Page 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

PHILLIPA

L ying here with our combined juices leaking out of me, I’m wondering why my mind isn’t crying out that I’ve been taken advantage of by a stranger, even though I know I asked for exactly what I got. Saint was nothing like how I had expected. Turns out he was the lover I’ve always been looking for, dreaming of, even. My body throbs, feels well used and satisfied, and for some reason, my mind is quiet. Although complete peace evades me, Saint had run out of here as if he were escaping a fire.

Maybe it hadn’t been as good for him as it had been for me. On my part, it had been mind-blowing.

I’m a woman living in a man’s world, having to prove I’m better than any of my counterparts who have a penis. But I’ve a woman’s needs, and sometimes a vibrator just won’t hit the mark, so I’m no stranger to discreet one-night stands, or short liaisons with no expectations.

None of the sexual encounters I’ve ever had before have made me particularly relish a repeat performance. But Saint? Even now, my body feels his absence and wishes he’d stayed so he could prove that the heights I’d reached were an aberration.

I should try to make it to the bathroom, should wash off the drying essence of our arousal that still soaks my pussy and my thighs. My injuries might not be helping, but I’m too exhausted to move right now.

Lying here, legs akimbo, I’m unable to stir. Instead, it’s my mind that’s racing, wondering why Saint ran out of here.

Waiting for my body to reach equilibrium, my heart rate to slow, my throbbing female parts to realise there’s going to be no more stimulation, I lie back and close my eyes. When the door bursts open, I startle to full consciousness, and an innate protection mode is activated as I pull the sheet over my naked body.

“What the fuck?” I shout.

The man I haven’t seen before stands in the open doorway, a nasty smirk spreading across his face. “Saint told me to keep an eye on you.” He turns to close the door, and I see the word, Prospect, across his back.

“You can keep guard outside,” I tell him.

“Why should I? When the view’s so much better in here.”

Tightening my hand on the sheet for some stupid reason, the flimsy covering will do nothing to protect me if he wants to come close. I try to put strength into my voice. “There’s no way out of this room. No need to crowd me in here.”

The expression that covers his face is chilling. “Believe me, darlin’, I’m staying here to enjoy the scenery. I’m guessing the VP has already tasted what you’ve got to offer, and it won’t be long before he passes you around to everyone else.”

I know a bit about motorcycle clubs and how they work. For some goddamn reason men who want to join put their sensibilities on the line and do whatever they can to patch in, much like hazing on college campuses. The members give them shit duties to prove their loyalty, and their willingness to do whatever is needed. They follow instructions, to err or deviate from them ruins their chances of ever being a member. There’s something about this man that makes me question whether he’s following orders or his own agenda.

There’s also something about him that’s familiar. And why should that be? I’ve never come across the Kings of Anarchy Arizona chapter before.

Trying to ignore the way he’s staring, I lean my head back and force myself to think of what it is that sparks my memory. It’s not his visage, his scarred face is surely something I’d remember. But his voice… I’d heard that before. But where? Even when I close my eyes and try to recall, nothing comes to me. Giving up after a while, I remind myself that he’s a prospect for the Kings, and I was out of it when I arrived here. I could well have heard him in the clubhouse, or perhaps even outside the room while I was more focused on where their medical man was putting his hands.

I dislike him intensely, perhaps for no other reason than he’s shown me no respect and placed an ugly thought in my head. I know there’s little chance I’ll leave here alive, and while I succumbed to Saint’s charms, he at least had something to offer me. Surely, he wasn’t planning on passing me around? Suddenly, all the pleasure I felt at his hands is tainted, and I want the feel of the reminder he left me with off my skin. And there’s another urgent reason I need to move; my bladder is painfully full.

Opening my eyes, planning to get Gris’s attention, I suppress a shudder when I see his eyes are still focused on me, as if he hadn’t looked anywhere else since he’d entered. While suspecting he’s got none, I try to appeal to his better nature.

“I, er, need the bathroom.”

One side of his mouth turns up as he jerks his head toward the right door. “It’s over there.”

I’d been wearing Saint’s clothes until he’d ripped them off me. Now the tee is lying on the floor by the bed. On the wrong side, of course, my left arm is still tender and sore, and it’s going to be a reach to retrieve it. There’s no way on this earth I’m going to manoeuvre my way off this bed naked, not in front of the prospect, who I can tell would like me to do just that.

