Page 4 of Property of Saint

I know what he’s seeing – her wrists fastened around my waist so she can’t let go of me. But for him to jump so fast to such an accusation means I’ll think carefully when it comes to my vote for patching him in. As a response, I growl, “Think before you fuckin’ speak, Heathen. It might take you far.”

His mouth slams shut, and he steps away, walking back to his post. A glance in my mirror shows he’s consciously making an effort not to turn to take another look at me.

But my problems aren’t over. Knowing this will be easier before I get myself into my parking spot, I’ve stopped just shyof it. Having taken out my knife, I’m in the process of cutting into her zip ties when Freak comes out of the clubhouse, lighting a cigarette.Oh fuck. The enforcer can be a nosy old woman at the best of times.Realising, though, that his arrival is probably fortuitous and that I could do with an extra pair of hands, I beckon him over. Alone, it would be more difficult to manoeuvre an unconscious and seriously injured woman off my bike. And if I’d thought more about it, I would have realised getting her through the clubhouse and into a room undetected would be nigh on impossible. Yeah, perhaps I could do with his help.

Freak barks a laugh as he saunters over. “Getting hard up, VP? There are a few women inside who’d suck your dick without you having to force them here.”

Ha ha.“She’s fucking hurt,” I bark at him. “Need to get her inside, and call Doc to come look at her.”

As his paces bring him closer, under the light, he gets a good look at the woman I’m awkwardly holding in my arms. Well, as much as he can with all the blood covering her face. “Doc?” He sounds incredulous. “She needs a hospital,” he hisses. “Or maybe a funeral parlour. You might be better off calling for Words.”

“The hospital’s not an option,” I respond sharply. “Well, according to her.”

His eyebrows rise. He doesn’t need to speak for me to understand he’s thinking what I thought earlier, that that doesn’t sound like the reaction of any normal person. “Law or personal?”

Shaking my head, I admit, “I’ve no fuckin’ idea.”

I’ve untied her now. Freak steps in, taking her weight from me, and stops her from toppling backward and hitting the concrete. As he goes to place her on her feet, I snap, “Her leg’s broken.”

He lifts her into his meaty arms, her small frame no problem at all for him, and waits for me to back my bike into my parking space. “Where do you want her?”

“I’ll take her,” I tell him, once I’ve secured my ride. Without argument, he passes her back to me, and I cradle her bridal style. “Is there a crash room free?”

His brow creases, and his fingers touch his forehead. “Doubt it. Brothers have been partying pretty hard tonight. It’s a full house, VP.”

Shit. I regard the building in front of me, then the one off to the side. The clubhouse is an old, converted ranch. Officers have rooms above the clubroom, and there are a couple of well-used crash rooms on the ground floor, which, as Freak has warned me, are likely to be occupied. Brothers who live on-site use the bunkhouse. Its facilities are rudimentary, with only one shared bathroom. Even if one of those was empty, I doubt the beds are very clean. Sighing deeply, I realise there’s only one thing to do. I’ll have to give up my bed for the night.

“Call Doc for me, will ya?” I wait until I get his chin lift.

Luckily, she’s no weight at all, so it’s easy to carry her through the clubroom, ignoring the curious eyes that land on me, and up the stairs leading to the officer’s living quarters. She remains unconscious as I lie her down on the sheets that I only briefly considered changing. With the blood flowing from her and staining the cotton, it will be no time before I have to swap them out once again.

Freak appears, phone in hand, just as I’ve got her horizontal. “Doc will be here in half an hour.” He regards her unemotionally. “She gonna last that long?”

I, too, regard her face, noticing it seems to be paling by the moment. I only answer him in my head.Fucking hope so, Brother.

Heavy footsteps start off faint, then increase until they stop right outside my door. Glancing around, I’m not surprised to see Bullseye, my prez, and alongside him, Tempest, the sergeant-at-arms.

“What’s all the fuckin’ noise about?” Bullseye growls. That he’s zipping himself up shows I’ve interrupted something.

I shrug. I’m not certain the sound of my boots on the stairs, even carrying the extra weight, caused any commotion at all. But my prez has a nose for trouble, and he’s obviously sniffed out that’s what I’ve found. Tempest is glaring at me, waiting for me to deny I’ve brought a problem to the club. A denial I’m unable to commit to right now. I know absolutely nothing about this bitch except that someone wants to kill her. And… as I turn around to look at her lying on my bed, it’s possible they’ve succeeded, or will have done so in just a few minutes’ time. She looks more dead than alive.

“VP?” Prez snaps as I delay my answer. Frankly, I’m not sure what words to use. My actions tonight are totally out of character.

I’m his most trusted brother, the one who stands by his side. The one who steps in when he’s not around. But even I’m not stupid enough to try to sugarcoat anything or try to pull the wool over his eyes. I give it to him, Freak, and Tempest straight down the line, describing everything that happened tonight.

Bullseye barks a laugh when I’ve finished and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Fuck, Brother. We might make a human out of you after all.”

“Yeah.” Freak chuckles. “That’s the unbelievable part of the story, that Saint fuckin’ cared at all.”

“At least you didn’t lose your cut,” Tempest observes in a serious tone, as if that would have been more of a crime than anyone having died.

I have no words to give them. No explanation as to why I felt driven to investigate the apparent murder attempt, and then to help the victim. I can’t explain, even to myself, why said victim is now lying, bleeding all over my bed.

Bullseye leans over her, giving her a closer look. “You could always speak to Words.”

Raising an eyebrow, when he turns back to me, I ask, “Words? Fuck, Prez, she’s not dead yet.” Nevertheless, I place my fingers to the pulse in her neck to reassure myself.

He snorts. “Whatever reason she’s got, she doesn’t want to be found. You helped her ‘die’ tonight.” He uses his fingers as air quotes. “Might as well make it look good. She might end up that way anyway, or she might not, but Words might be able to help.”

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