Chapter Eight
Swift
Britta was curled into the far corner of the couch like she had no business being anything but comfortable.
In Britta’s hand was one of those fancy coffees of hers. Not the sweet milk foam thing she’d tried to pass off on me the day before. This one looked darker, richer, still had some stupid little swirl on the top of it that I was pretty sure required effort no coffee should require.
Mine was in a plain black mug.
Black coffee. Just the way I liked it.
And somehow, the woman with the syrup collection and espresso shrine made the best damn black coffee I’d ever had. I didn’t know how.
I stood near the kitchen counter with the mug in my hand, watching the news without listening to it while watching Britta without making it obvious.
She looked better today.
Still tired and moving carefully, but better. There was more color in her face and more alertness in her eyes and life.
That should’ve made me feel better. Instead, it just made me aware that she’d start pushing harder now.
She was pushing to go back to work and soon probably pushing to be left alone.
And I wasn’t sure how much pushing I was going to let happen.
A knock hit the door. Three sharp raps.
Britta looked over at me from the couch, mug paused halfway to her mouth.
I set my coffee down on the counter and put my hand on the butt of my gun.
“Expecting anyone?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Nope. Tempi is my only friend, and she’s busy with the bar today.”
My whole body tightened. I moved to the door and looked through the peephole.
Tyson.
Of course, it was Tyson.
I let out a slow breath and unlocked the door, opening it just enough to glare at him first.
“Your brother always come over this much?” I asked over my shoulder. Then I looked back at Tyson. “Don’t you have a girlfriend or something, man?”
Tyson flipped me off immediately and stepped around me into the apartment like he paid rent there.
“Thought you could use a break from babysitting for the morning,” he said.
He headed straight into the kitchen, opened the fridge like he lived there too, and pulled out an energy drink.
“Go circle jerk with your biker buddies or something.”
“Tyson!” Britta snapped from the couch. “Who the hell peed in your Cheerios this morning?”
I couldn’t help it and a laugh slipped out.
This wasn’t the first time someone had been an ass because I was in a motorcycle club.
Wouldn’t be the last either. Most of the time, it came down to people assuming patched meant stupid or violent or both.
Usually from men who wished they had the balls to live any kind of life outside whatever boring box they’d locked themselves into.
Tyson cracked open the energy drink and took a long swallow before glaring in my direction again. “Ha,” he said flatly as he flipped me off one more time.
“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Britta asked.
Tyson shook his head and leaned against the kitchen island. “Got off a couple hours early,” he said. “Managed to fall asleep right away when I got home. I’m good until I need to head back tonight.”
Britta smiled. “Well, that’s great.” Then her eyes shifted to me. “Tyson and I could hang out for a bit if you have something you need to catch up on.”
I didn’t, not really. The only thing I needed to be doing was keeping an eye on Britta. That was it.
That was the whole list.
But I could check in with Twister and make sure the club wasn’t sitting on anything new.
Still… leaving her sat wrong in my chest.
Tyson flicked his fingers at me like he was shooing off a fly and sat down on the other end of the couch from Britta. “Take off, man,” he said. “I’ve been keeping an eye on Britta since she was born. We’re good.”
That part I believed.
Tyson annoyed the hell out of me, but he wasn’t stupid, and he’d tear the walls down with his bare hands if something happened to his sister.
“I’m just gonna check in with the club,” I said finally. “Shouldn’t be more than an hour.”
“Make it four,” Tyson said.
Britta rolled her eyes. “Ty.”
“Seriously, man,” Tyson went on. “We’re good. We’ll order a pizza and chill.”
I didn’t love the pizza part. Letting random delivery guys know the apartment number while Britta was inside wasn’t my favorite thought, but Tyson was here, and I was going to be just a five-minute ride from the clubhouse.
I grabbed the notepad off the kitchen counter and scribbled my number down, ripping the page off and handing it to Britta. “Call me if you need me. I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Sounds good,” she said.
“Later,” Tyson muttered.
I grabbed my keys and sunglasses from the counter, took one last look at Britta, and headed for the door.
Walking out of her apartment felt wrong. Like I was stepping away from something I shouldn’t leave unguarded, even for a little while.
