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CHAPTER SIX

PHILLIPA

A club bunny, sweet butt, or whatever this club calls them, easily identifiable by the trashy clothes that revealed too much cleavage and, when she’d turned her back, the crack of her ass, had brought me some food and a bottle of water to drink. I can’t stomach the thought of solids as I feel nauseous, but I’ve gradually been draining the liquid sip by sip.

I think I might feel better if a truck had driven over me. My head is pounding, the pain from my leg is trying hard to compete, and other aches and pains all over my body are singing in harmony. I feel like absolute shit. The nausea I put down either to the concussion, or the sedative that disgusting medic used.

The prospect has stayed silent. I’d tried querying his name, but he kept his mouth zipped as though it was a state secret to divulge anything. Huh. State secrets, well, I might know a thing or two about them.

If the man in my room has reasons to stay silent about his identity, I can top them by a thousand or more. It’s true that if it hadn’t been for Saint, I’d now be dead. And I question my sanity when I remember it was me who asked him to bring me back to his club. At the time, I’d been in shock, with nothing more than a burning desire to put distance between me and those who tried to murder me. If I hadn’t pushed, he’d have left me by the side of the road, and who knows who could have driven past? Maybe I should have asked to be dropped off somewhere else, but I’m not from Arizona. I’m just passing through, and at that point, my befuddled mind couldn’t conjure an alternative.

So far, I’ve been treated well, if you ignore the type of man they use as their doctor. My injuries have been treated to the extent that I no longer think I’ll die, and I’ve been given hospitality and offered sustenance. But I’m under no illusion that it could all change in the blink of an eye.

I might not have seen it in the dark of the ravine, but once I’d woken, I’d seen the yellow diamond on his cut. Saint’s a member of a one-percenter MC, with no love for anyone from the government. And while I’m more in the realm of protecting high-ranking people, and even if my colleagues and I might be called in to investigate financial or fraud cases, those are at a level that would be beyond the scope of an MC. I know about such gangs. I’ve been trained to have knowledge of any organisation that could be a threat. But I can truthfully say none of the chapters of the Kings of Anarchy have come across my radar, so my professional interest is completely zilch. That doesn’t mean I’m not blind to the fact they’re hardly choir boys. And if they get one sniff that I might have a connection to law enforcement and be a possible threat to them, they won’t hesitate to kill me to get me out of their way. They’re all about protecting their own, and the club comes above everything. When they put on the patch, they agree to die for their brothers, so ending my life would mean nothing to them.

I’ll keep my identity to myself, thank you very much. Surely that won’t be too hard? I just have to remember to answer to Jane. It’s not like I’m going up against any world geniuses. These men ride bikes, run dubious local businesses, fight and fuck. They can’t be much of a threat.

What’s my cover story going to be? Tapping my fingers together beneath the sheet, I start to think. Maybe I’m a gambler who got too lucky at the tables, and the casino owner sent his goons after me? I shake my head, no. Too farfetched. Why not fall back on the old staple? Disgruntled lover whose manhood was insulted? Yes, now that’s something I think these misogynistic bikers would believe. But then again, what if their shared disdain for women put them on the side of my mythical ex? Damn it, I’ve got to come up with something.

The door suddenly bursts open—no knock, no polite waiting to be invited in. Startled, I sit up too fast, then put my hand to my aching head. The pain makes me glare at the man who’s entered, immediately recognising it’s Saint. It takes me a moment to remember that he’s my saviour, and if it wasn’t for him, then I would be dead.

After taking just one step into the room, he snarls a comment. “You’re wanted downstairs. Now.”

While I’m wondering just how I’m going to do that, he half turns and takes two items that somebody behind him hands to him. Crutches. Well, at least they don’t think I’m going to hop all the way.

I frown. I’ve got one leg plastered from ankle to knee, inconvenienced in a way I never have been before. The aids that will help me to walk seem foreign. Yet, as he passes them to me, I pull up my big girl panties and try to pull myself off the bed, only to fall back down, making every hurt pulsate in agony. I try to grit my teeth, but a groan still escapes.

Saint growls, steps forward, and more gently than I expect, puts an arm around me and helps me to my feet, well, to the one working leg I can put my weight on. He then steadies the crutches under me, waits until I’m steady, and then lets go as if touching me burns him. Applying logic to the problem, I lift both crutches, then step my good leg forward, swinging the plastered one with me. Pausing for a moment to regain my balance, feeling the burn to the shoulder I’d dislocated, I take a deep breath before repeating the action. Two steps more have me out of the door, then at a snail’s pace, I proceed down the corridor that Saint directed.

Practice makes perfect, and this is no exception. I gain speed, proud of my accomplishment, until I face a flight of stairs. Stopping abruptly, I foresee doing myself even more injury.

After a second has passed, Saint growls, “What’s stopping you, Princess?”

Without missing a beat, I balance on one leg, supporting myself with a hand against the wall, and move both crutches into one hand. Sweetly, I say, “Can you show me how it’s done?”

A moment passes, then he puts his arm around me, pulls both walking aids away from me, and passes them to the prospect who’s following behind. “Fuck this.” And then I’m airborne, being carried in his arms.