Wrapping the sheet around me as carefully as I can, I lean over the bed, cursing Saint for having such a deep mattress and divan. My arm isn’t long enough, even at full stretch. Making sure none of my skin is exposed, I slide my cast-covered leg off the side, then follow that up with the one that can support me, but lose my balance as I ungracefully fall to the ground, rattling my cracked ribs and restarting the banging in my head. Somehow managing to use the sheet as a tent, I slip into the tee that covers me down to my thighs. Then, I quietly curse. My crutch is on the other side of the bed.

Without any hope, I ask, “Could you pass me my crutch?”

He chuckles. “You can crawl for all I care.” He shakes his head. “Fuckin’ Fed.”

Secret Service, I silently correct, while acknowledging, for them, one branch of government is probably as bad as the next.

It’s either piss on the floor, or swallow my pride, and praying to whatever deity might be inclined to help me that I don’t flash my ass cheeks. On hands and knees, I inch myself around the bed. Even when I’m on the other side and close to my crutch, I’m breathing heavily by the time I’ve managed to reach the walking aid and get to my one good foot and position limb and crutch to support me.

Asshole I toss out into the universe. But now I’m upright and relatively mobile, I don’t delay heading to my destination.

There’s no lock on the door, but I shut it behind me, keeping my crutch within arm’s reach just in case he follows me in. I do my business, stand in front of the sink, wash my hands, and use a damp paper towel to wipe the stickiness from between my legs and off my thighs where it’s dripped down. Sounds simple, but with my disabilities, it takes longer than it would have done were all my limbs in working order.

“You staying in there all night?”

Shaking my head, I don’t verbally answer, just splash cold water over my face. I’m wiping my hands on a towel when I hear it. A ring tone from the next room.

The flashback hits me.

I’d driven all day. My head whirling from being suspended from my duties, I’d had this crazy idea to visit the graves of my parents, with no clear explanation as to why I thought that would help. I’d realised then, I’d made no real friends, had no family, and no direction to travel in unless I went to visit the dead. I’d pointed my car toward Arizona. While I’d hoped to reach my destination tonight, I was just too damn tired to drive anymore. I’d pulled off in a motel just south of Tucson, not bothered about the number of stars that it had. After registering and collecting the keys to my room, I’d collapsed on the thankfully clean-looking bed and succumbed to sleep for a few hours. When I’d woken, it was dark, my stomach rumbling with hunger and thirst, and the clock on the bedside table showing me it was past eleven o’clock. Despite the late hour, music was filtering in from somewhere.

Pulling on an anonymous baseball cap that showed no political, government or sporting affiliations, I ventured out of my room. Across the road was a bar that I hadn’t noticed in daylight. Now the broken neon lights were flickering like a beacon. There were a number of cars and bikes still outside. The female part of me knew it might be a mistake to step inside this time of night, but I’d reminded myself I was a freaking secret service agent and not worthy of the rank if I couldn’t even protect myself. With pepper spray in one pocket, my gun in my holster hidden under my jacket, and a knife in a sheath in my boot, driven by my stomach, I moved toward the bar, just like a moth drawn to a flame.

I’d changed into jeans and a Henley, and had my trusty hiking boots on, my face clear of makeup, I looked as far from a woman wanting a pickup as I could. Stepping in through the door with confidence, I walked straight up to the bar.

“Beer,” I demanded of the bartender, ignoring the lull in conversation as I’d appeared. “And is your kitchen still cooking?”

“Wings and fries?”

I nod my head; I’ll take anything right now. I watch the bartender open the bottle of beer in front of me, then pick the drink up and take a long sip, my throat immediately feeling less dry. I make sure to study the array of bottles behind the bar, ignoring the impulse to turn to survey the room behind me. Not that I have to, a flick of my eyes up to the overhead mirror shows me people are staring my way, and, just as quickly, as I’d hoped, losing interest in the hungry traveller, road weary and tired, and obviously not on the pull or hoping to earn money by opening their legs tonight.

The wings and fries appear fast, and I eat them just as quickly, even though they’re dry and have obviously been standing for a while. The first beer isn’t doing enough to quench my thirst completely, so I ask for a second, and again watch carefully as the bartender removes the cap from the bottle.

I’m downing a good-sized swallow when a phone sounds behind me. The tone brings a quirk to my lips, it’s one of the basic ones offered on the early phones of the nineties, and I didn’t even realise anyone used that jingle anymore. Some Neanderthal, I quietly thought to myself.

Though not here in any official capacity, I can’t quite turn the agent part of me off. While appearing to be morosely gazing into my drink, I quirk my head slightly to pick up on the conversation, expecting to hear the voice of a grandad.

Instead, it’s a younger, gruff, and sharp voice that answers.

