Chapter Five #2
I glanced at him over my shoulder.
“There a reason why you didn’t tell me you were coming back here?” he asked.
“Because you think I should still be at Mom’s,” I said with a snort. “I’m too old to argue with you about where I should be. It’s easier to just do what I want and deal with your grumpy ass later.”
Tyson grunted. “Sorry for being grumpy, but my sister did get shot a week ago.”
“I know,” I said dryly. “I was there.”
That got a half-second twitch at the corner of Swift’s mouth.
I poured his black coffee into one of my less exciting mugs and handed it over. Then I picked up the latte-that-was-supposed-to-be-his-and-now-belonged-to-me and leaned against the counter while I took a sip.
Tyson watched the exchange with narrowed eyes. “Didn’t make me a coffee?” he asked.
I scoffed. “No. Because you don’t like coffee, and I didn’t know you were coming over.”
He looked offended. “I like coffee.”
“You like gas station sludge with too much sugar in it,” I corrected. “That’s not the same thing.”
His eyes slid back to Swift as he took a sip of the coffee I made him, and I knew exactly what Tyson was thinking.
He was struggling.
Not just with me getting shot.
But with the fact that he hadn’t been there.
Swift had.
The club had.
And now Swift was the one standing in my kitchen, acting like he belonged there.
Tyson hated that. I understood it. Didn’t mean I was going to rearrange my life to soothe his feelings, though.
“Since you’re home now,” Tyson said, finally dragging his attention off Swift long enough to speak to me, “I can keep an eye on you.”
“Yeah?” Swift cut in before I could answer. His tone wasn’t aggressive. Not exactly. Just firm. “Are you able to be here with her twenty-four-seven?”
Tyson’s jaw shifted.
I already knew the answer.
He couldn’t.
He had work. A life. Responsibilities.
He couldn’t sit in my apartment around the clock like some giant, grumpy watchdog.
“When I’m not working,” Tyson said, “I can be here.”
Swift chuckled. That low, unimpressed sound did not help the temperature in the room. “That won’t be good enough.”
Tyson’s head snapped toward him. “And the reason why it’s not good enough is because of your club. You guys are the ones to blame for all of this.”
Swift nodded once. “Yeah,” he said. “We are. Which is why I’ll be the one to make sure she’s protected. You don’t need to worry about it.”
Oh, that was not the right thing to say to my brother.
Tyson’s shoulders went tight and his eyes sharpened.
And before the two of them could turn my kitchen into a testosterone convention, I jumped in. “I’ll be fine, Tyson.”
Tyson didn’t look convinced.
“I have vacation and sick time I can take,” he said.
I shook my head hard enough that my shoulder reminded me to stop doing that. “You are not going to use your vacation time to just sit in the apartment with me, Ty. I will be fine with Swift, and I should be back to work once I get the stitches out.”
Swift glanced at me.
Just once.
But I saw it.
He did not like that. At all.
Joke was going to be on him, though, because there was no way in hell I was sitting around for much longer. Another few days of this and I was going to start climbing the walls.
I needed purpose.
Movement.
Something.
“You’re not going back to work at the bar,” Tyson said flatly.
I rolled my eyes. “It’s really cute when you act like you can tell me what to do.”
“That place was torched and you were shot there, Britta. You really think you should be going back to work there?” Tyson demanded.
“It’s my job, Tyson, and Tempi needs me. So, yeah, I am going back to work there.” I took a sip of my latte. “The police are going to find the guy who shot me, and then this will be all over.”
Beside me, Swift shifted.
Not a lot, but enough.
Tyson saw it too.
“You really think the cops are going to find the guy who did this?” Tyson asked. The way he said it made the room go quieter. Colder.
I lowered my mug slowly.
“The Saint’s Outlaws pissed off the bigwigs of this town,” Tyson said. “And they’re going to pay for it.”
Swift tipped his head slightly. “How do you know that?”
Tyson barked out a dry laugh. “Because I’m not a fucking idiot.” Then he nodded toward me. “And neither is Britta. You guys pissed off someone.”
My stomach tightened.
There it was.
The thing I’d been thinking but hadn’t wanted to say out loud, because once it was said out loud, it got real in a whole different way.
Swift didn’t react much. That was his thing. He kept everything close, but I could practically hear his brain filing every word away.
“Any idea who that might be?” he asked.
Tyson snorted. “I’ve got about five people it could be, but I’m not about to get in the middle of it.”
Swift nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure.”
Something told me every single thing Tyson had just said was already on its way into some mental folder Swift would be handing off to Twister later.
Jesus.
That was exactly what I didn’t want.
Tyson did not need to get mixed up in any of this more than he already was. It was bad enough that I was.
Tyson smothered a yawn with the back of his hand, and I pounced on it immediately.
“You should go get some sleep.”
“I’m fine,” he argued.
“You literally just got off shift, Tyson. You need to sleep.”
He shrugged like lack of sleep was a personality trait. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I set down my mug, held out my good arm, and did a very slow, very unimpressive little turn. “I am more than fine,” I said. “So you should get your butt in bed so you’re not dragging ass at work tonight.”
Tyson’s eyes slid to Swift again.
And there it was.
The real problem.
Not me.
Not the apartment.
Swift.
“I’ve got her, man,” Swift said evenly. “Nothing is going to happen to her.”
“Yeah, right,” Tyson grunted, but he stood.
Which, honestly, was a miracle.
He walked over to me and wrapped me in a careful, brotherly hug, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Be careful, sis,” he muttered. “And call me if you need anything.”
“Will do,” I lied.
Tyson pulled back, glanced once at Swift with all the warmth of a tax audit, and then headed for the door.
He didn’t say another word on his way out. The door clicked shut behind him.
I waited two whole seconds while grabbing my coffee before saying, in the driest tone I could manage, “I really think he’s starting to warm up to you.”
Swift nodded and took a sip of his coffee. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Totally.”
That did it.
I sputtered with laughter, almost sloshing my latte down the front of my shirt.
Swift let out a chuckle of his own, and the sound of it, rough, low, real, did a stupid little somersault in my chest.
I sighed and rolled my head carefully. “Is it crazy that I’m already tired?” I asked.
Swift shook his head. “Not at all. You had a big day yesterday, and you’re still healing.”
I sighed again, hating how true that was. “Maybe I can take a little nappy nap.”
He nodded toward the hallway. “Sounds like a solid plan to me.”
Of course it did. If I was passed out in bed, it made his whole protective mission easier.
“You know soon I’ll be raring and ready to go, right?” I asked.
A little smile crossed his lips. Not big. Just enough to catch. “I look forward to it, sugar.”
God.
That man’s limited use of words had a way of sticking.
I set my coffee cup down on the counter and pushed away from it. “Don’t have too much fun while I’m sleeping,” I called over my shoulder as I headed down the hallway.
Behind me, I heard his low chuckle. “I’ll try to keep the fun to a minimum.”
I made it to my bedroom and promptly collapsed onto the bed like a Victorian woman with a delicate constitution.
Carefully, though, because… bullet wound.
I pulled the blanket up over myself, shifting until I found a position my shoulder didn’t hate.
The apartment was quiet again.
And somewhere out in the other room was a gruff biker drinking plain black coffee like a man with no imagination and guarding my front door like it was the entrance to Fort Knox.
My eyes drifted shut, and before I could even think another thought, I was out.