Page 127 of Tied to You
This location’s compromised until we can ensure we can protect it. We can’t dismiss the fact they know about it, which means that won’t come easy now. All the fucking effort that went in to getting it, Mollie getting involved, all of it… all of it could have been a waste of fucking time.
Moving like a zombie, I pull out my phone and try Dean. He doesn’t answer. I knew he wouldn’t. I can guess where he’s going though. Sucking in a breath, this night has gone from bad to fucking worse in a heartbeat. And there’s still more to come. I’m tired, bleeding, and a brother down. Things don’t get much bleaker than that. Except, they do. Because he was a brother with fucking kids and another on the way, two weeks away from getting out.
I curse under my breath. How the fuck am I going to tell Tanya?
Hearing the van doors open and watching Chopper’s body be carefully placed in the back, something snaps inside me. My spine straightens, andbefore I know what I’m doing, I’m heading to my battered bike, pulling out my phone. “Skitz, the drugs,” I point out, nodding my head to the tunnels as the phone rings.
He moves, doing as I order although I have no right to tell him what to do.
Rocco answers. “What happened?”
“Chopper’s dead. The tunnels are compromised.”
His breath is sharp. “Fuck,” he blasts. “And Dean?”
“Gone.” I sound like a robot.
“You need to find him,” he says, like I didn’t already know that.
“Where are you?” I ask flatly.
“Heading to you.”
“No need. We’re heading out.”
Skitz comes back with the drugs. At least they didn’t find them. I can’t even see that as a win. No one wins here. We’re all about to lose something.
“I’ll find Dean.”
“Clubhouse once you do.”
I don’t answer. I haven’t got the time. I know where Dean is going, but what needs doing is on me.
Letting Mop and Skitz know to meet us back at the clubhouse once they’re done, I ride out, racing to get to Sparky’s before Dean does.
Chapter Twenty-Six
MOLLIE
The front door bangs, stirring me from the light sleep I managed to slip into. One eye half open, I lean and tap the screen of my phone. It’s after two in the morning.
Another bang. This time, it makes me jump.
Throwing the covers back, I listen carefully before I stand, taking a breath as I go. I can hear Travis fumbling around in the kitchen. On steady feet, I tread lightly across the carpet, making my way to the door. I have on one of his t-shirts. My legs are bare. I can feel the cold of the dead of night, but my need to see him overshadows that.
When I open the door, orange light is coming from the open fridge. Travis stands at the sink, looking out of the window, his back turned to me.
I step closer, pausing when I catch the way the moon shines bright, lighting up his tired face. He looks broken. A lost cause. He sways on the spot, and all I can feel is his tension. It passes through the air between us, freezing me to the spot, oozing from every inch of him.
He tips his head back, taking a large swig of Vodka, not bothering to look at me when I eventually and slowly step closer. He knows I’m here though. I saw the way his body tensed when he felt me step beside him.
It sparks my curiosity to know what’s really troubling him. I carefully raise my hand to his shoulder, feeling the dampness first before noticing the blood staining his shirt. It’s then I see the hole through the top of his cut. “Oh my God.” My hands move fast, turning him to me as I step closer. “Have you been shot?” My voice is high. Urgent. I begin frantically unbuttoning his shirt, checking for more holes as I go. He can’t be shot. He can’t be hurt. How the hell did he get back here injured?
Blood stains his right shoulder and torso. Peeling back his shirt, he grimaces taking another swig of Vodka as I inspect him, my fingers gently running over his muscles.
“What happened?” I ask gently, my eyes still scouring every inch of him. I can’t see any more damage, but the area where he’s been hit looks painfully torn up. “Travis?” His silence makes me look at him, but I double take, dropping my hands, realising he’s watching me intently. His face is turned down. His eyebrows are knitted. He looks pained for a different reason.
My eyes jump between his. It’s the first time I’ve not immediately understood what he’s thinking. It’s unnerving; seeing his pain, his clear anguish, but not knowing why or what happened to make him this way.
