great at following orders normally, so why start a trend I can’t keep up. I’m here now. Your own personal punching bag.”
We hold each other’s gaze and he stuffs his hands into his pockets.
“You mean that literally or figuratively?” I ask.
He shrugs. “However you want it.” The beat of silence between us seems to go on forever. Neither of us glances away. “What do you need?”
“That’s a loaded question, Tate. I’m not sure about anything—”
An intense pulse of sound blasts from outside the window. I jerk my head around to look, and see the tail end of a fireball against the sky. Is that…flying metal?
“We can’t go a handful of weeks without someone trying to fucking blow us sky high?” Tate runs to the window. He looks out and freezes, gripping the window ledge. I clear my throat to get his attention. Nothing. He doesn’t move an inch or make a sound. He doesn’t even look like he’s breathing.
“What just happened? Talk to me.”
I suppose I can go to the window myself, but I don’t trust my wobbly legs all that much.
He pushes away from the window and charges out the bedroom the door.
“What’s wrong?” I shout down the hallway.
“Motherfucker. Hold on a minute.”
He’s gone for a while. I’m curious, but at the same time, exhaustion has set in, and I can barely move. I relax back on the bed, drifting off to sleep with my legs hanging off the side of the bed. When I open my eyes, it’s because Tate is lifting my feet and slipping them under the bed sheets.
“What happened?”
“He’s going to die.” Tate’s voice is low and dangerous. “That Jett son of a bitch is going to meet his maker—nice and slow.”
“What are you talking about? Start over, if you don’t mind.”
“My bike. The fucker torched my bike…it’s spread out over a square mile radius… in hot little shiny pieces, some of them still burning.”
“Gosh, I’m so sorry this is happening. How do you know for sure it was him?”
“The idiot left a note on the clubhouse door.”
Great, now Jett has gone and done it.
“Wait, but he a Satan’s Saints member in one of the Louisiana chapters. Can’t Silas do something to bring him in line? That’s kind of why I came to you guys to help.”
“Jett’s a member. Or at least he fucking was. No way he’s getting to keep his patches after this. No fucking way. But do you honestly see anything he’s done as normal behavior? A conversation won’t stop this madman.”
“Silas is going to get involved, right?”
“Yeah, hopefully before I find him and beat the life out of your ex.”
“I’m really sorry. I know you loved that bike.”
“It’s not your fault.” He offers up a weak smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, then walks over to the window again. I start to believe he’s fine, but I see him shaking off his hand.
“Did you get hurt?”
“Nope. I did this… to the wall downstairs.” He lifts it and shows me his bloody knuckles. “It’s fine.”
“Pass me my medical bag and come over here. I’ll take a look.”
He takes a seat beside me but ignores the rest. “It’s not the first time I’ve put my hand through drywall. I washed it off. Nothing’s broken. Stop worrying.”
I take his hand from his thigh to look, but his fingers curve around my wrist. Raw pain is shimmering in his eyes as we look at each other.
“Are you still upset?” he asks.
I am, but I shake my head and turn off the onslaught of emotions swirling inside my head. He pulls me closer. He’s so gentle this time, I lean on him. I’ll always go to him. My twisted, torn up vigilante.
“Kiss me,” I say without thinking. I’m frightened and emotional, but I’m sure that being with him is good for me. “Whatever’s going on between us, I need you to kiss me and make it all better.”