Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
The roar of bikes filled the night air as Gypsy watched his brothers ready to ride. Bad fucking night. Bad fucking timing. Tabor had already called Annie to watch the kids, which told Gypsy everything—this wasn’t just a quick cleanup. This was going to get bloody.
Had Quinn really thought it would just be him coming?
He almost laughed out loud at the thought. Tailor may have had the situation under control, but that didn’t mean everything was fine.
“I think Tailor wants to talk to you,” Quinn’s voice came through the phone, barely cutting through the roaring in Gypsy’s head. “He’s asking for my phone.”
“Give it to him.”
Gypsy barely heard her response. His hand clenched around the throttle, muscles coiled, the need to do something crawling under his skin.
Quinn handed her phone over to the towering biker as Brandi was led back to her. She pulled the redhead into a tight hug, feeling how much she was shaking.
"Do NOT ever do that again."
Brandi barely nodded, her voice cracking. “Layla…”
Quinn clenched her jaw, tucking Brandy closer. “Layla is hotheaded and gets herself into shit every damn day.”
Speaking of her pain-in-the-ass sister…
Quinn’s gaze swept the bar and found Layla at the counter, tossing back whiskey, giggling, and flirting with some guy like nothing had just happened.
Unbelievable.
Anger surged so fast, Quinn saw red. She hadn’t learned a damn thing.
Brandi’s voice, soft but steady, pulled her attention back. “You saw what he was about to do to me. Would you have been able to watch your sister be treated like that?”
Quinn’s throat tightened. She didn’t answer right away.
“Not any more than I wanted to watch you be treated like that,” she admitted finally.
Brandi swallowed. “You called Gypsy instead of the cops?”
“Yes. Why?”
Brandi sighed, looking away. “I’m afraid you’re gonna find out when we get home.”
Before Quinn could ask what the hell that meant, a deep voice interrupted. She turned to see Tailor holding out her phone. The man might’ve come at Gypsy’s request, but Quinn knew what kind of power moves were at play.
Gypsy would owe for this favor.
Taking the phone, she kept her eyes on Tailor as he stepped a few feet away. “Hello?”
Gypsy’s voice was sharp. "Tailor and his boys are going to get you ladies back to your hotel."
She exhaled. “Are you leaving now?”
“Yes,” he said. But his tone changed, tightening. “And Quinn, when I get there, we’re having a serious conversation. One that’s overdue.”
She hesitated, the weight of everything suddenly heavier. “I think we should,” she said quietly. Then, with more force, “You may not like what I have to say, Nicolea.”
The name hit him like a hammer. She never called him that. Not even in front of his parents. It was always babe or Gypsy.
Gypsy barely breathed as they hung up, the weight of her words sitting heavy in his chest. A million things ran through his head, a thousand worst-case scenarios, a hundred reasons why Quinn would want to leave him.
Cruise had told him once; You can’t fuck your wife twenty-four seven and expect that to be enough.
Had he built their marriage around one thing? Had he assumed the sex, the passion, the fire between them was enough to hold her to him?
Did she love him? Or did she just love what they had?
Gypsy closed his eyes.
Tabor passed him, clapping him on the shoulder. “Gypsy, you ready to go?”
Gypsy let out a slow breath. "Fuck, let’s go."
He walked to his bike, the familiar weight of his cut hanging off the handlebars.
For months, he’d been trying to change the club, soften their image, play the part of the polished businessman during the day. But the truth was clear now. He was the fraud.
This—his club, his men, his life—this was who he really was. Gypsy slipped his cut back on, the leather settling over his shoulders like armor. The sophisticated businessman was a lie.
He straddled his sled, firing up the engine. The pipes roared like thunder in the enclosed space, shaking the walls.
Gypsy had no idea just how bad things would get once they got the full story from the girls. But he knew one thing for damn sure—Tool was already looking for a fight. And when Tool wanted blood, things got messy.
Brandi wasn’t his ol’ lady, but that didn’t mean she was just some club girl. Tool had sworn to protect her, and everyone knew it. So why the fuck hadn’t he claimed her? No one knew what was holding him back, but maybe after tonight, he’d finally figure his shit out.
And then there was Layla.
Gypsy cursed under his breath, his grip tightening on the throttle. He’d known the second she rolled into town that she was gonna be a pain in his ass. The girl couldn’t stay out of trouble for a single fucking day.
Maybe what she needed was a firm hand on that reckless ass of hers. Maybe then she’d finally learn.
His men were lined up behind him, eighteen strong, waiting for the signal. Every single brother had chosen to ride tonight. Not just for the women. Not just for revenge. For him.
Gypsy lifted his hand, signaling the roll-out. The moment they hit the road, his head cleared. Someone was going to pay for this shit.
And Gypsy was done playing nice.
After hanging up with Gypsy, Quinn had one of Tailor’s men drag her troublemaking sister out of the restaurant. She’d thanked him more than once and even tried sending him and his brothers on their way, but the man had only smiled at her.
Instead of leaving, he’d stationed his men all over the B&B, covering every entrance and exit. No one was getting near their rooms—not tonight.
Layla was passed out on the bed, one leg hanging off the edge. Every time Quinn walked past, she kicked Layla’s foot just hard enough to jolt her. She hoped the damn thing hurt like hell when she finally woke up.
Maybe next time, she’d think twice before pulling the kind of reckless, selfish bullshit she did tonight. Quinn dropped onto her bed, staring up at the ceiling. How much longer before Gypsy got here?
And then she heard it. The sound of thunder.
She sat up, heart leaping, eyes snapping to her sister, who was still drooling into the bedspread. “I should’ve gotten my own damn room like the other girls.”
Jumping to her feet, she ran to the window, searching for headlights pulling into the lot. Disappointment hit fast and hard. Lightning cracked across the sky.
“Great,” she muttered, pushing away from the window. If they were about to be stuck inside all weekend while the weather turned to shit, she sure as hell wasn’t doing it with Layla bitching the whole time.
Quinn started repacking her suitcase. She wasn’t staying at the winery.
She’d toss her bag in the car and ride back with Gypsy. Layla could figure her own damn shit out. If she had to, Gypsy could leave someone behind to deal with her. But that someone sure as hell wasn’t going to be Quinn.
A sharp knock at the door made her freeze. An uneasy feeling slithered down her spine.
How well did Gypsy really know Tailor and his men? Were they like the Gypsy Kings or more like those Bone-whatever assholes from the pub?
Halfway to the door, she remembered the 9mm Gypsy had given her. Backtracking, she retrieved it from her bag, the cold steel heavy in her grip. Straightening her shoulders, she reminded herself who the hell she was.
She wasn’t some scared little girl. She was the wife of a club president. Time to act like it.
Keeping the chain on the door, she eased it open, the gun hanging loosely at her side. Three men stood in the dim hallway. Tailor and two others.
“Something wrong?” she asked, voice steady.
“No,” Tailor said smoothly. “Wanted to introduce you to these guys.” He gestured to the men behind him. “This is Trick and Pierce. They’ll be posted on this floor, making sure you’re secured.”
Quinn narrowed her eyes. “You make it sound like I can’t leave my room.”
Tailor stepped in closer, his dark gaze locking onto hers. His voice dropped. “I’d suggest you stay put until your husband arrives.”
Quinn clenched her jaw, the weight of the gun solid in her grip.
Tailor’s eyes flicked down. A slow smirk spread across his face. “Might wanna take the safety off, doll.”
Quinn slammed the door in his face. Laughter echoed from the hallway. She muttered under her breath, “Assholes. Every damn one of them.”