The hallway outside was quiet. I hit the elevator button and waited, listening to the mechanical groan as it climbed.
My fingers drummed once against my thigh.
I didn’t like leaving her. Didn’t like how fast that feeling had taken root in me.
The elevator doors slid open. I stepped inside and hit the lobby button.
If something happened while I was gone…
No.
Tyson was there.
Britta was inside.
I could do one hour.
The doors opened on the ground floor, and I stepped out into the lobby, then through the front doors and into the morning light. State Street was already awake.
Students with backpacks and a woman pushing a stroller moved past me. Two guys in button-down shirts headed toward the parking garage.
The air had that late-spring warmth to it, not hot yet but close enough you knew summer was trying to shove its way in.
I slid my sunglasses on and headed toward my bike parked at the curb.
I started to swing my leg over and every instinct I had lit up at once.
No sound first.
No clear reason.
Just my gut dropping to my feet.
Time slowed and I turned my head. Down the street, a black SUV was rolling toward the building. Slow, smooth, and too deliberate.
My pulse punched once in my throat.
The rear passenger window started to roll down.
Everything after that happened fast and not fast at all.
The dark glass lowered, then a hand holding a gun appeared.
I dropped just as the first shot cracked through the air so loud it bounced off the buildings on both sides of the street. Concrete chipped near where my head had been a half-second earlier.
The second shot came as I hit the sidewalk, shoulder slamming hard enough into the pavement to jar my teeth.
People screamed.
I rolled, boots scraping, body moving before thought could catch up, and threw myself behind the nearest parked car.
Another shot shattered glass somewhere behind me.
A car alarm wailed and screams echoed.
Someone yelled, “Oh my God!”
My hand was already on my gun, but the SUV was moving, tires spitting as it surged down the street.
Cowards.
The engine roared, and the vehicle shot through the intersection before I could get a clean line on it. I pushed up from the ground, half-crouched, trying to catch the plates.
Nothing.
Just black paint, tinted windows, and the feeling of being a step too late.
“Fuck!” The word tore out of me as I came fully to my feet.
The street had gone feral.
People scattered in every direction. Some crouched behind benches and newspaper boxes. A woman had both hands over her mouth. A guy near the corner was already on his phone barking at someone that there’d been shots fired.
Good.
Call the cops.
Another person had theirs out too, talking fast, panicked.
I pulled my own phone from my pocket and called Twister. He answered on the first ring. “You calling me right after we hear gunshots is not good,” he growled.
“Yeah,” I said, scanning the street, my chest still heaving from the dive. “That’s because someone just tried to kill me. I’m in front of Britta’s apartment.”
There was a beat. “You all good?” Twister asked.
“Yeah.” No blood. No hit. Just adrenaline and a pounding skull.
“Good,” he said immediately. “We’re on the way.”
He hung up before I could say anything else.
I started to shove my phone back into my pocket when it rang again.
Unknown number.
For half a second, I almost ignored it, but then I answered.
“Are you okay?!” Britta cried. Panic tore through every syllable.
I looked up at the building to the third floor.
I knew which window was hers, and there she was, phone pressed to her ear, looking down at the street. Even from here, I could see the tension in her body.
“Yeah,” I said, pitching my voice calmer than I felt. “You’re still the only one who’s been shot, sugar.”
“Someone tried to kill you, Swift.”
“Yeah,” I drawled. “I was there.”
It got a breathless, angry sound out of her that almost felt like relief. “I’m coming down,” she said.
“No.” It came out sharp enough that the woman nearest me flinched. I dropped my voice. “Stay in the apartment with Tyson. Do not come down here.”
“But—”
“Just listen to me, Britta,” I cut in. “It’s not safe for you outside the apartment.”
She went quiet. The kind of quiet that meant she was arguing with me in her head and hated that I was right.
Then she sighed, but she didn’t fight me.
Good.
“The club’s headed my way,” I said. “And the cops are coming.”
As if to prove the point, sirens started wailing in the distance, getting louder by the second.
Closer.
“Be careful, Swift,” she said softly.
“Always, sugar.” I ended the call and shoved the phone in my pocket.
This was not how I had expected the day to go, but I was coming to find that ever since we moved to Madison, nothing went to plan.