Chapter Twenty-Four Tyler
Chapter Twenty-Four
TYLER
ATWENTY-FOUR-YEAR-OLD PRIMED TO rule a world of violence, with so little life lived? Even if I didn’t believe it, the impossibly tight fit of her proved otherwise.
It was her razor-sharp tongue and present mind that told me I hadn’t done real damage—at least mentally. The bruises were indicative enough of my physical wake. And fuck if I don’t want to feast on more of that evidence, glimpse more of that wake, even as remorse threatens.
Who the fuck are you anymore, Jennings?
The obvious answer—a starving man without a moral fuck to give.
Though the remorse is there, it’s faint. A trace I could so easily blink away. Had I asked if I hurt her because I felt it? Or because that’s what the former version of me would have done?
Her hindsight grudge for my deceit in sending Julien seemed to overrule my horrible bedside manner.
It was everywhere in her demeanor, her words.
Contempt turning tangible, not just spoken.
My money says she pegged who Julien was and why he was there within an hour or two.
No matter how skilled Julien is, she’s just as much of a convincing deceiver.
Bringing him in was to make damn sure my attraction didn’t cloud my judgment again.
I’m gambling my life, and my brothers’ lives, on his temporary pass.
Accepting Julien’s decision means keeping her as a liability to our club, albeit temporarily.
His report was cryptic at best, but in this game, there are no guarantees.
His decision to allow her to breathe gave me permission to rob her of that breath, and I drew selfish pleasure in that decision. Because even in the heat of the moment, it was a decision. And fuck if it wasn’t the best I felt in …
In sparring with her—fucking her—I came way too close to unleashing and had to catch myself from fully blinking out. A few times unaware of what I was doing while consumed by our connection. Strangely, as I fought it, she started to unleash with me.
The more I allowed it in last night, the more she provoked it. Beckoned me.
Toxic on toxic, and it felt so. Fucking. Good.
Remnants of last night threaten to delude me as I forcibly will them away. Even when I succeed, they come back vengeful, keeping me hard and needing more than before I snapped and fucked her.
The best fuck of my life?
I can’t claim that. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t love.
What we did in that tent was primal, carnal, oddly intimate without true intimacy—a feast of desire, nothing more.
But by giving into instinct, I’ve programmed myself to want more.
Physiology and brain chemistry aside, the sad truth is that my attraction for her is rare. So is our compatibility.
Emotionally, I’m safe. She seems indifferent. She can’t believe one epic fuck gives her leverage and isn’t acting that way. So again, what’s her game? Fed up with the question, exhausted by it, I’m thankful when Clint, recently commissioned by me to DC, speaks up.
“There he is.”
I glance through the tinted SUV window as Sean pokes his head out of the plane, finding us perched on the tarmac feet from the jet.
Smile widening, I exit. Sean saunters down the steps, all swagger as he greets me.
“When you said soon, I didn’t think less than twenty-four hours, brother,” he snarks. “Good thing I could pencil you in.”
“Oh, yeah,” I muse, shouldering his duffel, “pressing PTA meeting?”
His expression says it all before he pulls me into a bro hug. He’s happy about this jailbreak from family. Though he’d never admit it, he likes freedom from responsibilities now and again.
His refuge isn’t a night with the guys but a different escape. There’s nothing Sean likes more than getting his hands dirty. Though I refused him the most pressing situation, he rejects letting us take the brunt. Even with the addition of his third child, he’s determined not to let his ink fade.
At least for the moment.
None of us blames him. With amnesty for anything we do, we aren’t governed.
We answer to no one but our invisibly inked leader.
When Preston ends his White House stint, we’ll vanish before he opens a moving box.
Unless our cover blows, we still fly under the radar, using other agencies’ clearances for anything we need.
“Boy, are you a sexy sight for sore eyes, even with the beard,” Sean jabs, the lingering tobacco and North Carolina evergreens wafting off him, delivering nostalgia. Smells that once meant home. He keeps me in his grip. “Fuck, I needed this,” he says. “Really good to see you, brother.”
“You saw me last night.”
“Not the same,” he condemns, technology forever his Achilles heel.
“It kind of is, but you won’t be singing that tune soon,” I warn.
“Yeah, yeah, give me something shiny and metal,” he states, lifting his chin toward Clint. One of Sean’s first recruits. He greets him with a wink before a short bro hug.
