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CHAPTER FOUR

SAINT

W e all stay to ensure Doc does exactly what he was supposed to do and nothing more. I’m ready to put my fist in his face if his little finger so much as strays an inch in the direction of, who we now know as Jane’s pussy. Or that’s the name she’s given us. I’d put good money on it being fake.

Freak taps his fingers against the leather of his vest, making an annoying sound. It catches Doc’s attention. When he swings around, the enforcer casually says, “Thought you were supposed to stop a concussed person from going to sleep. Yet you’ve just put her out.”

“Teaching me to do my fucking job, are you?” Doc rounds on him and throws up his hands. “In an ideal world, she’d be in a hospital, having an MRI for her brain and X-rays on her leg. But you want me to treat her, and when I start manipulating her broken bone, that’s going to hurt.” He waves his hand down at her. “She could already be bleeding to death from injuries I can’t see.”

“Alright, Doc.” Bullseye moves forward and puts his hand on his shoulder. “You’ve already made that point. You’re doing your best. We can see that.” He, too, gestures toward the unconscious woman. “Truth is, we don’t know whether she deserves to live or die, so any mistakes won’t matter tonight.”

Freak nods as though accepting that point, while Doc raises his eyes to the heavens, and shakes his head, before returning to his task. After touching her leg for a moment, he glances up. “Bron, come and give me a hand.”

Dutifully, his daughter comes to his aid. I watch as they stretch Jane’s leg out. Even I can see he’s doing his best to get the break aligned, and appreciate that without specialty equipment, his skills might not be enough. She might never be able to walk properly again, but hell, if it wasn’t for me, she wouldn’t be alive. Small price to pay if she comes through the night. That’s if we find no reason to complete what the men in the SUV had started.

It’s boring watching him work. Freak slips out, Bullseye too, then it’s only me and Short. I stifle a yawn, look at the clock, and see that almost an hour has passed. Now a cast is covering her leg from knee to ankle, stitches applied to the wound on her face, and the sheet’s fully covering her again, though I know underneath her right shoulder is supported by a sling. He’s also set up an IV, which is feeding strong antibiotics into her.

Doc takes two bottles of tablets out of his bag and hands them to me. “These are powerful painkillers. She’ll need them when she wakes up. And these are to help prevent an infection, if it’s not already too late.” After I take them, he raises his chin. “Take out the IV when the bag is empty. I expect that’s within your level of expertise.” Suppressing my instinct to roll my eyes, I just give a sharp nod. Predictably, he ends with, “I’ll expect the normal payment.”

“Of course.” Though rather than money, I’d prefer to reward him with a bullet, directly into his head.

Sparing just one last glance toward his patient, he gestures to Bron to pick up the heavy bag while he collects his lighter case. “Call me if you need to.”

Short growls, steps forward, and relieves Bron of her burden, then leads them back down the stairs.

As the door closes, I loosen my hair from the bun, letting it fall loose, then brush it behind my ears as I stare at the interloper who’s taken up good real estate in my bed. I may not have much of a heart, but even I don’t think I should move her. Her concussion could be worse than Doc thought, or was able to diagnose with no equipment, or she could have internal injuries and die during the night.

For now, her facial muscles are relaxed in a drug-induced slumber, and her chest rises and lowers with monotonous regularity.

What do I do? I could call a prospect to come watch over her, take a bunny into a crash room and have a well-deserved fuck and then some equally earned rest. Suddenly, the memory of that explosion, me thinking I’d lost my cut forever, comes back into my head, coupled with the vision of her as far away from the wreck as she could, hanging onto my leather. She understood the importance of it. Anyone else would have saved themselves and left what to citizens is an innocuous piece of clothing to burn.

She either knew or guessed how much it took to earn my patches, how that vest has been on my back for so long, I feel naked without it. I owe her.

My bed is super king-sized. A man deserves his comforts after all. She’s taking up less than half of it, more than enough room for me to lie beside her. The night’s warm. I don’t need to get under the covers. When I have to suppress a yawn, I decide on my course of action. I’ll sleep in my own fucking bed. It’s me who chases women out of it, not the other way around.

