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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

PHILLIPA

I struggle to wake up as if I’m swimming through treacle, it’s harder than normal to get the energy to open my eyes, I feel like I’ve been drugged. Where I am feels somewhat familiar, and there’s a lingering odour as if another person has lain beside me on the bed. That’s the thought that makes me finally squint and view my surroundings. Where am I? And, after viewing the obvious dent in the pillow next to me, who was I with?

Quickly, I run my hands down my body. I’m fully clothed. As my initial panic that I might have been molested leaves me, I breathe in sharply as everything rushes back in technicoloured clarity. It was those damn painkillers again, making me groggy. Though admittedly, I feel better for the rest. I don’t want to put myself at such a disadvantage again. The room is empty, Saint didn’t stay with me despite what he said.

I shudder thinking how I’ve been left at the mercy of the men in the clubhouse, none of whom view me as a friend. And, oh fuck, another shiver goes through me as I remember discovering their master hacker is just a kid, a teenager who I estimate to be a fifteen or at most sixteen-year-old. And the additional revelation that the scary, violent man, Freak, is his father, who’s clearly a very caring and protective parent.

It seems hard to believe that that kid, Ace, managed to ‘kill’ me with his expertise, getting into the government databases that shouldn’t be able to be accessed by anyone, let alone someone little more than a child. The Secret Service would love to get their hands on someone with his abilities. With his knowledge comes bargaining power. He probably wouldn’t even be punished for what he did. As long as he shared the hows and whys, and then promised to use his talents to work for the good of the nation.

Do the Kings and Freak want to keep him undercover for the assistance he can provide them? Well, sure. Those kinds of skills would come in particularly handy for a criminal enterprise. But that didn’t seem to be the reason why Freak was threatening me. It seemed more personal. As if he didn’t want his flesh and blood taken from him.

Whatever the reason, it puts me in a dangerous situation. If the positions were reversed, and I were the worried parent, I wouldn’t want the risk set free.

And what I’d said to Saint was true. If I reappeared, reclaimed my identity, there was no way I could promise to keep the hacker’s identity quiet. Forcing myself to think positively, I haven’t yet been killed, I’d come close, but once again Saint had saved me. I’ve been given treatment, albeit by a dubious source, which should allow me to heal, even if my leg doesn’t mend quite straight. If I can suffer their hospitality while waiting until I get stronger, or for an opportunity for escape to present itself, then maybe I’ve got a chance of getting out of here.

It won’t be easy. Especially not as they’ve no reason to keep me alive, and a pretty good excuse to get rid of me. That thought sobers me. I feel like a prisoner on death row. The sentence has been decided. It’s just not yet been carried out.

Is there any way I can escape before they decide it’s time? Saint was right. In my current state, I can’t run.

My breathing has shallowed, my heart rate sped up. My body is entering fight-or-flight mode with nothing to rail against and nowhere to go. Concentrating on taking air in, holding it, then slowly exhaling, and then doing that again, and again, I feel the panic starting to fade, and my resolve hardens. I’m not going to give them an excuse to hurry my demise. I’m going to do whatever it takes to survive, and hope that someday, somehow, I’ll be able to get out of here. And take up the reins of my old life.

Stretching, I raise my arms over my head. Well, as far as I can comfortably lift the one in the sling and then realise something. I’m no longer handcuffed, and in addition, I’ve already assessed that I’ve no jailer in the room. While I’ve no idea how long I’ve been out, the sleep has clearly been restorative. I’m feeling stronger and certainly in less pain. Obviously, I am still hobbled and unable to run a marathon, but my ribs hurt less, and my brain seems clearer.

I’ve also got an overwhelming need to pee, so I carefully sit upright, then swing my legs over the bed, noticing with relief that my crutches have been left within reach. Testing my injured arm out of the sling, I’m pleased to find it’s supportive enough to take some of my weight. With both crutches, I get into a rhythm easily and hop my way into the bathroom. After using the facilities, I wash my hands and splash cold water on my face. Searching around, I find a still-in-its-packaging toothbrush which I claim as mine, thrilled to be able to wash the gunk from my mouth.

Finger combing my hair, thanking the gods that it’s short, and while completely unstyled, it doesn’t look like too much of a rat’s nest. But there’s not much I can do about my face. Not without a ton of concealer. One of my eyes is a lovely shade of purple, one side of my jaw swollen, and I’m pale as fuck.

But overall, not bad for a woman who should be dead, I remind myself. And while the painkillers knocked me out and caused me to be dazed when I came around, my headache has almost disappeared, and my shoulder feels stronger. Even the throbbing of my leg is annoying rather than agonising.