“Hanging in, man?” Sean asks Clint before flicking his Zippo and lighting up, knowing I won’t let him smoke in the SUV.
“Doing fucking perfect,” Clint supplies, opening Sean’s door. Sean lifts accusatory eyes to me at the gesture, expression telling enough as he exhales smoke, dragging the fiery cherry along his boot to put it out.
“It’s appearances, man.” Clint reads Sean’s condemnation. “He takes good care of me”—he tilts his head my way—“and has for a long time.”
Years ago, Clint strayed from the ink because of an Oxy addiction.
No bird wanted to be near him. He even sold and tried to steal from our pool for a fix until Sean and Dom caught him red-handed.
I dragged him away and left them hanging with the choice to let him live or let me end our loyalty issue.
It was Dom who called with his second chance.
To my surprise, Clint sobered up. He’s been squeaky since and flies straighter than the rest of us.
“Things are good, man, promise,” Clint persists as Sean continues to reprimand me with a look due to his hatred of hierarchy or order.
“He’s a motherfucking driver,” I defend, “just as valued as a mechanic.”
“Mechanics don’t need someone to open their doors.”
“They would if they need a driver who can do so defensively at high speed while keeping excellent aim,” I finish, closing myself in before Clint takes off like a shot from the tarmac.
“You need a bodyguard, bro? Thought you were made of titanium,” Sean pokes. “But by that ‘I desperately need some attention to my penis’ pinched expression you’re wearing, you look a lot like a hard-up man.”
“Jesus”—I lift my watch—“not even two minutes in.”
His gaze lingers on me as he sits straighter. “Wait a damned minute.”
I pause with his proffered gun in my hand, holding the breath I want to blow out, certain I gave nothing away, but knowing Sean’s capability to read me, no matter how strong my shield.
“Clint, this isn’t hard-up in our boy’s face, is it? No, no, it’s evasion.” He points at me. “… Oh, my God, black balls, please tell me there has been fucking.”
“Shut. The. Hell. Up,” I utter, shaking my head.
“Ah, silly boy, I see right through this. You summoned me to be badgered,” he deduces smugly, “because there has been fucking.”
When I impatiently shake the Glock toward him, he takes it, instantly pushing the magazine up and cocking it before tucking it away.
Years ago, we’d suffered one of our worst days over his inability to do anything remotely close.
The boy that day was terrified and humiliated.
The man before me now knows exactly how many rounds are in his magazine and can shoot with near marksman precision.
“You proud of me, brother?” he asks without looking up.
“Yeah, I really fucking am,” I grant freely.
Sean’s come a long way since our come-to-Jesus outside King’s and his bitter confession that he wished it was Tobias who got shot instead of Dom.
Not long after, Tobias was gunned down, and Sean went black.
Feigning indifference by the time he reached the hospital, he smoked like a freight train in the parking garage before dragging himself to T’s bedside.
He stayed mute for days until I forced a conversation.
Lying to us both, he lashed out, imploding with fear and regret until we nearly came to blows.
By then, he’d already met the woman who would flip everything he knew on its head—he just didn’t know it yet.
Dom’s passing or the loss of Cecelia hadn’t done it.
Not even Tobias’s brush with death had done it.
It was the near loss of Tessa that forced Sean to step up in a way that surprised us all.
Tessa refused his fuckboy antics from the jump and responded to nothing but his most authentic self.
It’s been jarring to see how much he’s evolved, and mostly for the better.
Where we, his brothers, had accepted that his serious side wasn’t the norm, Tessa demands it—constantly.
She commanded the man inside him to come forth to claim her and settles for nothing less.
Though still the same cocky motherfucker who uses charm to manipulate, he no longer acts out when he’s got an issue.
With his wife by his side, he deals with it—head-on.
Sean, being Sean, he’s still got his ways, locker-room gossip notwithstanding in his new permanency.
“Happy to get your gold star,” Sean prods, “but let’s not change the subject. I heard no denial, Clint, did you?”
“Did I say I was proud?” I roll my eyes. “Clint, open a door, but don’t stop the car.”
“Out with it,” Sean demands.
“If there has been fucking,” I draw out, “have I ever talked to you about details with the women I bed?”
“It’s a new year,” he counters dryly, reading me again. “Fine. But how are we, ya know?”
He taps his temple, but doesn’t have to.
“I’m not letting anything in,” I state broadly.
He nods, eyes still on me, making me sigh.