Shit!
Double shit.
Something in me told me that wasn’t right. These guys weren’t like Trip or Luther, or the other people I’d watched while at Mayhem. These guys weren’t a part of Sonny’s club.
So I did what any somewhat intelligent woman that’s watched too many movies did—I hauled my ass out of the car, kept my focus on the door, slid my three keys between my knuckles for protection Wolverine style, and slammed the door shut the first nanosecond I was in.
And then I shrieked, “Sonny!”
~ * ~ *
“You’re sure?”
I glared at the dark haired man across the table and nodded slowly. We were sitting at the dining room table while I scarfed down toast and a warm glass of milk before bed. This was normal behavior.
If only there weren't creepy ass bikers down the street.
And if only Sonny didn't currently look like he was fighting every cell in his body to unleash something ugly that was residing beneath his light brown eyes.
“They’re the same guys.” I bit into my toast. “I recognize them from when I left the bar that night, and I swear they drove down the street a couple weeks ago looking over here in a weird way. They have jackets instead of vests, and there's a big bald guy that looks familiar.”
His attention was focused on the wall while his hands propped up his chin. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
My question was calm. “What is it?”
His eyes stayed on the wall.
All right, he wasn’t going to tell me that either, so I was going to plan B.
I reached out to touch his hand, trying so hard not to let the tiny nip of fear in my gut swallow me whole. "Sonny, did you do something?"
He slammed his eyes shut and grunted. His hands fisted into tight balls on the table as he blew out a long breath.
"If something happened, I'll help you," I promised him. Because I would. There wasn't much I wouldn't do for him, and that included letting him use me as an alibi if he'd done something awful.
Sonny's fingers uncurled just enough to wrap around my elbow, squeezing just lightly. "I didn't do anything, Rissy."
Jesus F. Christ. He called me Rissy. He only called me Rissy when he had bad news to tell me.
"What is it?"
He groaned, earning him a poke in the rib.
“Are they like your… arch enemies or something?” I asked him quietly, setting the bread back onto the plate. I probably sounded like an idiot with that terminology, but I didn’t know his biker lingo, and I thought that description worked well enough when his cheek quirked up for a split second before his lips hardened.
He leaned back in his chair, clenching his eyes closed. “Kind of but it's not like that.” He paused. "They're part of a group of wannabes in San Antonio that aren't exactly fans of the MC's territory here."
Oh my God, I was living in a real-life television series.
I blinked at him, confused as hell. “I thought you said you guys weren't doing stuff anymore.” I pushed the plate away, leaning toward him.
He was going to tell me the truth, damn it. My mom had told me that back when my dad had left the MC, they'd been associating with drug distributors, whatever the hell that meant. I could clearly remember Sonny telling me that president, Luther's old nutted self that'd been making out with a much younger woman at the bar, had split the club up, cleaning it out after his wife had gotten murdered in retaliation.
He dropped his gaze down to press his forehead to one of his upturned palms, closing his eyes in the process. “It's nothing like that, Ris,” he promised. "It's not me or the Club they have business with."
That little bit of information was better than nothing, but it didn't mean I wasn't going to fish for more. “Okay, so why are they here?"
“I’m sorry, kid, but I can't drag you into this, okay?” he murmured, still looking down. “Don’t worry about them, all right?”
