Page 41 of Property of Saint

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.

CHAPTER TWENTY

SAINT

After my conversation with Bullseye, we move into the clubroom. Just about to order fresh drinks from Heathen, we hear a gunshot from the upper floor. Automatically, we glance at each other, then we’re racing upstairs, followed by Freak, Tempest, Short, Genie, and a few of the others.

Another shot leads us to the source, my room, and bursting in, I see Pippa and the prospect grappling for control of the gun.

“What the fuck?” I roar, my brain trying to interpret the scene in front of me.

“She jumped me, man!”

Fucking bitch!Here I’d been pouring my heart out to Bullseye about my feelings for the woman I’d left in my room. She’d been satisfied, and sated when I last saw her, but instead of reciprocating how great I’d thought the sex had been, she’d been planning an escape by disarming and shooting the prospect. I dismiss the question of why he was even in my room rather than keeping watch in the hallway. She must have lured him in on some pretext.

“Get Doc here,” Prez roars, noticing the blood and the obvious bullet hole in Gris.

His discomfort makes me glare at Pippa, feeling some satisfaction on his part that he’s obviously caused some damage to her, her arm’s hanging at an awkward angle, clearly dislocated again, and her face is pale with the agony, but I feel no sympathy.I thought I’d left her compliant and went to my prez, thinking there might be a way to sort this out.She’s obviously played me.

My hand twitches and goes to my gun. Why draw this out? Why not end this now?

I see her eyes as my weapon leaves its holster, but it’s not an expression of fear, it’s desperation. And then she opens her mouth.

“He’s a traitor,” she roars. As her eyes meet mine, there’s pleading in them as she repeats, “You’ve got to hear me out. He’s a traitor, a plant, he’s trying to take down your club.”

Bullseye’s hand is on mine, keeping my gun pointed down, and he growls, “What the fuck are you saying?”

“She’s saying fuckin’ nothing. She’s a Fed, a plant. She’s lying.”

Frantic eyes go to me, then my prez, then narrow as she focuses on the prospect. “He’s not one of yours. He’s not a prospect. He’s a full member of a club who obviously wants to take you down.”

Gris shouts, “You can’t believe a word that bitch says. She’s setting me up.”

“What club?” Freak asks, his voice menacing and low.

“I don’t know the full name, but they referred to themselves as the Devils,” she responds.

Though injured, the prospect jumps up and kicks her in the ribs, so hard I can feel the blow. “She’s a fuckin’ liar. I’m loyal to this club.” His voice is so loud it pierces my eardrums.

Bullseye has frozen, his features fixed in an expression that bodes well for no one. He takes a moment, then pronounces, “Tempest, get Gris out of here now. Call in Doc to come take a look at that bullet wound and get him patched up.” He turns to meet my eye. “Saint, you and Freak stay here and get the truth out of her.”

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