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CHAPTER ONE

SAINT

I ’ve just had my cock very satisfactorily deep throated in one of the town bars by a woman who thought she’d won the lottery just for giving a blow job to a biker. She didn’t even expect any reciprocal action, simply satisfied to have my attention or perhaps to gain bragging rights to her friends. Some days I fucking love the cut I wear, showing I’m a member of the Kings of Anarchy MC, and of course my patch, denoting my position in the club, helps. I’m the VP. There’s always the chance she might turn up at one of our parties and want to connect in a way more beneficial to her, but she’ll be disappointed. Her lips around my dick had been the only part of her that I’d found interesting. I hadn’t asked her to suck me off. She’d offered. And I do appreciate I’m riding back to our clubhouse with a deflated cock and a satisfied smile on my face.

Halfway there, my phone rings in my ear via Bluetooth. The signal’s poor, so I pull up at the side of the road to answer it, and out of habit, turn my headlight off. It’s my prez, and I want to hear his words without the roar of the pipes and the static seeping through my earbuds. It’s a minor update, nothing to worry about. I say, “yeah,” when I need, and “I’ll get on that tomorrow,” which satisfies him. Then, as I end the call, something catches my eye.

I might often be hard pushed to remember what day it is, or how old I actually am, because who gives a damn when you’re living a life you love? But my senses are sharp, and I recognise a bad situation when I see one.

With my lights off, I’m invisible and watch unseen as a nondescript hatchback roars past, all but taking the turns on two wheels. I’m intrigued when there’s a black SUV following fast, the gap between it and the vehicle ahead far too close.

I’m still feeling sated and relaxed, all due to the nameless woman I’d just left. For me, I’m probably in what passes for a good mood, so when I see the vehicles whiz past me, instead of turning a blind eye as I would normally, curiosity comes to the fore. My intuition tells me something bad’s going to happen, and like any concerned citizen, well, fuck, if I was that, I suppose I would have called the cops, but I’m an outlaw. I’m no snitch. I kick my bike into gear and, with the headlight still off, relying on the moonlight and taillights ahead to guide me, I give chase.

Knowing the loops and turns of this road like the back of my hand, I soon catch up to the sedan. I’m just in time to hear the smash, see the sparks, and watch as the hatchback flies over the guardrails and into the ravine below.

Well, fuck. Nicely done. Professional to professional, I admire a job carried out well. As if I’ve sat through the satisfying finale of an action film, my hand backs off the throttle, and I slow, letting the sedan tear off into the night. Without conscious thought, I come to a stop just at the broken rail.

I’m the VP of a one-percenter club. I might be called Saint, but only because that’s a joke. I’m anything but. Compassion was beaten out of me long ago. I’ve few loyalties, only those to my prez, and the brothers I ride alongside. There’s nothing about this situation that should make me do anything other than ride on. Who’s the victim and who’s the aggressor is no business of mine, and there’s no way it’s anything that concerns the club.

Yet I don’t. Fuck knows why. Maybe I’m bored. Maybe I just want to have my questions answered and satisfy that aforementioned curiosity. But for some goddamn unknown reason, I find myself turning off my engine, kicking down the stand on my bike, and starting my way down the unfriendly, steep embankment.

I slither more than walk, end up on my ass a couple of times, but the still glowing headlights of the car beneath me beckon me on. Whoever was purposefully run off the road is surely beyond any help I could give, but there’s something inside me that wants to know who they are, and why they were a victim of a murder tonight. I don’t expect to find anything but a dead body. Someone, my brother, Words, who runs the local mortuary and crematorium, will eventually be called in to send out of this world and into another, wherever that may be.

This is stupid, I tell myself, as I stumble and trip for the umpteenth time. I should just go back to my bike and be done with it, but instead I stubbornly carry on until eventually I reach the upturned car. I take the mag light out of my pocket, the beam quickly showing it’s a female who’s inside, her lifeless body hanging upside down, held captive by the seatbelt. Again, my interest is piqued, morbidly wanting to know whether she’s young, old, ugly, or has the world lost something beautiful tonight. I focus the light on her face and am greeted by wide-open eyes. When they blink, I scramble backward in shock, drop my flashlight, then pick it up again. I zero back in on her face for a second look, sure I was mistaken.