What do I do now? No longer tired and now fully awake, I’m already feeling bored. Did Saint forget to restrain me when he left the room, or is my newfound freedom an invitation to explore?

Whatever. I’m no meek mouse. I’m a trained investigator and bodyguard, and I’m well able to protect myself. I’ll take advantage of the opportunity offered to me.

Again, I stare into the mirror. What would I do if there were no people downstairs, the front door wide open… Would I just walk out onto the street? It’s actually not an easy question to answer. My injuries don’t make me easily recognisable; my purse and identity joined the conflagration that ended my car. Which means I’ve no way to prove who I may or may not be, especially as Phillipa Owens has been declared dead. And no money to start over, my bank accounts would be frozen by now. Placing my palms to my temples, I press in hard, trying to stop the ache that my thought processes cause. Truthfully, I’ve no idea what I should even be thinking, let alone doing now. Even if I find an open door and a clear path to freedom, I’ve no idea whether I want to start a new life or try to pick up the strands of my old one.

The only thing I am sure of is that I’m not going to wait here like a victim. If it turns out I’m not allowed on my own in the clubroom, or if they think that, at a snail’s pace, I’m trying to escape and I end up hastening my own demise, well, so be it. There’s also the slight chance that I can humanise myself and make them less likely to kill me. Slight chance? Slim to nothing more like, but anything is worth a try.

Straightening my back, I invade Saint’s drawers, then shrug the clean oversized tee that I’ve found around me, and pull up the too-large sweats I discover, rolling the waistband over and over until the bottom of the legs at least clear the floor. Satisfied I’m decent at least, using the crutches, I open the door to the hallway, and, once I’m sure the way is clear, progress toward the stairwell. As I near it, voices flow up to me, but distant and indistinct. I immediately forgo any thought of any attempt to escape.

Straining my ears, I try to see if I can distinguish Saint’s voice, knowing I’d feel easier if he were there to greet me, terrified to come face-to-face with Freak. But the sounds are a murmur, punctuated by the click of balls from the pool table, the giggle of women, and the heavy beat of rock music.

I edge down carefully, trying not to topple over on my crutches while also being quiet, hoping to get a good view of what I’m walking into before committing myself to enter the fray. I’m three-quarters of the way down when there’s a heavy banging, the noise immediately identifiable as men knocking on an external door.

Freezing, I wait. The music turns off, there are multiple comments, of “what the fuck?” Then a scrabbling which makes me grin, picturing men hiding anything incriminating. Finally, after the loud knocking comes again, footsteps now easily heard over the silence are followed by the banging of an opening door.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

I know that voice. It’s Bullseye.

Risking peering over the banister, I see a man wearing a badge, trying to peer around the large form of the Kings of Anarchy prez. “Wanna talk to a Jeremiah Henley.”

“Jeremiah?” I suspect Bullseye’s brows have raised to his hairline from his posture. “What fucking handle is that?”

“Don’t fuck with me, boy,” the sheriff sneers out disrespectfully. “You know fucking well who I’m talking about.” He shakes his head, then spells it out. “Goes by the name of Saint.”

There are chuckles all around the room, a gentle ribbing about a biker who’s called Jeremiah, while I’m trying to consolidate my rescuer with such an innocuous name.

The sheriff starts losing his patience. “Where the fuck is he?”

“You got an appointment?” At Bullseye’s words, the room erupts into laughter.

“I’ll be back with a warrant with his name on it if I don’t talk to him now,” the sheriff spits out, obviously unimpressed.

Then the man who’s saved me twice now steps into sight. “I’m Saint.” He moves closer to the lawman. “Won’t answer to any other name. Now what the fuck do you want to talk to me about?”

I can’t resist leaning over to get a better view of the proceedings. It’s clear to see how the sheriff puffs his chest out, and, pointing to Saint, instructs, “I’d like you to accompany me down to the precinct.”

Nonchalantly, Saint folds his arms over his chest and plants his feet wide apart. “Am I under arrest? And if so, may I ask, for what fuckin’ crime?”

Suddenly, half a dozen bikers are at Saint’s back, and Bullseye is standing alongside him. The sheriff visibly starts to lose some of his confidence. He clears his throat and stutters, “You, you…” He falters, shakes his head, then continues more firmly, “You’ve been identified as being at a crime scene.”

“At a crime scene?” One of the club’s officers steps forward. “As a witness or accused of committing a crime?”

“I just need him to come down to the station to talk?—”

“Not gonna happen,” Bullseye interrupts. “Unless you’ve got that warrant you said you could get.”