I swallow the pain that wells up, each step agony to my head, shoulder, leg, and so many aches I wonder if there’s any undamaged part left in my body. I also tamp down the thought of the extra injury he might be causing to me now. I might be dying a slow death from internal bleeding. I might have insisted I wasn’t going to go to a hospital, but now I’m questioning whether I made the right choice. After getting their so-called doctor to treat me, they’re not showing much sympathy or care now.

I’m muting the whimpers of pain that threaten to escape me by the time we reach the final step, and, at last, he puts me down, holding my arm until once again, the crutches are situated under me. Then he lets go fast.

Head down, I take a few breaths to steady myself, breathing shallowly to spare my ribs. I longingly imagine the comfort of a hospital bed with machines beeping around me, but the thought is quickly followed by the reality. If I were taken in as an emergency, it’s more than likely someone would already have taken me out. I’m here as I’ve no other option. Whatever happens, I’ve got to smile and take it. So, when Saint beckons me forward, I go where he directs.

When I come to a set of double doors, I pause. He steps in front and opens them. It’s the signal I should enter, but nervousness has me hesitating, as I see a room full of bikers, who are all staring my way. After another breath to steady myself, I metaphorically pull back my shoulders, the crutches preventing me from doing it in actuality, and step forward, plastering a nonchalant look on my face. A secret service agent is trained to face up to adversity. To keep their emotions suppressed.

Without appearing to show interest, I scan the room. Bullseye and Freak, who I met earlier, sit at one end of the table, the important end, I surmise. Then I train my eyes on the rest of the men who seem overly interested in me. There’s Short, who helped the nurse, Bron, with the medical bag. I notice one empty seat beside their prez, Saint’s I presume.

“Come in,” Bullseye commands. He waves his hand, but directs me to an empty space devoid of chairs at the back of the room.

I don’t like appearing weak, and while keeping balanced is giving me real problems due to my damaged head as well as my defective limbs, I obediently move to the place indicated. But standing there, despite my best intentions, I start to sway and can feel my eyes rolling back into my head.

“Fuck’s sake,” Saint growls, not for the first time this evening, and before I can fall, his strong arms are surrounding me once again. Someone takes my crutches from me, and the next thing I realise is that I’m being placed in a chair.

Letting my pounding head drop forward onto the table, I rest it on my arms, taking in whatever breaths my bruised body allows, to try to get oxygen once again circulating through my veins. I wait for the nausea and dizziness to fade, allowing the sound of men talking to wash over me, without bothering to translate the words. Staying alive is more than enough effort for me to worry about anything else.

Gradually, I become conscious of what one man is saying, as the word, Phillipa is repeated again and again. As the name filters through, my attention is finally caught, and I look up.

Directly across from me is a giant of a man who I recall as having been in my room. He’s wearing a smirk. “Phillipa,” he asserts again.

Once again, my head starts spinning, but it’s no longer my physical condition that's making me feel faint. Knowing that having responded to my name, I’ve already given myself away, I again drop my face down, hopefully making them think I’ve passed out to buy myself some time to think.

A hand thumps down so loudly it makes me flinch. “Phillipa Owens, we know exactly who you are.” The words and the tone in which they’re delivered make me drop all pretence.

I raise my head and turn toward the sound. The pronouncement had come from Bullseye, seated at the table’s head.

Seeing he’s got my attention, he shakes his head and sighs. “Just tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.”

Some grit comes back to me. “Seems like you might have already done that. You offer me the service of a sexually abusive doctor.” I don’t miss a couple of flinches around the table, which give me strength to carry on. “I’ve probably got a traumatic brain injury, and could be bleeding internally, which you’ve made worse by manhandling me into this room.” A little bit of guilt goes through me as Saint was actually gentle when he settled me down. But it doesn’t stop me continuing, “You’re not doing much to keep me in good health.”

“And why the fuck should we? You looking to take us down? You deliberately got Saint to bring you to us.” Bullseye gets directly to the pertinent question.

After rolling my eyes, I throw his words back at him. “Why the fuck should I? If you know who I am, you’ll know I’m Secret Service.” I take a breath. “Primarily, we provide protection services or investigate financial crimes that threaten the country.” Probably stupidly, I can’t stop a sneer showing on my face. “A motorcycle gang isn’t even on our radar, unless you’re committing grand fraud or larceny.” A shake of my head suggests I think it's unlikely. Petty money laundering perhaps, but it’s not sufficient to attract the interest of the oldest established law enforcement agency in the United States. Suddenly, all the unfairness of the situation hits me. “I didn’t ask Saint to help me when I was run off the road. It’s quite a leap to think that this whole situation was a setup to get me here.”

Bullseye shushes his men, who start to speak, and taps his fingers against his lips in the ensuing silence. After a moment, he gives a slow nod. “Okay. So we’re not worthy of your interest, and Saint was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and clearly not in his right mind. Our problem, sweetheart, is that you’re here now.”