“Kill me or help me.” The groaned, resigned words make me draw in a deep breath. It’s not every day you come face-to-face with a corpse that can speak. How the fuck did she survive ? Realising, even now, she’s probably more dead than alive, I pause for a second, wondering what trouble she’s in and if it might be better just to leave her. But despite my thoughts, my hands work seemingly without direction from me as I take my knife and slice through the webbing that binds her, bracing my arm to soften her transfer from upside down to right way up.

Committed, I now have only one course of action. “I got you,” I murmur, easing her out of the car, still thinking she’s probably mortally hurt.

Her pain is evident through the involuntary sounds that she makes.

“Who the fuck are you? Who wants you dead?” My questions are rhetorical, asking them more to myself than to her. She doesn’t seem in any state to face an interrogation. I can’t see her face through the blood that covers it, but her frame is light, and in my arms, feels toned and muscular.

I ask again, “Who are you?”

Any answer she might be about to give loses importance as I hear the roar of an engine that grows louder, then cuts off, the sound coming from the road above.

A hand, surprisingly strong, comes out to cover mine. Though her voice is weak, it’s more than I expected. “It’s them. They’ve come back to check that I’m dead.”

I reel, surprised she can speak at all, and that her tone isn’t panicked, just stating a fact. I don’t know her from Adam, don’t know what crime she’s committed. There’s not one reason I shouldn’t make myself scarce and leave her to her fate. She’s a stranger, no brother of mine. But, hey, I’m no saint. There’s more than an iota of self-preservation as my mind works at lightning speed. They’ll have seen my bike and know I’m here. They don’t know for sure I’m a witness, but I’m not going to take that chance. Nor, I decide in a split second, will I leave her to the wolves.

As I start moving, she grabs my hand again. Whispering so my voice doesn’t carry, I reassure her, “I’ll go tell them you’re dead.” It might work, it might not. It would be better for my health to tell them I’d stopped for a piss and had no idea what had happened down here. But her car’s headlights are still shining, and I doubt I’d get away with that. Or I could just tell them to get on with whatever they want to do and walk away, knowing it’s none of my business. Why the fuck I don’t want to play it like that, I wouldn’t be able to answer under torture.

For a moment, she hangs on to my arm, as if wondering whether by keeping me here, I could protect her. Then, as if she’s come to a decision, she hisses, “Go. But leave your cut with me.”

She’s seen my cut. I’m stunned. It’s true the headlights mean we’re not in complete darkness, but after the crash and the car careened over and over into the ravine, her brain should be too scrambled to notice details. But I’ll be damned if she hasn’t made a good point. I don’t know who the fuck these men are, only that they’re not on her side, and probably not on mine. It would be best if I didn’t draw attention to myself, especially not my affiliation to my club.

Hating that she’s right and hating more that I’m taking off the leather that took blood, sweat and tears to earn, I slide out of the cut and reluctantly leave it in her outstretched hand.

Unable to delay any longer as I begin hearing the grunts and rustling of undergrowth and stones slithering down, I start walking, crawling, pulling myself up the ravine, slipping and sliding until I come face-to-boot with a man who’s obviously heavily armed.

At least he gives me the time to get to my feet and hold up my arms, blinking and squinting in the bright light shone my way. “What the fuck? Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

I tell him as much of the truth as I can. “Hey, man, I’m not looking for trouble. I was out for a ride, pulled up to have a smoke. Saw lights down below, the crash barrier smashed, so I went down to see if I could help.”

Two other men appear, flanking the first. “And could you?” The abruptly spoken words are laden with suspicion.

Shaking my head, I tell them in my best aggrieved voice, “Fuck, it’s a mess. Car’s a total right off. The bitch driving is dead.”

The first man turns to the one who’s remained silent and instructs, “Go and check.”

“You are doubting me?” I rasp out, straightening my back.

“It’s good you were concerned,” Thug One says, his voice dripping with theatrical solicitude. “But there could be a woman down there who needs help.”

Shit. They can’t go down and find her alive. I doubt my life would be long if they did. Now it’s my future health in the balance as much as hers. Again, I pull back my shoulders and use my most affronted voice. “I don’t have to be an ex-Army medic to recognise a live woman’s head shouldn’t be twisted so she’s staring over her back.”

