The Boy I Grew Up With

We waited, tense.

“Brent?” The call came from farther down the hallway.

Something moved. I felt footsteps next.

A door opened. “Brent?” Quieter. More hesitant.

Then, a curse under his breath. Richter started down the hallway. “Brent, I swear to God, answer me—”

He entered the dining room, freezing when he saw us. A choking, gurgling sound came out of him, and he turned to sprint back to where he came from.

I started after him.

Bang!

A bullet slammed into his back, pitching him forward.

Wha—!

Traverse had his gun aimed, and he walked forward, slowly.

Bang!

Methodically.

Bang!

Calculating.

Bang, bang!

A last gasping wheeze came from Richter, and then he was gone.

There was no time to dwell on what had just happened. We heard stampeding sounds from the basement. A head appeared, his gun already blazing.

I was in the line of fire.

I saw the flash of light as I dropped to one knee, my gun ready. I shot him.

Two slugs went into his chest.

This last one was different than the first one. I’d hit the kitchen guy’s shoulder, intentionally not killing him. I would kill to defend myself, to defend loved ones, but I wouldn’t do what Traverse did.

As soon as I thumbed off those two bullets, I whipped around.

Traverse was behind me, his gun already on me. The way he was looking at me. There was no surprise. No regret. He was cold inside, dead.

He had his gun raised to kill me.

He just hadn’t been prepared for me to turn so quickly. I shot him first—one at his hand where he held the gun. The gun fell to the ground, and my second shot found his knee. As he began screaming, I kicked his gun to Congo.

“Lock that door!” I was heading for Traverse as I yelled at Lincoln, who was already coming over.

He saw me shoot Traverse. He didn’t need to be told.

The rest were confused, coming in slower.

“Wha—

I pulled out a knife and slammed the handle down on the back of Traverse’s head. He fell quiet, unconscious.

I looked up as Congo found my eyes. “He turned on us.”

That was all I needed to say. Congo was out the door, telling our men what happened. The next minute would determine life and death—whether we escaped unscathed, or entire futures would end.

My men would do what they needed to do. Trusting them, I ordered Lincoln, “Get in his office. Find security footage, anything. We have to grab it, grab everything.”

He nodded and headed back.

I hollered after him, “Wear gloves. No prints.”

We needed to secure the house. Some guys were outside, fighting Traverse’s men, so I headed downstairs. I could hear scuffles and shouts. I heard a gunshot, then a second as I finished clearing the house. I had to trust there were enough outside to get the job done. When I got upstairs, they were pulling in one of Traverse’s guys, his head hanging low. Chad and Congo dropped the limp body on the floor. More of my men trailed in carrying one of our own, Hawk. His real name was Paul Mainley. He was a good man. He worked as a contractor an hour away—had a wife, two kids.

He’d been here to back us up because he’d stayed loyal to our crew since our senior year at Roussou High.

Now he was bleeding from a bullet hole in his gut.

I had thoughts of keeping the security footage as a backup, just in case, and torching everything, but Hawk’s wound meant I couldn’t do any of that. He couldn’t handle an hour drive to get that wound fixed. He’d have to go to the hospital in Fallen Crest, and there’d be questions. The cops would figure it out, putting two and two together no matter how much evidence we destroyed.

I was cold, locked down myself. There was no room for regrets. Just calculating thoughts. Clear mind.

I shoved everything down. Whatever fury I felt, I stomped down forcibly. Ruthlessly.

We needed a different plan.

“Are all the guys detained outside?”

Moose came in, blood all over his face. He used the back of his sleeve to clear his eyes. “They’re detained, all except the guys on point.”

The guys on point—I felt all of the blood leaving my body. Heather!

“I’m here.”

She spoke as if she’d heard my thought. She materialized right behind Moose. A little shaken, pale too, but no blood, no bullet wounds. Not even a cut. Her hands were red, and I lingered on them.

She cursed, shoving them behind her. “The chain-link. Rougher than I thought it’d be.”

I didn’t know why or how. I didn’t care. I crossed the room in three strides and had her in my arms.

Everything I’d just forced down hurtled right back up.

One of the guys on point outside belonged to Traverse. He could’ve—I shuddered, smoothing a hand down her back, and held her. She was safe. She was here. She was in my arms. A part of me felt off-balance, not wanting to deal with any of this mess, but holding her—she righted me. I felt better, more sure. Kissing her forehead, I turned to my men.

Moose’s phone buzzed. He read the text. “Traverse’s guy took off. They couldn’t find him.”

Which meant he’d alert the rest of the Red Demons.

We were officially in the middle of an MC war, and this time, we had no allies.

Lincoln came back, a bag over his shoulder. As one, all of my men quieted and looked at me.

Congo said, “What’s the plan, boss?”

That was the question in my head.

What was the plan?

51

Heather

I curled up in a ball in Channing’s bed. The door was open a crack, but the lights were off, in the hallway too. I listened to the guys mull over their options. It lasted all night.

I wasn’t sure if I’d heard a decision when the guys finally left around six in the morning. Then again, I knew it would fall to Channing’s shoulders. Times like this, it always did. It was his burden to carry. I could almost see him sagging under the weight of it when he came to bed.

He came in silently, moving the door open and shutting it behind him.

His eyes were haunted.

He took his shirt off, muscles stretching, moving seamlessly under his skin. His tattoos shifted from the motion, and his hands went to his zipper as I sat up. I’d put on one of his shirts. It hung over me. I wanted to feel him even when he was in the living room. It slid down one of my shoulders as I moved his hands aside, going for the zipper myself.

I heard a soft sigh leave him, and one of his hands slid into my hair, cupping the back of my neck, but he didn’t do anything. He just held me as I slid his zipper down. As I pushed his jeans off, I looked up.

Our eyes met and held.

I saw the ache in him. I felt it too. His was pain for what he’d have to do, for what had already happened. Channing might act carefree at times, hyper and restless at others, but he cared. He cared deeply, and it was costing him right now. I ached to soothe that away. I wanted to nurture, protect, love. I wanted to make him forget, just for a moment.

As if reading my thoughts, he whispered, “I love you.”

I didn’t answer, but I moved to my knees, my hands traveling up his chest, around his neck. I drew him down to me.

Our lips met. It was almost playful, and I moved back a bit, my hand curling into his hair. My other hand ran back down his chest, relishing every dip between his muscles, lingering over his tattoos, then moving to rest over her name.

NALY.

Now it was my turn to sigh.

My forehead rested against his, and I whispered, “I want another one.” I looked up, seeing the love darkening his gaze. “I want to try.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">