Chapter Sixteen
Gypsy’s jawclenched as he exhaled through his nose. His fingers twitched at his sides, itching for a cigarette, a drink—something to take the edge off. But he had bigger problems than his vices.
“We need to get to it,” he ground out. “This situation they got into earlier—it needs to be handled in a way so that the message we send is loud and clear.” His voice was tight, controlled, but the rage coiled beneath it, sharp and seething. He wasn’t just pissed at Quinn—he was pissed at himself.
Cruise, ever the one to push when it hurt, leaned against his bike, arms crossed. “I told you to talk to her.”
Gypsy slowly turned to glare at him. “Yes, Cruise, you did,” he admitted. “You also said I couldn’t fuck my wife twenty-four seven.” His knuckles popped as he clenched his fists, the need to break something growing like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
“I fucked up. But that isn’t why they got into this shit.”
“Then what did? As I see it, if you had spoken to Quinn, she wouldn’t have been on this weekend getaway.”
“She was already threatening to leave for the weekend.” Gypsy flexed his fists. “I’ve been busy with the business and the club. It’s left little time for her and the kids,” he told Cruise honestly.
Cruise tracked the movement, his gaze knowing. He could see the violence simmering just beneath the surface. Someone—hell, maybe multiple someone’s—were about to have a really bad night. “You can fix things when you get home. Right now, we deal with the support club. We figure out if we’re staying or rolling out.”
Gypsy didn’t argue. There was no point. He was locked in now. He turned on his heel and stalked toward the clubhouse, only to see Tailor walking toward him.
“Where are the assholes I’m supposed to handle?” Tailor’s voice was all business, his expression unreadable as he waved them on.
Gypsy muttered a curse under his breath. This was not how he thought the weekend would go.
“Gypsy.”
He turned, locking eyes with Wrench. Dark gray, unreadable, yet full of something that almost passed for concern.
“You need something?” Gypsy asked, his tone flat.
“Let me take care of this for you,” Wrench said, his voice low but firm.
Gypsy tilted his head, lips pressing into a tight line. “Not long ago, you told me to get my hands dirty. This is me getting them dirty.” His words carried more bite than he’d intended, but he didn’t walk them back.
“I think what I said was you needed to get your hands bloody.” Wrench exhaled through his nose, stepping back seeing the look on Gypsy face. “I’ll be on your six with Tabor.”
Gypsy gave a curt nod, his attention already shifting forward. But before he could take another step?—
“Gypsy.”
He turned again, patience wearing thin, eyes locking on Tool.
“What?”
“I get that you need to handle this as Prez,” Tool started, his voice edged with something deeper. “But I want the fucker that put his hands on Brandi.”
Gypsy’s nostrils flared. “Are you stepping up as her old man, or just playing fucking hero?” He was sick of this shit—his brothers getting caught up, making mistakes that cost them, dragging his home life into the chaos.
Tool swallowed hard, but his voice didn’t waver. “She’s mine. Always has been.”
“Say the words I want to hear.”
“Brandi’s my ol’ lady.”
Gypsy’s gaze stayed on him, searching, weighing. “She aware of that fact?”
“I’ll handle her when we get back.”
“No. You’ve got five minutes. Handle it now, or you can roll back to fucking Lampsing alone.”
