Page 3 of Cowboy (Fury Vipers MC: Dublin Chapter #4)

CAOIMHE

I look at my brother and my heart breaks for him. Over the past two weeks, he’s been unsettled, nervous, and has jumped at every little sound. Dylan’s been my protector since our parents died, hell, even before that, and seeing him like this is a shock.

I want to ask him what's wrong, but I know he won't tell me.

He never does. Instead, he always tries to shield me from whatever trouble he's gotten himself into.

But I'm not stupid. I know something's up.

He's sixteen and he's got the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He took a job to help support me because Auntie Trish said she couldn't afford to pay for us.

Dylan didn't even hesitate to get a job.

I've no idea where he works, but wherever it is pays well.

He told me he has an apartment for us when he turns eighteen.

I didn't ask questions as I was afraid of the answers, but right now he's scaring me.

"Dylan," I say softly as he paces the small living room of our aunt's apartment, "you know you can talk to me, right?"

He stops and looks at me, his eyes softening for a moment before the worry creeps back in. "It's nothing, Caoimhe. Just... work stuff."

I roll my eyes. "Right. Because 'work stuff' always has you looking over your shoulder and barely sleeping."

Dylan sighs, running a hand through his hair. "It's complicated, okay? I don't want you getting involved."

"I'm already involved," I argue. "I'm your sister. Whatever affects you, affects me too."

He shakes his head. "Not this time. It's better if you don't know."

I'm about to protest when there's a knock at the door. Dylan freezes, his hand instinctively moving to his waist where I know he keeps his gun. My heart starts racing. Who could it be?

"Stay here," Dylan whispers, moving cautiously toward the door.

I hold my breath as he looks through the peephole. His shoulders relax slightly, and he opens the door to reveal Ciarán.

Ciarán and Dylan have been best friends for as long as I can remember. When we were younger, Ciarán was either at our house or Dylan was over at his. Their friendship hasn't changed all that much since our parents died. In fact, it's probably gotten stronger.

"Hey," Ciarán says, his eyes darting around the apartment before settling on me. "Everything okay?"

Dylan nods, but I can see the tension in his jaw. "Yeah, just... you know."

Ciarán seems to understand whatever unspoken message Dylan is sending. "Right. Um, can we talk outside for a sec?"

Dylan glances back at me. "Stay inside, Caoimhe. Lock the door behind us."

As they step out into the hallway, I move closer to the door, straining to hear their hushed conversation.

"...heard anything?" Dylan's voice is low and urgent.

"Nothing yet," Ciarán replies. "But I've got a bad feeling. We need to be ready to move if..."

Their voices fade as they move further down the hall. I lean back against the door, my mind racing. What have they gotten themselves into? And more importantly, how can I help?

I may be younger, but I'm not helpless. And if Dylan's in trouble, there's no way I'm sitting on the sidelines. Whatever's going on, I'm going to find out. And I'm going to protect my brother, just like he's always protected me.

As I hear their footsteps returning, I quickly move away from the door, trying to look casual. But inside, my heart is racing. I settle onto the couch, grabbing a book and pretending to read just as the door opens.

Dylan and Ciarán walk in, their faces serious. I peek over the top of my book, studying them. There's a tension in the air I can almost taste.

"Everything okay?" I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

Dylan nods, but it's not convincing. "Yeah, all good. Just some work stuff."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Always with the 'work stuff' excuse.

Ciarán glances at me, then back to Dylan. "I should get going. We'll... talk more later, yeah?"

Dylan nods, walking him to the door. They exchange a few more whispered words before Ciarán leaves. As soon as the door closes, Dylan's shoulders slump, as if a great weight has settled on them.

"Dylan," I say softly, setting my book aside. "Please, tell me what's going on. I know something's wrong."

He turns to me, conflict clear in his eyes. For a moment, I think he might actually open up. But then the walls come back up.

"It's nothing for you to worry about, Caoimhe," he says, forcing a smile. "I've got it under control."

But I can see the lie in his eyes. Whatever this is, it's far from under control.

"I'm not a kid anymore," I argue. "I can handle it. Let me help."

Dylan shakes his head firmly. "No. Absolutely not. This isn't your problem to deal with."

"But it's yours?" I counter. "You're only sixteen, Dylan. You shouldn't have to handle everything on your own."

