17. Teysha

17

TEYSHA

It only takes a second.

One second, I'm unable to contain my excitement. I'm so grateful for Logan treating me to a trip to the bookstore, my cheeks hurt from smiling. I'm waiting for the second we step away from the checkout counter so I can throw my arms around him in a hug and press my lips to his cheek for a kiss.

Then another second passes by, and the door's dinging open. Logan's glancing over his shoulder. He grabs me and wrenches me to the ground at the same time the snap of gunfire goes off.

I land on my side, colliding into the ground hard. Pain vibrates through my elbow, the air knocked out of my lungs. I'm left crumpled on the ground as chaos ensues. Logan's drawn his handgun—I didn't even realize he was carrying—and he's fired back at the man.

The front windows shatter and glass sprays everywhere.

Several books fly off shelves. The clerk behind the counter screams, then cowers under the register. The man who's shot at us dives for cover. Logan lands a shot in his chest before he can.

It's only after the gunfire ends and the dust settles that I realize it hasn't even been a minute. All the commotion happened in under thirty seconds. Thirty seconds was all it took to turn our simple morning date to a bookstore upside down.

Logan keeps his gun pointed as he steps toward the man. He's sprawled out on the floor, no longer able to sit up.

The store clerk warbles out something about calling 911. Though, judging from the vague sirens whirring in the background, I'd say somebody else in the shopping mall has already done so. They must've heard the gunshots ring out and called in the moment.

"You follow me from the other day? Who d'you work for, you piece of shit?" Logan asks the man. He punches him in the face when he doesn't answer, then grabs him by the front of his shirt.

The man's eyes hang halfway open, his lips moving soundlessly. His bullet wound resembles a bloodied crater in his chest. He's seconds away from dying.

"Useless fucking garbage." Logan digs around in the man's pocket, retrieving his phone and wallet to check his identification. Then he's turning toward me to pull me onto my feet. "You alright?"

I'm dazed, my blinks quick and fluttery. "Yes… I'm okay… I think…"

"Your elbow's banged up."

"It's okay… really…"

"We'll get it checked out."

The cavalry arrives a minute later. The bookstore goes from a hazy scene riddled with shattered glass and a man bleeding out on the floor to being flooded with police and paramedics.

I put my hands up, dreading the long aftermath to come.

The sky's lit up in hues of orange and gold by the time we make it home.

We spent hours being questioned and interviewed by the Pulsboro PD. Afterward, Logan insisted on taking me to the urgent care. We step through the door, grateful for the day to be over.

Neither of us have eaten anything. We haven't had a moment to rest.

…or process that we were shot at today.

On the drive home, Logan swung us through the Beef & Bunz drive-thru. Their bacon cheeseburgers and garlic fries were obviously not healthy, but neither is being shot at by some stranger in a bookstore.

We kick off our shoes and amble over to the kitchen to unpack the greasy fast food bags.

We've hardly spoken a word to each other, but the silence isn't combative. It's more commiserate, like we're aware of how hard today was and we know the other needs the silence. Logan's halfway through his burger when he juts his chin at me.

"How's your elbow?"

"Sore. But the doctor said it should go away in the next couple days."

"I'm surprised the police station released us so easily. From what Mace told me, it sounds like the whole PD has a vendetta against the Kings after what happened with Cash and Korine's ex-husband."

"You were defending yourself! That… that man opened fire at us… and the store clerk!"

"We gave our statements. All we can do now is hope they don't fuck with us."

"But who was he?" I ask. "The man that opened fire?—"

"His ID says Juan Cabello. Today wasn't the first time I've seen him before."

"But when? From where?"

"I was at his house… by mistake. His address was the address Xavier gave up when we interrogated him."

I frown. "So, is he connected to the Saints?"

"We've got a guy inside the PD. He'll run the guy's record. Whoever he was, he probably wasn't acting alone."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning he was operating on orders. Somebody told him to do what he did."

The fry I'm holding slips through my fingers. "Abraham?!"

"Don't panic," he says knowingly. "That's why I said we'll run his record. It could be Abraham behind what happened. Or it could be somebody else. The club's got no shortage of enemies. Neither do I."

"That's actually worse."

"Point is, it was me he was after. I went to his house. He saw me. Today could've been him settling the score and that's all."

But as Logan reassures me, he doesn't even sound certain. He takes another bite of his burger, then he washes it down with coke.

We return to silence, though it's a different kind. A sense of unease edges through me, tensing up my spine. It feels like being pulled by invisible puppet strings that have me sitting straighter. Less relaxed, more alert.

After the day I've had, it's its own kind of torture.

I prop my elbows on the counter and bring my hands together in a prayer.

My lips mouth the words without realizing they do.

When my prayer ends, I find myself on the receiving end of his probing stare. He's finished his meal from Beef & Bunz and has taken up watching me from across the kitchen counter.

"Does it help you feel better?" he asks. "To pray like that?"

"Yes… usually. Sometimes more than others."

"I figured."

"You think it's silly."

"Didn't say that. Do what you need to to feel better." He digs into his jean pocket to retrieve my broken gold cross necklace. It rests in the middle of his open palm as he holds it out for me to take. "We didn't get a chance to take it for repair."

Warmth invades my chest. It dawns on me why he's handing it back. He's offering it up because he thinks it'll make me feel better. The corner of my lip tips up in a small smile.

"Keep it. Hold onto it."

"You sure?"

"Yes," I answer. "I like the idea of you having it on you."

His thick fingers close over his palm, then he returns the broken chain to his pocket. "I'll get it fixed before I give it back to you."

"My husband's more considerate than he realizes he is."

It's a silly tease that I'm aware could backfire. But I'm clinging to the lighter mood that's developed, hoping we can use it to forget about our terrible day. I'm expecting Logan to shut me down or scold me for daring to use the ‘H' word.