I pull myself away from the indignation that they possibly think this was a put-up job. I try to block out of my mind that, though a motorcycle gang, or club, as I know they prefer to call themselves, is beyond the interest of the secret service, they are still criminals. I force myself to consider the position I’m in. I’m injured, not at fighting strength, and without proper medical attention, it’s still possible I might die. Yet I can’t blame them for that. I was the one who refused to go to the hospital. Though, if I’d had a crystal ball, maybe I’d have taken that chance. Much as I, and obviously they, hate it, this MC and I will need to come to terms with each other. If only I could give them a reason not to kill me. I wish my brain hadn’t been rattled around in my skull. I’m certainly not firing on all cylinders, and now I’m expected to enter a negotiation to save my life. Fuck me.

I try to buy time, but can feel a restlessness descend on the room. Before they lose patience, I ask, “Cards on the table?” I raise my eyebrows and look first at Bullseye, then at the others sitting around. I’m rewarded with chin lifts or quirks of their heads. “You know my name, you know the situation…”

“Question.” One whose name I don’t yet know raises his hand as though in class. “Was the killing of Preston Adams contrived, and were you part of it?”

Breathing deeply, I’m not surprised to be asked, so consider my words carefully. “I worked fucking hard to get to the position I was in. High enough up the chain to be considered suitable for protecting a high-profile candidate, so close to the election. Sure, I’m vertically challenged compared to some other agents, but I can give anyone a run for their money in other attributes and skills. I’ll give you the facts as I know them.” Glancing around again, I see that they’re all listening. Again, I shrug. “The campaign rally was going as expected. Nothing on our radar. We were all looking into the crowd for threats, but the local police and FBI were responsible for checking the perimeter. Shots broke out. Our training came into play, and my colleagues and I surrounded the candidate and were trying to get him away. I put my hand on his head to keep him down, but the stupid bastard wanted to make a stand. He evaded my restraint, stood up, pumped his fist, and made himself a target.” I pause. “If one of my taller colleagues had been where I was, they would have taken the bullet. But they weren’t, I was. The bullet went over my head, and he was dead.”

Tempest is frowning, and he’s the one who asks, “Could it have been planned? I mean, that you would have been in that spot at that time?”

Shaking my head, I reply, “We all just ran toward him.” Breaking off, I bite my lip. “You must understand I’ve been through this in my head hundreds of times. Sure, there was pushing and shoving. It’s possible, but not probable, that one of the other agents manipulated me into that position at that time, but I can’t see how it’s feasible. Just as I can’t see how I could have placed myself there if I was part of the plot.” Pursing my lips, I add, “I apparently was in league with a sniper who may or may not have had contacts within the FBI.”

“But some people believe that’s exactly what happened.” It’s Freak who sums up. “There are so many conspiracies online suggesting how it went down. And how their man ended up dead.”

Their man. Who he’s talking about is a man who anyone who’s been close to him, people like me, the ones paid to protect him, have seen through in an instant. An actor who plays heroes on screen, but when the act is dropped, he’s a two-bit diva menace. Trouble is, he knows his craft too well. As soon as he’s in front of the cameras or on stage, his voice drops an octave, his back straightens, and he plays the role as if he were born to it. Wouldn’t matter one iota if the next part he had his eye on wasn’t the President of the United States. And, unfortunately, he’s entranced all those outside his personal orbit. Of course, some see through him, but they know it will serve them to hang onto his coattails. He might have played saving the world in a multitude of scenarios, but he’s in no way qualified to do that in real life. He’s only as intelligent as the lines he reads that were written for him, and I know he’s easily manipulated. Or was. He’s now dead. And on my watch.

As Secret Service, I protect anyone who I’m assigned to, whatever political stance they might have, never able to show bias or give away any of my personal feelings. I’m not even supposed to have them. I’m mad as fuck his assassination went down the way it had. Sure, he was being an ass when he stood up and gave his killer an easy target. But I, we’d failed him by not finding some way to counteract that. But in the split second we had for decisions, there wasn’t much action to be taken. Not when I’m much shorter than him, and was in the direct line of the shot firing. If I were taller, the bullet might have hit me. But that was my job, wasn’t it? Professionally, I’d failed. It should have been me who was dead, and I’ll take that regret to the grave.

But on a personal note? I can’t help but feel relief that my country was saved from the shambles of having a man like him in charge, a man who would have been out of his depth as soon as he stepped into the Oval Office, a puppet perfect for grooming by his masters.

Their man . Unfortunately, the “they” he referred to seems to be the majority of the population. Women wanted to be with him. Men wanted to be him. He’d even converted a swathe of the opposite party.

If the polls were to be believed, it was the minority of people who, like me, felt like they’d had a reprieve. And, felt guilty that they did.

Of course, there are conspiracies. It’s human nature to blame more than the gunman who was shot dead before he could explain his ideals. Even I wondered whether he’d been alone in his action, or fronted a cause. I knew the link between his name and mine had been thoroughly investigated, to no end, of course. I’ve never met or heard of him.

The only thing I knew for certain was that I was completely innocent, except insofar as I failed in my job.

Freak’s still waiting for some response. I put as much force into my voice as I can. “If there was a conspiracy, I was no part of it.”