Kicking off my boots, placing my cut neatly over the back of the chair, I realise it might be best to try to make her comfortable before I go to sleep, knowing she won’t be happy waking up naked. That’s in the event that she wakes up at all. Taking a clean tee and a pair of boxers out of my chest of drawers, I gently slide them on her. I’m grateful she’s still out for the count, and trying not to feel a voyeur as I can’t help but notice her firm and decent-sized breasts, nor do I miss the curves of her ass as I pull up the pants. Then, feeling as slimy as the doc who’d treated her, I force my eyes and hands away from the smooth skin. Leaving my jeans and shirt on, I lie next to her. A glance at my phone shows it’s more morning than night, and the rhythmic, gentle breathing coming from beside me is almost hypnotic. Though I thought my brain wouldn’t stop racing, it’s only moments before I follow her into sleep.

Seemingly only moments later, I abruptly wake as screaming interrupts the pleasant dream I’d been having. One moment, I’m riding my bike with the sun setting over the mountains around me, and the next, I’m almost being kicked out of bed.

“Jane,” I snarl, trying to still her movement before her thrashing does more damage to her head or her leg, or, from the way her arms are flailing, dislocates her shoulder again or dislodges the catheter in the back of her hand. “Jane,” I snap more forcefully when she doesn’t awake. After flicking on the bedside light, I pin her down by carefully placing my body over hers. “Jane!”

At last, she stills, an abrupt change from a moment before. Her eyes come open and meet mine.

Immediately, her struggles start again. “Get off me! Who are you?”

While she’s looking straight at me, her vision seems unfocused. I pull away, giving her space, letting her come back into her head, hoping to fuck her brains aren’t even more scrambled than they were last night. She couldn’t remember the accident. Has she now forgotten the aftermath?

She stills after I remove myself from her, and I watch as she blinks, then blinks again. Her brow furrows, then some of the tension leaves her. Her pupils move right, then left until finally she takes a deep breath. “My car rolled,” she gasps as she remembers. Then her eyes narrow as she looks at me intently. “Am I wrong that you were there?”

Thank fuck she seems lucid. “Not wrong,” I say gruffly.

She raises her hands, wincing at the tug on her shoulder, glancing down at the sling that’s caught her attention. Her movement stills, and she breathes out, “It wasn’t an accident.”

While wondering exactly how much she can remember, I respond, “No, it was not.” Noticing the bag of antibiotics is empty, I reach for her hand, and under her bemused gaze, expertly remove the catheter from it, and cover it with a Band-Aid Doc had left.

Then I attempt to get more out of her. “Do you know who tried to kill you?” The answer might offer some clues as to who she is, and whether she’s to be treated as foe or friend to the club.

Her mouth slams shut.

Yeah, well, it probably wasn’t going to be that easy. “You want anything? Water? Coffee?” Belatedly, I remember the tablets Doc had left me. “Painkillers?”

Instead of answering, she asks. “What’s the damage?”

I don’t sugarcoat it. “You’ve got a head injury, probable concussion. The wound on your head had to be stitched. You had a dislocated shoulder that you need to be careful of. Your leg is broken, and Doc did his best setting it, but without X-rays, there’s no way of knowing if it’s going to heal right. On top of that, the wound could get infected.” I pause, then wonder if she’s reconsidering last night’s decision. “I can still take you to a hospital if you want?”

She shudders. “No hospital.” As she speaks, she pushes her hands under the sheet and runs them over her body. “What are these clothes?” Raising the sheet, she peers underneath.

Whatever she’s starting to remember, it’s not in much detail. Sighing, I repeat the excuse we used last night. “We got our on-call medic to look at you. He wanted to see what he was dealing with. You had blood everywhere.” I tap my own forehead. “Head wounds bleed profusely, so your clothes were pretty messed up. Thought you’d be more comfortable to have clean clothes.”

Her face scrunches as her brow furrows, and she nibbles at her lip. As she closes her eyes, I can see her brain working. “There were men… You. Your president.” Suddenly, she sits bolt upright, the too-quick move making her wince as she scrabbles backward up the mattress so she’s leaning against the headboard. “You called him Doc, but he tried to touch me…”

Now it’s me who’s grimacing. “Yeah, sorry about that. He knows what he’s doing medically, but he’s otherwise screwed in the head. That’s why we stayed in here with you.”

“He knocked me out.” It comes out as an accusation.

“Only to set your leg. I swear on my Harley, neither he nor anyone else touched you inappropriately.”

She still looks suspicious and rubs her temples, gingerly touching her stitches. “There was a woman.” At my nod, I see some of the tension leave her. “Was she the one who dressed me?”

Without thinking, I disavow her of that comfort immediately. “Nah, it was me.” There’s no reason not to be honest.