Interested, I try to move forward to get a better sight of the proceedings and nearly lose one of my crutches in the process. Managing the save makes my heart beat in my chest as I realise the implications of attracting the sheriff’s attention. My face made the news enough when I was thought to be alive. Now dead? It would be showing up all over the place. If I wanted to save myself from the Kings, maybe this would be the time, but now the opportunity has presented itself, the last thing I want to do is to make my presence known. Don’t ask me why, even I can’t analyse my feelings just now.

As my heart rate slows, I realise I’ve missed some of the argument. It’s the sheriff’s voice I hear who’s clearly lost patience.

“Bullseye? Either you tell your man to come with me to answer some questions, or I will return, not only with a warrant for his arrest but also with one to conduct a search of every inch of your clubhouse.”

Oh shit. That threat again makes my heart pound. They are sure to find me in that case… unless the Kings get rid of me first.

“I’ve got a lot of respect for the law.” Bullseye’s assertion rings hollow to my ears, and also to a number of his brothers as measured by the chuckles that go around. Undeterred, he continues, “But I ain’t letting any brother of mine be taken in for ‘questioning,’” he waggles his fingers, “without knowing on what grounds, and what kind of legal support he might need.”

The sheriff huffs, shakes his head, then states, “Would it help if I confirm we want to question him as a witness, rather than being implicated in any crime. We’ve reason to believe he’s a possible witness to a fatal accident.”

It all falls into place. Saint’s bike was parked up where I was run off the road. Of course, they couldn’t directly link him to the accident as a motorcycle would be unlikely to be able to run a car off the road, or not without showing damage. And if the sheriff has passed even a basic law exam, Saint’s bike would have been the first thing he’d have inspected.

“You can question him here,” Bullseye offers. “In my office. With me present.”

Saint, having been quiet for quite some time, decides now to speak. “You’ve already said I’m not accused of anything.” He holds his hands out. “Happy to tell you anything I might have witnessed, but would be more comfortable doing it on my home ground.”

“And you’d be obstructing the course of justice.” The sheriff sounds like he’s got the upper hand. “I need you at the precinct where I can speak to you on record.”

Bullseye takes a step toward his VP and speaks into his ear. After a murmured conversation, Saint sighs. “I’ll come in. But I’m not saying a fuckin’ word until my lawyer gets there.”

“Fair enough,” the sheriff agrees, and kudos to him, he doesn’t gloat at his victory, or not openly at least. Bullseye follows his brother and the lawman out of the door, the three men disappearing.

Have I just done something really stupid? Thrown away the only chance I might ever get to let someone know I’m here? Or would the Kings have killed both the sheriff and me? In the now quiet clubroom, I clearly hear a car engine start outside and gradually fade as it drives off into the distance. Do I regret letting him leave when I had the perfect opportunity to try to escape? Why is it I’m ambivalent about when I need to be rescued or not, when the Kings are most definitely about to end my life?

That I didn’t want to betray them is probably evidence that I’m suffering from a traumatic brain injury.

Whatever. I’m in no mood for company now. I decide to return to Saint’s room.

I’d gotten myself into a swing of moving my crutches to inch me down each step. But now, as I turn to get them under me to climb up, I get myself in a muddle. This time, I do let one drop, the clattering it makes is as loud as an explosion.

Within seconds, a man’s taken possession of the crutch, and another is blocking my way.

“What the fuck you doing out of your room?” he hisses. “If you’re thinking of getting the sheriff to help you…”

“Fuck that,” I snarl. “I’m trying to get upstairs. I’ve been here listening to everything that’s going on.”

“Fuckin’ spy,” Short retorts, shaking his head as if he’d known it all along.

I see red and refute none too politely. If I could have stamped my foot, I probably would. “I’m no fucking spy. Saint left me loose. I took it as an invitation I was allowed in your club room, but stopped here when I heard the sheriff arrive.”

“You were just about to make a noise to attract the sheriff’s attention?—”

I cut the first man who’d spoken to me off. “I’ve been here since I heard the knock at the door. When I heard the sheriff, I fucking froze. The last thing I want is to draw attention to myself.”

Short starts to spurn, “I…”

The other man waves him down. “Why not? You know what you risk staying here with us. Why wouldn’t you take the first chance you got to expose yourself to a lawman?”

It’s a good question. One I’ve been asking myself. In a slightly shaky voice, I admit, “I don’t know who to trust.” Lawmen can also be taken in by a conspiracy. The sheriff could be a demon or an angel for all that I know.

The front door opens, and Bullseye reappears alone. The man who’s been speaking glances around, then, looking back, stares at me as if he’s trying to see right down into my soul. Then he changes the direction of his eyes and focuses on his prez. Bullseye mouths something, but I’m no lip reader. Returning his full attention to me, something unreadable crosses my questioner’s eyes, and he steps down a stair. “I’m Tempest, sergeant-at-arms.” He introduces himself, then waves downward and suggests, “You want a drink or something?”

