Page 18 of Come Back To Me

“Vincent knows we know their routines; the days they have shipments and run our county lines. Rippers will be top of his shit list now, given he knew of our doubts going into this new deal. But at least we got a call,” I say.

“Phone call or not, I’d bet my left nut-sack he thinks it’s us,” Beats blurts out. “You meet him face to face he’ll kill you on a hunch.”

I hear Travis huff and rub his big head with his palm. Vincent can’t kill me on a hunch. Shit doesn’t work like that.

“Or it’s a trick; a ploy to set us up as the bad guys,” Skitz comments subtly.

“We’re all bad guys,” Mop says.

He isn’t wrong. “Could be a ploy. Or what’s more likely, is that it’s real and was made by someone neither us nor the Saviours know,” Travis says.

“How can you be so sure it’s real? It was a box of plastic fucking guns,” Beats points out on a sarcastic laugh. “Could just be some little shits pissing about.”

I spy a £20 note poking out the top of his pocket on his cut. He won back the cash he lost in poker, now he’s rubbing it in Len’s face.

“Vincent didn’t spare us many words, but they sure as shit seem to think it’s real,” Travis replies.

I consider Travis’ comment. “The timing and contents can’t be a coincidence either.”

Skitz snorts into his beer.

“You think it’s fake?” Travis asks, swinging his head to him.

My eyes are dancing between the two of them.

“You’re fucking right I do.” Skitz’s eyes widen, and he takes a quick sip of his beer. “What’s to say they didn’t plant itthemselves, to lure us into thinking there’s danger or some shit?”

“Then what?” Travis asks, turning his palms to the ceiling briefly and hunching his shoulders.

Skitz rubs the back of his neck. “Then wipe us out! Snatch the deal we’re about to make for themselves, take all of our turf and run the entire north of England.”

“Why now though? Why not last week, or a month ago? Don’t make no sense waiting this long to then fuck us over.”

“Makes perfect sense to me,” Skitz fires back.

“And me,” Dennis adds.

“Me three,” Legs pipes up.

I look at him and frown at the long-legged bastard.

“Take the advice on your shitty t-shirt, Legs,” Travis points down, “and shut the fuck up.” He’s getting pissed off with the tempers starting to fray in the room. The poor choice of Legs’ clothing isn’t helping.

I take a breath, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“Dean?” Mop says. His calm voice makes me open my eyes. My men are all looking at me, waiting for me to speak.

I look at them all in turn.

Each one of them came here when we called. It doesn’t matter the hour, if the boys are told to get to the clubhouse, they drop what they’re doing.

Travis, Beats and Riggs sit to my right. Travis is still shaking his head at Legs, who isn’t cowering, but has settled back into his chair in between The Joker and Mop. Both of them are cool and collected; ruthless as fuck when needed though. Captain is deciding who to look at sat opposite Travis, and next to him sits Len, Dennis and Skitz, our three oldest members.

We’re a sight for sore eyes, but we’re family. An extension of one another. “Real or not, it means a sit down with Vincent is needed.” I speak matter-of-factly, my voice calm.

“Last time you two ended up going a couple of rounds, yousure you want that again?” Travis asks.

I quickly smirk remembering when we first fleshed out all the ways in which this understanding would work.

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