Her pallor whitens even more than it already had from the blood loss. “With witnesses?”

“No,” I rush to reassure her, not admitting the room was full when her clothes had initially come off.

“You, you’ve seen me naked?”

“Well, I couldn’t dress you with my fuckin’ eyes shut.” For some reason, she looks completely devastated, but for the life of me, I don’t know why. Hell yeah, I noticed she’s got great tits, a nice pear-shaped ass, slim waist, and long legs. Oh, and a nice, landscaped pussy, trimmed close, not completely bare. Why would it worry her so much I’d seen her as her maker had intended? It wasn’t like I’d been ogling her.

She’s turned away from me, a spot of red staining the one cheek I’m still able to see. There’s no reason for her to be embarrassed.

“It really worries you I’ve seen you in all your glory?” I query, not for the first time, thinking there’s just no way of fathoming chicks.

“It’s awkward,” she says. “I seem to have ended up in the midst of a load of bikers, and I’m at a disadvantage.”

“It was you who asked me to bring you here. Last night, you thought it was a good idea to come to our clubhouse.”

Her eyes widen, then she sighs as she remembers, and says drily, “As you said, I’d taken a blow to the head. I just didn’t expect you to see me naked.”

I don’t like how uncomfortable she looks. The answer immediately comes to me. “I can sort that.” Hearing my movement, she turns to look in time to see me pulling my tee off, then easing my zipper down. I’ve gone commando, so when I shove my jeans over my hips, there’s nothing preventing my dick from flopping out. Quickly, I rise on my toes and back down again, making it jump. “See?” I grin. “I’ve seen yours, you’ve seen mine, now we’re even.” Swivelling my hips, I play helicopter.

For a second, she looks stunned, but just as I’m thinking I’m an ass after her experience with Doc, she must note the playful expression on my face as she exclaims, “Oh my God!” Her hand covers her mouth, and she snorts, but whether from disgust or amusement, I can’t tell until she laughs. “You’re crazy. You know that?”

It’s then I notice she seems transfixed by my cock. She hasn’t removed her eyes from it. I’m a sick man. As hurt as she is, I can feel it thickening. Gruffly, I warn her, “You keep staring at it like that and I might take it as an invitation.”

Quickly, she turns her head away. That flush I saw on her cheek? Well, it just got one hell of a lot deeper.

Amused at her reaction, I tug myself in and fasten my jeans up. “Jane.” I try to get her attention. When she doesn’t respond, I say it again, this time with a snap to my voice. “Jane.” I see the moment she stiffens, then turns back around.

I was going to leave it until she had a chance to get some food in her stomach, or at least something to drink, but I’m not stupid. “Who are you really?”

Her eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

“Well, your name’s not fuckin’ Jane for a start. You need to start giving some answers. Who wanted you dead?”

She rubs at her temples. A flicker of sympathy goes through me because she sure got a bang on her head. Then the devil side of my brain kicks in, wondering whether it’s a delaying tactic to give herself time to think and come up with a story that I might accept.

It better be the truth, and something I can get on board with. Otherwise… Well, she’s already going to be declared officially dead when a corpse with her clothing turns up in her car. And, if she’s any threat to the club, she’ll find herself six feet under for real.

“Well?” I prompt.

“I don’t know who ran me off the road, and that’s the truth.”

I try a different approach. “Who might have found you in the hospital if we’d taken you there?”

She raises and lowers her shoulders. “I don’t know.”

She’s not telling me anything. All that’s coming out of her mouth is lies. She was so adamant that she didn’t want to go to the hospital, there must be someone who could have found her there, so only one thing makes sense.

“You in trouble with the law?”

Her eyes widen, and her reply comes fast. “No.”

I don’t believe her. Rolling my eyes, I question in more detail, “You stole that car? Money? Got caught finding out someone’s secrets? Slept with the wrong man, and her family found out?” I’m fast running out of examples, but she doesn’t react to any of my suggestions.

I’m racking my brains for more when a knock comes at my door. Calling out permission to enter, I see Heathen and beckon him inside.

At my raised eyebrow, he answers, “Prez has called church.”

Without addressing a word to the woman with a fake name, I raise my chin to Heathen. “Stay here and watch her. I’ll get one of the bunnies to bring up some food and drink. Don’t leave her for a moment.”

His back straightens as his head dips down and then up.

I trust him. He’s been with us nearly a year now and is close to patching in. He won’t let me down.