Fallon by Jessica Gadziala

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Nine

Danny

 

 

 

 

"Well, finally," I said, getting home after the diner, still feeling a little buzzy physically, and confused mentally by the interaction with Fallon.

Chewy, my Vice President, was finally back from our mother chapter, five days later than he'd told me he would be rolling into town.

"Well, you know how your old man can be," Chewy said, shrugging one of his big shoulders.

Chewy was in his early forties with a large frame that was both fit and also heavyset. A bear, if you will. He had a head full of long, unruly copper-red hair that he left free around his shoulders. His beard matched his hair, but he tended to keep it in this somewhat ridiculous, scraggly braid.

He was right.

I did know how my father could be.

Which meant Chewy probably spent the extra days giving my father a blow-by-blow of every single move I had made with my club since moving into Navesink Bank.

Neither of the two men were apt to give me a single millimeter of slack.

See, Chewy had been the only member of my club that I hadn't picked or approvedof myself. He'd been my father's one concession. He got to pick my VP. So he got to have a spy inside my club. Because he didn't trust me. Because some sadistic part of him was rooting for me to fail. And he wanted all the gory details if or when it happened.

"Glad you got back alright," I 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," Chewy said, holding up his hands. "I get it. It was just a little, you know, shrill."

Shrill.

Shrill.

Oh, if the bastard didn't have my father's favor, which made him damn near untouchable, I would have sent him packing a long time ago.

"As always, Chewy, it's been a fucking pleasure," I hissed, pushing past him.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Aren't you the one bitching about danger?" he shot back.

"I'm sure you'd pretend to be sad for five minutes before taking over my position if I got killed," I snapped, making my way out of the clubhouse, then onto my bike, taking off until I was just far enough away to not be seen, then reaching for my phone.

Nothing.

No word.

With a knot in my stomach, I shot off a text with a simple question mark, not wanting to have anything suspicious in case someone else had his phone.

Then I waited, feeling sicker and sicker to my stomach as there was no response.

There was nothing else I could do.

I couldn't exactly show up at their clubhouse and ask if Fallon was okay.

And no one would ever think to tell me if something happened to him.

And it shouldn't have fucking mattered if something had happened to him.

But it did.

It mattered.

Because, despite absolutely everything about it being a terrible idea, he was starting to matter.

It was reckless.

Dangerous.

Stupid.

But there was no denying it either.

I was catching feelings for the president of a rival MC.

And I had no fucking idea if he was alive or dead.