I’m stunned. I knew I risked running into Freak as I ventured out from Saint’s room, and if word had gotten around about Ace outing himself, then any of the brothers might have wanted to take their chance. In the event they’d tolerated my presence, I’d expected them to ignore me. What I hadn’t expected was hospitality.

I leap at the olive branch, which is probably temporary, and grab it with both hands. I’m anxious to know what the outcome between Saint and the sheriff will be, hoping, as stated, he’s just a witness, and the law won’t try to pin my murder on him. As I’m unlikely to find anything out hiding in his room, I nod. Tempest steps aside, and without offering support, watches me laboriously work my way downward, amateurishly getting to know how crutches work on stairs. At the bottom, he waves his hand in the direction of the bar. And it’s Short who steps up, offering his arm so I can prop myself on a bar stool.

“You hungry?” A voice barks from beside me.

As I turn to see Bullseye, I have to stop myself snapping to attention and instead reply truthfully, “I could eat.”

Jerking his head toward the bar, he instructs Heathen. “Burger. And quick.” As the prospect disappears, he points to Short. “And you get her a fuckin’ drink.”

Short does salute, albeit in a sarcastic way, and goes around the bar. “What’s your poison?”

Mindful I’m on prescription strength painkillers, I decide to be sensible. “Just water, please.”

“Get her a fuckin’ beer,” Tempest growls.

To be honest, I want to thank him. The sensible route is to keep a clear head, but even if I got so drunk that I became loose- lipped there’s only the truth would could come out. I’ve nothing to say that could worry them, and at least alcohol can help numb the pain. Keeping my face blank, I put my hand around the opened bottle that’s been put in front of me. Taking a sip, I address Bullseye. “Has Saint been arrested?”

He shakes his head. “Not at the moment. He’s been taken for questioning.”

I shake my head. “It’s my fault, isn’t it? Another reason he shouldn’t have stopped the other night.”

“Not slow on the uptake, are you?” It’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t answer. I just cock my head to invite more. “Yeah, Saint’s agreed to go in. You might not believe this, but lately we’ve been keeping our noses clean. Can’t see how they can pin what happened to you onto him.”

“Unless they think he can identify my assailants, who the sheriff might want to protect.”

Sharp eyes meet mine. “Not very trusting for a law enforcement officer, are you?”

Enigmatically, I answer him, “There’s good and bad to be found everywhere.” Then it occurs to me. “Does Saint need a lawyer?”

Tempest snorts. “Already got one waiting for him. Not our first rodeo, darlin’.”

I notice Short’s staring at me. I meet his eyes and raise my brow. “You invested in Saint, girl?”

Of course, I am. I snap, “He saved my life.”

“And he’ll be the one to take it, unless you can prove you’re not a liability,” Bullseye reminds me in a chilling voice, his tone giving away there’s little hope of that.

He and I both know he’s charging me with an impossible task, especially now I know about Ace. My only way out is to escape, but that’s impossible.

Heathen returns carrying a juicy-looking burger with all the trimmings which could rival any of the fast-food restaurants I’d ever been in, and top most. My stomach growls as I reach for the delicacy, almost wolfing it down.

“Fuck, prospect, get me one of those,” Tempest demands, as I, without any embarrassment, wipe the juices off my mouth using the bottom of Saint’s tee in lieu of a napkin that’s nowhere to be found.

For some reason, the way I devour my burger and drink half my beer in one go when I’m done seems to impress them.

I’m given another beer. Given my current longevity prospects, I don’t hesitate to drink it. When I’ve finished that, I take the next that’s offered. I do so feeling like I’m a spectacle in the zoo, eyes burning into me, analysing, trying to understand what makes me tick.

Suddenly, a voice calls out, “Hey, Fed, you play poker?” Turning my head, I admit to the biker who’s asked, “No, but I’m willing to give it a go.”

Next thing I know, I’m roped into a game. Someone lends me fifty to get started.

When I admit I have no knowledge of how to play, they explain the rules. Sounds easy. I find myself settling at the table along with Woody, who introduces himself as the road captain, and Paint, their tail gunner, it turns out. The man with a shaved head but a long braid hanging down from his crown, who I already know is called Rattler, takes a seat, Short, too. Finally, there’s Winchester, who doesn’t seem to have any particular role in the club but sports a tattoo of the rifle for which he’s named on his right forearm. The game gets going in earnest. Soon my fifty turns into one hundred. When it reaches two, Tempest joins in.

His eyes meet mine. “Game fuckin’ on.”