“Yeah, Prez. Headed back down there the day after tomorrow. Fuckin’ idiots have no idea I’m there… I deserve a couple of nights away from those sanctimonious pricks, don’t I?” There’s a grunt, followed by a begrudging, “Yeah, I’ll get their plans and get back to you… Yeah, their routes and contacts. I’ll be in touch.” The phone call ended. But the man doesn’t stop talking, as he complains to his companions, “I busted my ass to get where I am now, it fuckin’ kills me to be back at the starting blocks again.”

“Sucks to be you, Skunk. I’d hate to go through all the grunt work for a second time. But you know Prez will reward you.”

“Counting on Wrecker coming through,” the man who owned the ring tone says. “Fuckin’ counting on it. And can’t fuckin’ wait to see those assholes taken down.”

“Spoken like a true devil.” The other man chuckles.

Oh my God! My hands cover my mouth. I’d forgotten all about that conversation, it had been none of my business, and I’d just been pleased to finish my drink and get out of the bar. The next day I’d driven on, and the rush of unexpected emotion seeing my parents’ grave, reading the words on the headstone, beloved father and mother of Phillipa, which screwed with my head as I couldn’t even remember them, had put it out of my mind completely. And then there was the accident that knocked all thoughts out of my head.

But that ringtone had brought it back to me, and now I can place where I’d heard the prospect’s voice before.

No way. I must still be suffering a concussion. There’s no way that the prospect in the room next door to the bathroom was the one in that bar that night. But if he was? I breathe out deeply. Then the only explanation is, he’s a plant and a risk to this club. Surely not. I raise my eyes to the mirror, going back over what I’d heard. It all fits, especially the part where he’d referred to having to start over.

Should I keep quiet or say something? Why should I care? Outlaws eat outlaws. Them killing each other mops up a mess the cops would otherwise have to deal with. But… Saint might be in danger. Hell, it shouldn’t matter, if I’m right, I should be making a deal with the prospect to keep my mouth shut in return for him getting me out of here.

But Saint saved my life.

And the prospect? Or, Skunk, if I’m correct, just rubs me up the wrong way. If I let him suspect that I know what he is, he’ll kill me rather than help me. Unless Skunk is his Kings’ road name, and I’m barking completely up the wrong tree. Could my memory be wrong? I’m certain he referred to his prez as Wrecker, and his companion said he was a true devil. All my instincts tell me he’s a wrong’un, and those rising hairs on the back of my neck have saved my life, and that of the person I’d been protecting, more than once.

What the fuck do I do?

“If you don’t come out, I’ll come in and get you.”

Rubbing my head, I feel the knot at the base of my skull. I could be delirious, suffering delusions, there could be no connection between an out-of-date ringtone and a gruff voice that grates on my nerves. And even if there is, it’s not any of my business. I should be concentrating on how to escape and somehow try to reclaim my life and career.

I never said I was sensible.

Opening the door, I step out, my crutch in my hand. The prospect is staring at me. “You took your fuckin’ time.” He rubs his hand over his crotch. “Time to get down on your knees, bitch. Women are only useful for one thing in this club, so now you can suck me off.”

Saint wouldn’t have left me with someone like him if he knew how he’d propositioned me. I don’t know why, but I instinctively know it. And he’s not acting like a prospect, but a member who’s patched in and thinks he has the authority to get away with it. It’s that that cements the feeling I’m right. Taking a gamble, without thinking of the consequences, I ask in a seductive tone, “How do you like it, Skunk?”

“Right down the back of your throat and choking you,” he responds, seconds before his eyes widen. There were two ways this could have gone. He might have taken the name as an insult, or I could have been proved right in Skunk not being the name given to him by this club. Prepared, I have my crutch ready and swing it as a gun appears in his hand, knocking the weapon away from him.

He leaps forward, grabbing my bad arm and yanking it so it comes out of the socket again. Screaming, but otherwise ignoring the pain, I go after the gun on the ground, claiming it before him and wasting no time before I aim at him. He shakes his head like a dog ridding itself of excess water, then, underestimating me, beckons me to return his weapon. His eyes narrow when I don’t move, and he launches toward me. I fire without hesitation, getting him in the shoulder. He falls back against the door with a roar.

Like an injured animal, he comes at me again, his speed taking me by surprise. I’m one arm, one leg down, and he’s like a man possessed as he wrestles to get control of the weapon while I’m fighting with everything I’ve got to keep hold of it. Another shot fires, this time a bullet whizzes far too close past my ear.

“What the fuck?”

In the commotion, I’d missed the door opening and bikers rushing in. I’m pulled away from my target, hands painfully yanking my ribs and re-dislocated shoulder.

“What on earth?”

“She jumped me, man,” Skunk roars.