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CHAPTER TEN
PHILLIPA
Y eah. Such a simple word, but so much meaning. I close my eyes and lean back my head. There’s no way I can blame the MC for being suspicious. I am a Secret Service agent, and somehow, I’ve ended up in their club. Even if there was no way to predict it, now I’m here, I can’t truthfully say I bear them any ill will.
The Kings of Anarchy. I knew who Saint was the moment I saw his cut. But then I was only thinking of self-preservation. At that moment, to keep my life, I’d have signed a deal with the Devil himself. Which is what I may well have ended up doing.
With chapters all over the US, the Kings are not a weekend riding club. They don’t do good acts, don’t escort abused children to court, and probably would run over an old lady on the road rather than help her across. Gun running, drug trafficking, brothels, money laundering, you name it. They’ve got a finger in so many pies, and none of them are nutritious or would make up any kind of healthy diet.
I might not be a Fed in the true sense of the word, but I have briefings, especially when protecting a high-profile target. The Kings are one of the gangs we’re warned about. Men, prone to violence, who act to their own agenda, some with military experience and shouldn’t be underestimated. Political alliances, unknown – or in other words, liable to be bribed or just swing whichever way the wind is blowing, and most likely to be beneficial to themselves. But usually they’re also dismissed as uneducated, ignorant, and so hooked on sex and drugs, as to be unable to form a cohesive alliance outside of their own particular chapters.
From my attendance at their meeting, I already know not to dismiss them as country bumpkins, or men who don’t know left from right. Bullseye was perceptive, and the other officers were too. And Saint? Well, I doubt he was elected to the VP spot without showing some signs of intelligence and leadership.
What came across strongly was the sense of brotherhood, all for one, and one for all. And damnit, while I don’t like it, I admire the fact that Saint would kill me if he thought that was the only way to protect his club and way of life. There’s not much difference between that and how I’d not hesitate to shoot anyone who was threatening the person I happened to be charged with protecting.
I’m actually grateful I’m still breathing. If I was the one with the gun, maybe I’d remove the perceived risk immediately, rather than waiting to see if my suspicions bore out. Providing protection often means acting on instinct. It’s better to remove the threat than regret the results.
Losing Adams on my watch hit me deeply. When the accusations started, I admit to analysing myself, my actions, what I did and didn’t do, and whether my size meant I wasn’t cut out to be an agent. But having gone over and over it in my head, it was Adams who was an asshole, preferring to boast to the crowd rather than obeying my instructions and keeping his head down. Nevertheless, the bitter truth that the man basically committed suicide doesn’t matter one bit to the conspiracy theorists who latched onto me being to blame.
Saint’s right. As witnessed by the situation I’m in now, I’ll always be in danger. If I was to show my face at the wrong place, at the wrong time, someone would take a shot at me and go down as a hero. It might not be today, or tomorrow, in a week or a month’s time, but conspiracists have long memories, and I’d probably always be at risk. By “killing” me – if that’s indeed what they’ve done, and part of me rejects they have that ability – they’ve given me a chance, a new lease on life.
Nevertheless, I hate what they’ve done. Hate that they’ve taken a decision away from me. What would I have said if they’d offered to disappear me and let me in on their plans? I suppose the rule follower in me would have said no. But now it’s a fait accompli. If, indeed, their hacker is as good as they say, I’ll officially be declared dead. It’s a chance for me to start all over again, with none of Adams’s unfortunate demise hanging over my head.
Has this dreaded motorcycle gang given me a way to be safe?
I suspect if their ruse goes undiscovered, there will be a well-attended funeral, as I was one of the elite agents with clearance to protect the highest officers in the land. Not that my colleagues will put in an appearance. They’ll all stay undercover and as discreet as they can. There will be no family there, as I have none. Mom and Dad both died overseas in a car crash where I was the only survivor. The graves I’d visited had been for people I couldn’t even remember. I’d viewed the headstones with sadness and grief, for them, for wasted opportunities, and for what could have been a different life. An orphaned kid, I was placed with an elderly aunt and uncle who’d taken me in from a sense of duty. They weren’t cruel or deviants, but had no idea how to bring up a child, and little intention to learn. I’d spent the next sixteen years striving for acceptance, for recognition, for praise, if not love, but never received it. Despite that, I survived. Unscathed. At age eighteen, I’d left, and I think there was relief on both sides.
It’s going to take me more than a moment to get my head around this, but time isn’t something that I’ve got. Unless I find a way to escape fast from Saint and the Kings, there’s every reason to believe that I’ll be declared dead. And coming back from that will prove potentially difficult, especially with my records changed in the way that they say they have.
I’ve got to do some thinking, and fast. What has the Secret Service given to me? Disregarding that it’s unwittingly put a target on my head, my job fulfillment is stopping someone else being dead. Someone whose policies I might not believe in. I go into work, knowing this might be the day I throw myself in front of a bullet to protect a man or woman whose views I might not respect.
What about my personal dreams? While I might not have had the ideal childhood, nor examples I’d wish to follow, don’t most women dream of finding a man who loves her, and a house surrounded by a white picket fence? Children? I never saw myself having any, but if the Kings kill me now, I won’t have the choice. Resolve sweeps through me. I don’t want to die. I’ve so much more I want to accomplish. And if it means keeping the deal I seem to have made with the Devil, it might be worth it to stay alive, to give myself a chance to get my dreams realised.
