“Jesus.” Wyatt rolls his eyes. “I had just gotten back from a six week weapons run to El Salvador. Halfway through, a rig blew its clutch before a checkpoint went hot and I patched it dirty, pushed the convoy through a farm road, and saved the load and the payday. Manning made a show of it when I got back. Big party, shoved a wad of cash in my hand, told me I’d earned his trust. Put me over transport runs and at the officers’ table. Finally, I was inside.” He tilts his head toward me, the faintest smile ghosting across his mouth. “Here I am on my most successful day of assimilation, wearing the vest, acting the part…and I seeher. Heart attack is right. I couldn’t fucking breathe. No clue how she could be there.” He exhales, a rough sound thattugs at his ribs. “And she wasn’t exactly in safe hands when I found her. Let’s just say I made sure that changed.”
Ryder’s gaze flicks between us. He says nothing, but something sharp flickers in his eyes before he looks away.
I’d been half-dressed and out of my mind on drugs when I realized that the tall man in the O.D. cut was Wyatt. He doesn’t mention that part, and I notice the omission. The little actions he takes to protect me.
“I tore apart that post on the bounty board. The one with your picture,” Jake tells me. The edge of coolness in his voice has lessened. I’m almost surprised that he’s talking to me. “Traced the wallet but it dead-ended in Belize. Looked like a cartel logistics outfit at first. When you disappeared, it lined up with a money surge through one of the shell companies.”
I nod, like this means something to me. The truth is I’m having trouble following the half of what they’re saying.
“We were chasing the suits pulling the strings, not the bikers running the errands,” Damian explains, as if he can see my confusion.
Ryder shifts forward. “We still have lots of ground to cover, more notes to compare. We’ve got at least one casualty to account for. But for now, we should figure out sleeping arrangements.”
“Casualty was Silas Blackwell,” says Wyatt, darting a look my way. “Club VP.”
Damian whistles low. “That’ll shake a tree.”
My eyes lock on Ryder’s hands. I remember the way one braced around Silas’s temple, the quick and brutal way it twisted. The unnatural angle of his head. The snap.
But Ryder only shakes his head, unaffected. “Couldn’t be avoided.” Zero regrets. Like he’d do it again if he had to.
Jake stands, rubbing the back of his neck. “Looks like we have a shortage of beds.”
“Yep,” says Ryder. “There’s only one. Wyatt gets it.”
Wyatt starts to protest, but Jake cuts in. “Hundred percent. This guy’s been sitting upright trying to breathe through a patched-up lung all day. No question he gets the bed.”
“I’m fine on the floor,” Ryder says.
“Same,” says Damian.
“Me too,” adds Jake.
“Max gets the couch,” Ryder decides.
It falls on me to point out the obvious. “There’s not enough bedding for all of us.” I point to the bedroom. “There are only two pillows and one blanket.”
“The couch is a pull-out,” Wyatt informs us. “And I don’t need the blanket.”
Ryder shoots him a look. “You’re not making any sacrifices tonight, brother.”
He starts counting off on his fingers, trying to sound decisive. “Wyatt in the bed, Max on the couch, Jake on the recliner. Damian and I can take the floor.”
“I’ve been sitting up all day,” says Jake, “I’d rather sleep stretched out on the floor. Boss, you take the chair.”
“This is ridiculous,” I cut in. “We can fit three on the couch. Why would anyone sleep on the floor?”
Ryder’s brow furrows. “Okay,” he says with finality. “Damian in the recliner. Me, Max and Jake on the pull-out.”
We move. Wyatt shuffles toward the bedroom while Ryder and Jake take the cushions off the couch and pull out the mattress.
I follow Wyatt into the bedroom, closing the door most of the way behind me. The sound of the others moving around fades in the hush of the room. He sits carefully on the edge of the bed, one hand covering his ribs, the effort of the day written across every line of his body.
For a moment I just stand there, unsure, and he looks up at me, catching my hesitation and smiling. “Missed you, kiddo,” he rasps, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“I was worried I’d lost you,” I whisper. “For good.”
Wyatt’s smile turns sad, and he turns, swinging his feet up onto the bed, and moving over toward the wall. He pats the space beside him. I scramble up, and he leans back against the headboard with a shallow breath.