“Go check.” The man I’m starting to hate issues the instruction again. And worse, he adds, “And you stay right where you are.”

“Why?” I ask innocently.

It takes him only a second to think fast. “Maybe it was you who drove her off the road.”

“Who said anyone drove her off the road?” I open my eyes wide. “And, man, car against motorcycle?” I gesture upward to where I’d left my bike. “If we had an altercation, it would be more likely me who was dead.”

As I hear his accomplice start gingerly down the steep slope, I begin calculating my odds, now there are only two against one. I’m armed, of course, one gun in a shoulder holster, one at my ankle, and a knife at my waist. But I’m outnumbered. I can see they all carry weapons, and there’s no reason to doubt they know how to use them.

There’s no other way out. I’ve got to take my chance. I’ll give Thug Two the time to get a little bit further down the slope, then my odds will be much improved. Two against one. It wouldn’t be the first time. I begin tensing my muscles when suddenly…

BOOM

The surprise of the loud sound, the rush of hot air from below, sends us all staggering back.

Thug One is the first to recover. Although he’s at the other end of the flashlight, I can hear the smirk in his voice. “Guess that was the gas tank exploding. Whether or not you can recognise a dead body, she’s obviously very much so now.”

I should be pleased they seem to lose interest in me, but all I can think about is my fucking cut. I left it with her.

Thrashing sounds, then the man who hadn’t got very far down appears again. “Guess our help isn’t needed after all.” In the headlights of their vehicle, I can see their satisfied faces.

Reunited as a group, they turn to stare at me. I’m not having to force the devastated expression on my face. My damn cut just exploded. Followed quickly by, how the fuck am I going to explain this to my prez?

As if having had some kind of mental conversation, they start to retreat up the steep incline, seemingly having dismissed me as any threat. I stay where I am, waiting until they disappear out of sight. I don’t move until I hear the roar of the engine start, peak as it’s revved, then eventually begins to fade. I stay where I am until the sound disappears completely.

Staring down at the flames that were rising high only a moment ago into the sky, I watch as they start to die, breathing in the acrid smoke of plastic and rubber that fuelled the fire. Godfuckin’damnit. What remains of my cut is down there.

Maybe it survived the explosion. Maybe there’s just one patch I might be able to retrieve. One of the three back patches I worked so hard to earn, or the VP insignia I was so proud to call mine. Maybe I’ll be lucky and the whole leather was thrown free.

Well, there’s only one fucking way to find out.

With a heavy sigh, I start my slip-sliding journey back down the steep incline. The area’s lit orange now, the light from the headlamps gone. I stand, hand thrown over my face to protect it from the heat, eyes surveying the ground.

I’d gotten the driver out but hadn’t dragged her far. Now, where I expect to find her body, the area is covered with debris, but nothing looks like it’s come from a human. I look around. Maybe I’ve gotten disoriented, and this is the wrong spot. I lift one foot to move to explore further when a voice sounds from behind me.

“You looking for this?”

Spinning around, I see the woman, somehow standing, her back resting against an undamaged tree, my cut held out, balanced on her fingers. I swear the relief that floods through me wants to make me kiss her here and now.

“Knew how much this means to you.”

That statement should be suspicious in itself, but hell, so many people have watched that old series on television and might have picked up the reverence in which we hold the particular item that identifies and defines us. Or maybe she’s no stranger to the biker lifestyle. I tamp down any doubts about her motives. However, she knew that my cut was precious to me, and she saved it when she could have just left it to burn.

Wasting no time, I take it from her, sliding it on, shaking my shoulders to shift the weight evenly, breathing easier when the familiar leather settles.

Only then do I ask, “How did you do that?” There’s more than one question in that enquiry. When I’d left her, I’d thought her incapable of moving, and to set such a spectacular fire?

She answers literally. “Gas burns, didn’t you know? Just lucky I had a full tank.”

I examine her in the flickering light that’s lingering. Her face is pinched with pain and, if anything, even more bloodied, one shoulder off to one side looking out of position, one ankle bent at an impossible angle, and the deep red patch on her jeans confirms she’s bleeding from somewhere other than her head.

