said, clapping a hand on his shoulder, even if the last thing in the world I wanted to do was touch and show respect for the man tasked with tearing apart my entire operation if he saw a single crack in the foundations. "Have a drink for me, yeah? I need to go take a shower."
Because I could still smell Fallon on me.
It was likely pure paranoia, but I couldn't shake it.
So a cold shower was in my future.
To cool off my still white-hot desire for the last man on Earth I should have had anything to do with.
But it would also be bracing, something that would help me get through the conversation I was going to need to have with Chewy, explaining all the new developments the club had since he'd left.
I was hoping to take just a long enough shower for Chewy to get more than a few celebratory drinks in his system first. He was a lot more tolerable when he was drunk. And, bonus points, he would be a lot less likely to remember all the details, or to give me shit about not calling him to inform him while he was away.
Once that was all squared away, though, the club went back to normal. Or, at least, somewhat normal. We were on higher alert, but otherwise things were status quo.
Until word got back to us that the Henchmen had been ambushed on a run.
I'd like to lie and say that I'd only had a passing concern about the situation, wondering if it might happen to us as well the next time we had a drop to do.
But that wasn't true.
There had been panic—pure, undiluted panic—flooding my system at the news, making my heart feel like it was in some sort of vice grip, like there was a boulder on my chest, making it impossible to breathe.
Was Fallon on that run?
I shouldn't have cared.
It shouldn't have mattered.
We were only fucking.
That was it.
Hell, we weren't even going to continue fucking.
That was the decision I'd come to since the diner. It had to end. Three times was more than enough. We were only risking exposure if we let it happen again. We'd both clearly just needed the release. We'd gotten it. It was time to move on.
It was the only way.
Even if there was a dull ache in my core at the realization.
But it was my decision.
It was over with Fallon.
But the idea of something happening to him? Christ, there was a visceral reaction. A tightening in my stomach, a twisting in my chest. I could barely think past it as my men casually made jokes about it.
"Are you fucking serious right now?" I snapped, voice low, seething. "You're cracking jokes about this? When this is likely the same threat that is coming for our club? You think that's funny? That we could be next? I know there might not be any love lost with us and that club, but even we have to admit that they have a tight operation, that they know what they're doing. So if it can happen to them, it can damn sure happen to us. But, sure, go ahead, toast to their misfortune like it might not very well be you in a hospital bed or body bag the next time."
I didn't yell at my club often. You never wanted to run the risk of them calling you "emotional" or "hysterical" or ponder aloud if it was your time of the month that is making you such a bitch.
But because it was rare, when it happened, it seemed to have a little more impact. Drinks stopped pouring, laughs silenced, and my men all started staring off at the walls, thinking about the possibility in their near future.
I meant what I'd said.
If it could happen to the Henchmen, it could damn sure happen to us.
"That didn't do much to help morale," Chewy said, following me into the kitchen.
"Yeah, well, this isn't a fucking group therapy class," I said, taking a deep breath, trying to resist reaching for my phone, and texting Fallon. "They've barely been taking this threat seriously."
"Maybe because it isn't serious."
"Says a man who wasn't very nearly gunned down twice in the past few weeks," I hissed, turning on him. "They need to start taking this seriously. If I need to be a bitch about it, so be it. They don't need me taking shots and joking with them. They need me to keep them safe and out of graves."
"Alright, alright,"