"Your sisterly concern is touching. Truly," I said, tone dry, but giving her a smirk.
It might have taken me a long time not to resent Ferryn for running off at sixteen, for abandoning us, for making our parents and loved ones worry about her, for coming back a changed person we all needed to get to know again. But once I got over that shit, I got Ferryn. I understood why she dedicated her life to taking out skin traders and the kinds of sick sons of bitches who paid to rape girls and women. And I got why she needed to be cool and distant and tough to be able to compartmentalize all that shit.
"The first time I went over my handlebars was one of the scariest moments of my life," she admitted, surprising me.
"Of all the shit you do?"
"I know, right? But when I'm on a job, there is a certain level of control. I can rely on myself. I can get myself out. But I couldn't control the grass on the road that might as well have been ice for how slippery it was. I couldn't stop myself from flying over the bike, from slamming to the ground, from scraping across the asphalt."
"You never told me you crashed your bike."
"There was no reason to before now."
"Maybe so we could tell you we're glad you were okay."
"Yeah, well," she said, shrugging it off. "I'm not good with the touchy-feely. But I remember lying on that road in the middle of the night, every bone feeling broken, not able to pull in a deep breath, and thinking I might die right there. And it was scary as fuck. So, what I'm saying is, I'm sorry you had that same experience tonight. And I'm glad you're not dead."
"Thanks, sis."
"Did someone hook you up with pain meds? I have some Percs from those broken ribs last year."
"Dezi gave me some pills."
"Of course he did," she said, nodding. "So, what's up with you and the Vulture president?"
"Nothing. Someone just wants the two of us dead."
"Well, you can be a prick. I get their motivation," she said, tossing a power bar at me. "I know I'm supposed to bring you baked goods or soup or some shit. But I don't cook. So eat something, get some sleep, and try not to make your knee worse by doing too much too soon," she said, giving me a small smile before heading out.
That was my last visitor before I finally passed the fuck out.
—
"Stop eye-fucking the waitresses," I demanded four days later, walking out of the office in the diner I ended up buying and renovating with Malc.
I'd just needed to pop in for some of the paperwork to bring to the clubhouse to work on. But since the accident, the guys seemed to have a unanimous decision to work as bodyguards, never leaving me alone for more than a few minutes.
Tonight, it was Dezi and Sway who decided to accompany me.
A worse duo, I couldn't have picked. But they were the two who decided to tag along. Though, they'd likely volunteered to come not out of genuine concern for my well-being, but because they wanted to avoid all the research and guard duties the club was up to.
Things were on high alert because a group of the guys were heading out on a run soon, leaving the club down a few vital members.
We'd hit nothing but dead-ends on the Kevin Olsen kid, leaving us no better off than when we'd started. All we'd learned was essentially what A had already given us. The guy was a petty thief, but one who never crossed a line badly enough to get pinched. He had no affiliations we could find.
He'd had a sickly mom, though.
And a desperate young man who loved his mom might have been batshit crazy enough to take on a contract-killing job. He probably didn't even know how stupid the plan was, how low his odds were of actually taking me or Danny out.
Unfortunately, though, we were no closer to figuring anything out about this new, invisible enemy of ours.
Which meant the show had to go on, regardless of a potential threat.
Which was why the run was still on.
And why I needed to pop into the diner to check on some shit, and get some paperwork to bring back to the club with me.
It also meant I was moving forward with the purchase of my place. My father had raised a brow at my timing, but had ultimately understood. He'd always had his own place away from the club as well, a place to get away to when you needed space and time and some silence to think.
Because of his concerns, though, I'd chosen the closer house, putting me less than five minutes from the clubhouse, but on a street where none of my other club brothers lived—which was a feat since they'd all settled close to the club as well.