How the fuck did she manage to reach the car, let alone set fire to it?

It’s beyond comprehension, but I’ve done my part for now. I’d told whoever was after her that she’d died in the initial crash. The explosion she’d orchestrated had confirmed it. It’s time for me to hit the road.

I stare at her for a moment. It’s hard to tell what she looks like other than something out of a horror movie, with the blood running down her face, bloodshot eyes, and soot-covered features. I offer the only help that I can.

“I’ll call for an ambulance. Give your location…”

“No,” she says sharply, as if addressing a subordinate. “I can’t go to a hospital.” At my head shake, she offers an explanation. “They’ll find me immediately and finish the job.” The hand on her good arm indicates her body. “I need somewhere off the radar to recuperate. And…” she chuckles, but in her state, it comes out more like a death rattle, “a biker clubhouse is the last place anyone will look for me.”

I suck in air, my brain taking a moment to compute what she’s asking. “You want me to take you back to my club?” I ask, incredulously. Immediately, my brain starts racing, bringing up all the reasons why that is a very bad idea. I settle on the obvious problem. “You can’t climb back up there.” I wave at the steep slope behind me. “And with that arm, you’ll never be able to hold on to me to ride my bike.” More importantly, I don’t want any woman riding behind me. Or anyone, for that matter. Never have, never will. I’m no one’s white knight.

Her good arm supports the one with the shoulder that’s clearly dislocated and ignores my other objections. “You know how to sort a dislocated arm?”

I nod quickly. I hadn’t lied about being a medic in the Army. Then I bark a laugh. “Hurts like fuck. You don’t want to do it here without medication.”

“Just put my fucking arm back into the socket,” she demands.

And hell, there’s something about her voice that annoys me, and I want to punish her. There’d be no way to do it without causing her agony, but something makes me feel the need to punish her. Fuck knows for what. I take hold of her roughly, push, twist, and prepare my ears for the screaming, but all I hear is a harsh grunt, followed moments later by a sigh of relief.

She says softly, “Thank you.”

Chagrined because of my loss of control, even though my action had the desired result, I remove my cut, take off my T-shirt, and fashion a sling for her. Again, she gently expresses her gratitude. Then, her eyes narrow as she takes in the slope she’s intending to scale.

I see her chest expand as she draws in a deep breath, then she lets her body slide down the tree. I’m not fucking kidding when I say she starts crawling, using only her one good leg and one working arm.

Not one sound of protest or pain comes from her as she slowly gains a few feet.

I’m no saint. I’m no fucking gentleman. But even I can’t ignore her brave efforts, and though I’d originally had no such intention, I’m now pushed to help.

Finding a branch, I fashion a walking stick for her and lift her to her feet. With my arm around her, and her use of the aid I’d provided, we make slow progress. On the steeper bits, we’re both on our bellies, but still, she continues onward with no complaint.

Finally, we reach the roadway. Her laboured breathing is the only sign of the toll the climb has taken on her as she places the tip of the stick down, swinging her bad leg, then repeating the motion as she somehow progresses toward my bike.

“No fuckin’ way,” I exhale.

At this point, she looks like a corpse that’s been animated. Even if I wanted to take a passenger, there’s no way she could ride. She’ll pass out, lose her grip, and fall off before I’ve gone more than a few yards.

“Help me on.” She uses that dominant tone once again, then looks at the bike and back at me. “You got something to tie my hands around you?”

I can’t help but admire not only her determination but also her brain for coming up with solutions. At this point, I’m intrigued by where this particular journey might take me.

“Get on,” I growl, gesturing in front of me.

She tries to balance on the makeshift crutch to throw her good leg over the saddle, but totters and would have fallen except for my ready arms. Grunting in annoyance, I lift her, noticing again her slim, lithe body, and dump her on the saddle. Pushing her back so there’s room for me, I climb on, then pull her arms forward, and following her suggestion, zip tie her wrists, so her hands are tight around my waist.

What the fuck am I doing?

I have no clue. But this is something I started when curiosity got a hold of me, and I followed that car that was chasing hers. And when I begin something, I normally finish it. But am I really taking her back to our clubhouse?

Fuck knows why, but it seems that I am.