Raising my eyes, I look directly at Saint. There’s no denying he’s a sexy, handsome, very desirable man – on the outside. Underneath that heavily tattooed skin, I’m not all sure he’d meet any definition of a good man. Still, beggars can’t be choosers. “What does being your old lady entail?”
My question startles him. He rears back. His hands brush his gorgeous, long hair behind his ears, as he takes a moment to react. His face hardens. “I don’t want a fuckin’ ol’ lady,” he menacingly growls. “Never did, never will, and ain’t going to start now.” He pulls himself up straighter. “But to answer you, an ol’ lady stands behind her man, supporting him in everything. And, most importantly…” Breaking off, he sneers, taking a moment to let his eyes roam the shape of my torso hidden under the sheet. “She makes her body available to him, anytime, anyhow.”
I hate the way my inner core tenses and responds to his last demand. All my sexual interactions have been polite, and at best, transactional in that I’ll get you off, then you give me what I want. I shouldn’t be aroused at the suggestion that Saint would use me roughly, make me submit to him somehow.
I retort, “Should have expected bikers to have no finesse in that department. You want the woman to give you all the pleasure while she gets none.”
“Never said that.” His nostrils flare, his eyes narrow, and lines appear on his brow. “You think I couldn’t satisfy you?”
The challenge in his response makes my lady parts come alive, overcoming the pain from my injuries. If he can cause such a reaction from just words, I’m fucked.
His eyes heat, his pupils expand, his breathing rate quickens, and he adjusts his stance. I’m getting to him, I realise. He’s not the only one with control here.
We stare at each other, then he suddenly barks out, “You hungry?”
The swift change of subject takes me unawares, but as if on cue, my stomach grumbles, reminding me I’ve not had food for hours. Warily, I respond, “I could eat.”
He lends a hand to help me onto my feet, then steadies me and passes me the crutches. Unable to use both as I’m hampered by the sling I’d taken to using again as my shoulder had hurt after that meeting in their clubroom, I let out an exasperated huff and pull my arm free.
“Use it,” he snarls, surprisingly gently, threading my hand back through the support. “If you don’t let your shoulder heal, it will keep popping out.”
Why should that matter to him, if I’m going to be dead in a number of hours? Cocking my head to the side, I try to analyse his expression, but he’s a closed book I can’t read.
“Can’t use two crutches without both arms.”
My explanation falls on deaf ears, as he takes one of my supports away. “Lean on me,” he growls.
What choice do I have? I take the support he’s offering and let him pull me into his side. Like earlier, the stairs present a problem, so without asking permission, he simply sweeps me up into his strong arms. He lets my feet drop to the floor when we reach the bottom, then puts his arm around me again. He walks, I hop, into a kitchen. When I come to a halt, he stares searchingly at me for a moment, then with a shake of his head that makes his long hair swing, he opens a drawer and pulls out a packet. When he throws them down on the table in front of me, I see they’re over-the-counter painkillers. Without a word, he moves again, this time to fill a glass with water. Appreciating the effort and knowing I could do with something to stop the pounding in my head, I take two tablets and swallow them down.
He gives a chin lift, then gestures to the stove. “All yours.”
What the fuck? “You want me to cook for you?” My tone successfully conveys my outrage.
His brow creases, and his head tilts to one side. “Well, yeah.”
“What makes you think I can find my way around a kitchen?”
He shrugs. “All women can.”
I roll my eyes. “Not this one.” Actually, I’m more than able to put together a decent meal, but it’s his misogynistic response that’s made me deny my skills. It’s not really a lie, I justify to myself. With one arm in a sling and only one leg to stand on, I’m more than slightly handicapped.
His eyes meet mine. A moment passes and neither of us blinks. I’m just about to give in when he huffs loudly. “Fuckin’ good ol’ lady you’d make.” He follows it up with a snort. “It’s good that I don’t want one.”
“I’m disqualified?”
“Fuck yeah.” He raises one hand, curls it up leaving the forefinger straight, cocks it like a gun and pretends to shoot at my head. “If you’re not going to make yourself useful, sit the fuck down.”
My head, ribs, shoulder and leg still hurt like hell. I’ve absolutely no opposition to complying to that suggestion. Leaning my crutch against the table, I manage to hop around on one leg, pulling out a chair and collapsing into it. My stomach growls, making me aware that I’m so hungry I could eat the proverbial horse, and if I’m going to keep taking painkillers and antibiotics, I need to get some food into me before my innards rebel.
Once again, his hair swings as he shakes his head, then he steps to the refrigerator and takes out some eggs. I watch, half-entranced, half-amazed, as he starts to gather other ingredients, and it looks like he’s going to make pancakes from scratch. When he puts maple syrup on the table and puts some bacon on to grill, my mouth starts salivating. I daren’t say a word in case it breaks the spell, but I can’t deny I’m getting a feast for the eyes as this tattooed biker keeps placing his firm and very admirable ass, right in my direct line of vision.
I might dislike the man, but I can admire the package. Can’t I?
Especially as he expertly flips pancakes, his hips thrusting and twisting as he does.
What a shame such a body is wasted on an outlaw biker.