Instead, his naturally severe expression twitches—the crease of his brows shift, his jaw losing some of its tension. He flirts with a grin that almost manages to make it onto his face before it's gone entirely in the next blink of an eye. Standing up straighter, he walks around the kitchen counter and grabs my hand.

"It's been a long day. We both need to blow off steam."

Startled by what's happening, I let him lead me into the living room. Logan throws himself onto the sofa, tugging me down with him. We crash down at each other's side as he scoops up the remote and turns the TV on.

He wants to watch TV on the sofa. Just like any other regular couple.

Like any other husband and wife after a long, tiring day.

I try to keep my smile from spreading, but it's useless. A giddy, fluttery feeling invades my belly.

Things could always be like this if we gave ourselves a real shot. If we really tried to make things work.

Logan just needs to see it like I do.

"My beautiful believer is more special than any other."

I turn my head to the side, refusing to meet his icy gaze. His spindly fingers are clenched around my wrists, his pants for air heavy as he exerts himself. His hips work fast, jerking in stabbing motions that feel like torture from the inside.

I'm being torn apart thrust by thrust. Groan by groan. Each second that passes is another second of my destruction, another piece falling away .

"So beautiful," he grunts, gathering speed. "So innocent."

My voice is gone, trapped in my throat. The only sound I'm able to produce is that of a strangled cry.

Pain and panic welled up in my chest that bubbles out of me.

And still it continues. It goes on for hours.

"Look at me!" he hisses, grabbing my face. "Look at your Leader when he graces you with his seed."

He sinks deeper as I cry harder. As my body, my mind, my soul begs for it to end…

A gasp sputters out of me, the sheets soaked in sweat. My body's shaking. My arms and legs thrash. I fight to wake from the dream that felt too real.

I'm in Logan's bedroom. The room's pitch dark and quiet. The other side of the bed's empty.

Logan's gone.

Panic strikes my heart, making it beat faster. Where did he go? How could I sleep through him getting out of bed?

I scramble to get up. The sheet's wrapped around me in a way that's more difficult than it should be to untangle—being half asleep in the dark, struck by panic, makes it feel like an impossible puzzle to solve.

I can't take a full breath. The panic's so clogged up inside that it comes out as a broken sound.

Panic that quickly spirals into outright fear.

Logan's gone and I'm all alone. I'm in a room steeped in darkness, where the shadows feel suffocating and the unknown terrifying. Remnants from the bad dream linger like a ghost intent on haunting me. Abraham's presence that refuses to let me go.

Tears wet my eyes, a pitiful little sob warbling out of me .

Vaguely, I realize it's ridiculous. I'm aware how silly and pathetic it is.

But I can't turn off these emotions rushing me. These intense reactions that almost feel chemically induced.

I bend my knees, drawing them to my chest, burying my head forward.

Barely a second later, the door flings open. Logan strides in, flicking on the light. He scans the room as if in search of the threat he must eliminate.

When he notices it's just me curled up on the bed, he cuts across the room in a couple steps to make it to me.

"What's going on? What's wrong?"

"I had a dream and it felt…" I shake my head, wiping my eyes. "It felt real. Then I woke up and you weren't…"

Here.

Logan understands even though I've trailed off. He sits down on the side of the bed and pulls me toward his chest. His thick, tattooed arms wrap around me, holding me in place. Warmth that feels instantly comforting and secure. I tuck my face into the nook between his bicep and the side of his torso and allow myself a moment to indulge in him.

Inhale his scent. Feel how hard and well-built he is.

For my own selfishness.

So I can calm down.

He's started stroking my hair, rubbing my back. "I had a call come in. Important club business. I went into the living room to take it. Didn't want to wake you."

Suddenly, my memory's not so fuzzy anymore. Our evening plays back to me in a quick reel. We'd cozied up on the sofa and watched a couple hours of TV. Both exhausted and worn out, we turned in for bed early. I must've drifted right off while Logan got up.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I don't… I'm really not trying to… you don't like it when I cry…"

"You had a bad dream. Today was a lot." His arms tighten around me, if possible, making me feel even more secure. "Something tells me you're not used to being shot at the way I am."

"Abraham—"

"Is never gonna touch you again," he cuts in. His hand cups the back of my head before he drops a kiss on the top of it. "Just relax. Go back to sleep. I won't leave the room again."

His tender strokes elicit a shiver down my spine. The pattern he's created is slow and soothing as his knowing fingers glide over my back, chasing away the fear and anxiety.

It amazes me how a man like Logan, a rough and tumble biker, can be so gentle sometimes.

As if he senses it's what I need. It's how I should be treated, and though I'm not made of glass by any means, the consideration is nice. It means something to me.

He cares enough to be soft with me when he's vicious with the rest of the world.

"We're going to be raiding the compound that belongs to the Chosen Saints," he says, raking fingers through my straightened strands. "I'll be gone for a couple days."

"But—"

"I already talked about it with Mace and the others. We think it'll be a good idea if you stay with Sydney while I'm gone."

I open my mouth, then shut it again. Inhaling a steadying breath, I give a nod.

Logan's telling me this because we've grown closer. Two weeks ago, he would've barely mentioned a word about leaving. If I had anything to say about it, he would've snapped at me or mentioned he couldn't wait 'til the marriage was dissolved.

He knew I wouldn't want to stay in the apartment alone. He's confiding in me about what the club is up to, hoping I'll support him.

…you're his wife. You should.

"Okay," I answer, then I draw back to meet his eyes in understanding. "Just please promise me you'll be careful."

He cups my face, his thumb swiping the apple of my cheek, then places a kiss on my lips. "Same to you."