A flash of pain crosses his face. "I'm doing what I have to do to keep us safe. To keep you safe."

The words hang heavy in the air between us. I want to push further, to make him understand that he doesn't have to carry this burden alone. But I can see the determination in his stance. He won't budge, not tonight.

"Fine," I say, standing up. "But this isn't over. I'm not going to sit by and watch you run yourself into the ground."

As I head to my room, I hear Dylan sigh heavily behind me. I close my door, leaning against it and closing my eyes. My mind is whirling with possibilities, each more terrifying than the last. What kind of trouble is Dylan in? And how can I help him when he won't even admit there's a problem?

I move to my desk and pull out a notebook. If Dylan won't tell me what's going on, I'll have to figure it out myself. I start jotting down everything I've noticed over the past few weeks: Dylan's strange behavior, the hushed conversations with Ciarán, the way he jumps at every unexpected sound.

As I write, I realize that whatever this is, it started about two weeks ago.

That was when Dylan first came home looking shaken, his clothes dirty and a wild look in his eyes.

Since then, he's been on edge, constantly checking his phone and having whispered conversations when he thinks I'm not listening.

I tap my pen against the paper, thinking hard. What happened two weeks ago? What changed?

Then it hits me. That was the night Dylan didn't come home until almost three in the morning. He claimed he was working late, but I remember the fear in his eyes when he finally walked through the door. He looked like he'd seen a ghost.

I scribble this down, circling it. This has to be the key. Whatever happened that night, it's at the center of all this. But how can I find out more? Dylan won't talk, and I doubt Ciarán would tell me anything either. They're too loyal to each other.

I chew on my pen, lost in thought. Then an idea strikes me. Dylan's phone. If I could just get a look at it, maybe I could find some clues. Text messages, call logs, anything that might give me a hint about what's going on.

It's a risky move. If Dylan caught me snooping through his phone, he'd be furious. But what choice do I have? He's in trouble. I can feel it. And if he won't let me help him directly, I'll have to find another way.

Decision made, I close my notebook and hide it under my mattress. Then I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I'm about to do.

I open my door quietly, peeking out into the hallway. I can hear the TV on in the living room. Good, Dylan's distracted.

Moving as silently as I can, I creep toward Dylan's room.

His door is ajar, and I can see his jacket thrown over his desk chair.

His phone is usually in his pocket... My heart pounding, I slip into his room and make a beeline for the jacket.

I pat down the pockets, my fingers closing around the familiar shape of his phone. Got it.

Just as I'm about to pull it out, I hear footsteps approaching. Panic surges through me. I freeze, the phone still in my hand, hidden in the jacket pocket.

"Caoimhe?" Dylan's voice calls out. "You okay?"

I swallow hard, my mind racing for an excuse. "Yeah," I call back, trying to keep my voice steady. "Just... looking for that book you borrowed. The one for school?"

The footsteps pause outside the door. My heart pounds as I wait, frozen in place, Dylan's phone still clutched in my hand inside his jacket pocket. The silence stretches for what feels like an eternity.

Finally, Dylan's voice comes again, "Oh, right. I think it's on my desk somewhere. Want me to grab it for you?"

"No!" I say, too quickly. I take a breath, trying to calm myself. "No, it's okay. I can find it. Thanks."

There's another pause, and I hold my breath, praying he doesn't come in.

"Alright," he says finally. "Let me know if you need help."

I listen as his footsteps retreat back down the hall. Only when I hear the living room TV volume increase do I let out a shaky breath. That was too close.

Quickly, I pull out Dylan's phone. It's locked, of course, but I know his pass code. He's used the same one since he first got a phone, our parents' anniversary.

As soon as I unlock it, I start searching.

Recent calls, text messages, anything that might give me a clue.

Most of it seems normal—conversations with friends, reminders about homework.

But then I notice something odd. There are several calls and texts from a number not saved in his contacts. They're all short, cryptic messages.

Unknown Number: Job tonight at midnight. Dunbeág Estate.

Unknown Number: Stay low. Stay out of trouble.

Unknown Number: Don’t say a word.

My blood runs cold as I read through them. What kind of job involves staying low and not saying a word? This isn't normal teenage stuff. This is something dangerous.

Just as I'm about to dig deeper, I hear Dylan's voice again, closer this time. "Caoimhe? Did you find the book?"