I think for a moment, but I can’t work out what it means. As my brow creases in confusion, my distinct lack of comprehension causes a ripple of laughter from those seated around the table. Then Dart stands, pulls out the tie holding his hair back, and dark wavy locks surround him, reaching well below his shoulders, making him look like an actor playing Charles the Second or similar. Then he waves his hand and makes a flourishing deep bow. “D'Artagnan at your service, ma’am.”
It takes a second for the penny to drop, and then I realise he does look exactly his namesake in the old films I’ve seen. The old Sophie can’t resist. “And how are your sword skills, then?”
“My sword is yours to command, and I assure you I’m excellent at using it.” He adds a suggestive wink and clutches his crotch to leave me in absolutely no doubt as to his meaning.
Loud guffaws greet his display, and I’m bemused at such a blatant flirtation at the breakfast table. I’ve never met men so open about their sexuality before.
“I’m Tongue,” another man introduces himself with a face-splitting grin. “Want to take a guess?”
“I’m afraid to ask.” I’m already blushing.
Just as I suspected, he sticks out his tongue and waggles it. The metal stud piercing is clear to see. Hmm, I don’t need him to draw a picture of what he uses that for!
I feel my cheeks growing red as I’m not too sure I want any further explanations. Crystal walks over and rests her hand on the shoulder of another man, who’s made from the same mould as the others—tall, muscular, with a good-looking face. “Heart.” She pats his shoulder as she introduces him, the love and affection apparent in both her expression and voice. “He’s my husband, and he’s got a huge, great fuckin’ heart.”
In a romance novel it would be an ‘Awww’ moment, but in real life, this admittedly handsome but fierce looking man doesn’t look like he’d be giving his spare change to charity, but rather protecting his own with everything he’s got. But I can see how aptly he’s named when little Amy decides to come over at that moment, leaps on his lap, and tugs on his beard to get his attention. His face softens, and when one arm holds onto the child tight, and the other goes around his wife’s waist, the love he has for them both comes shining through. Yup, Heart suits him.
“What about you, Horse?” Crystal throws out the question.
I cover my mouth with my hand, wondering how Horse will phrase his response.
He doesn’t crack the smile I expected, just glances up and says matter-of-factly, “No mystery there, my surname’s Horseman.”
Oh! Shit! Now my head drops down into my hands, and as I feel my cheeks start to glow, I peer at him over the top of my fingers. He barks a laugh toward me then pulls the plate of bacon toward him. I make a mental note never to make assumptions about names ever again.
Conversation falters as we get down to the business of eating all the sumptuous food Crystal had prepared, but when I’ve finished all I can stuff down without feeling uncomfortable, I look round the table again, remembering the name of their president. “How did Drummer get his name?”
There are grins all around, then almost as one, they all shout together, “Because he bangs everything in sight!” Then they simultaneously start slamming their meaty fists down on the table, making a thunderous sound. I look anxiously at Amy, still cuddled on her father’s lap, but she’s grinning and laughing and joining in, her little hand slapping the table as hard as she can. I’m hoping she doesn’t get the joke.
It seems I’m not the only one to have completed their meal. As though it was a sign, the men stand, collect their plates, and take them over to the sink area where Crystal starts rinsing and stacking the dishes into the dishwasher. Breakfast is over. There’s a kernel of disappointment inside that I haven’t seen Wraith this morning. A small frown takes over from my smile as I wonder whether he’s still tucked up in bed with one of the women I saw here last night.
“Earth to Sophie.” As Horse looks at me with an expression of amusement on his face, I give a wry shrug and again smile. I’d been lost in my thoughts for a moment, thinking things I had no business thinking. Once he’s got my attention he carries on, “You mentioned the president. He's asked to see you this morning. Ready for it now?”
I didn’t expect to get an invite to see the president. Was it just good manners to welcome me? I suck in my cheeks as Horse’s words come back to me—no, it’s probably a warning to keep my mouth shut about the club. To give Horse a response, I nod, though admit to feeling a touch of anxiety. The man in charge of these unruly men has to be a force to be reckoned with.
Having learned his lesson, Horse leads the way to the office used by Drummer, president of the Satan’s Devils, leaving me to get there under my own steam. He knocks on the door, and a gruff voice invites us in. Horse steps back, letting me enter first.
Drummer is sitting behind an impressive-looking desk. On the wall at his back is a big flag with the logo of the club, three little devils all holding pitchforks. A dark figure hovering behind them is carrying a scythe. It’s a gruesome image, bad enough on their cuts, but almost chilling in large scale and full technicolour.
Although I’d met him briefly the night before, power just oozes off this man now that I’m seeing him in his domain, and I sense an attack of nerves coming on like a naughty schoolgirl brought in front of the headteacher. My mouth goes dry, and I’m glad I’ve already eaten, as my appetite would have faded if I’d met him first.
It seems like hours that Drummer levels an assessing stare at me, and I start shrinking under the intense gaze of his steely grey eyes, which seem to see right into my soul. I bite my tongue to stop myself shouting out, ‘It wasn’t me!’ but then his features relax, laughter lines—which on him are more likely to be called scowl lines—appear as his thin lips widen into a smile. “Mornin’ Wheels. Your room alright for you?” He adds a wink to the question.
Yup, the name’s stuck, and this is the last person I’d have the guts to contradict, so I shrug off my annoyance and just reply, “Fine, thank you. I’ve got everything I need.” Then, as my innate politeness rises to the fore I remember to add, “And thank you for having me here.”
“Why, haven’t you got pretty English manners there? And it’s a pleasure, darlin’.”
As he replies, I study him. He appears to be in his late thirties or early forties. His dark hair is already greying at the temples, and he has a salt-and-pepper short but tidy beard. His nose is slightly crooked as though it was broken at some point, and his skin is brown and weathered, probably due to riding in the hot Arizona sun. There’s a rugged beauty about him—when he smiles, he’s an attractive man. Though the way he holds himself, as though he’s poised to jump into action, suggests he’s not a man anyone would want to cross.
He continues to subject me to an examination of his own, but instead of asking anything personal, talks about the accommodation. “Yer room’s probably not as fancy as you’d like, but hopefully clean. Otherwise, the fuckin’ prospects are in deep shit.”
I don’t want anyone getting into trouble on my behalf, even though in all truth, the sink could have been a bit cleaner. “It’s fine, honestly.” I note my vocabulary seems sadly lacking today.
“Good.” He gives a slow nod then turns and indicates a man who I hadn’t even noticed is in the room, such is the president’s presence. “Let me introduce you. This is Mouse.”
The computer guru. I’d wanted to meet him. But his name clearly comes from what he does. I’d been imagining a small, quiet man, and in the flesh, Mouse in no way resembles my mental image. His slightly darker skin and black hair suggests he’s of some sort of mixed heritage. Like most of the other men here, he’s big, almost as tall as Horse, but a bit slimmer. But like every other man I’ve seen so far, his build is all muscle, not fat. God these people must work out! Swallowing down saliva that’s unexpectedly come into my mouth, I nod at the man I’ve just been introduced to.
“Mouse is our comput
er man.” Becoming conscious Drummer’s speaking again, I pull my attention back to him. “He’s found out some stuff about this St John-Davies dude that I think you’d do well to hear.”
Forgetting my nerves in the light of this revelation, I pull myself up straighter and lean forward, my eyes flicking between Mouse and Drummer. “What do you know?”
Mouse indicates the two chairs in front of the desk, and as Drummer nods, both Horse and computer man sit down. I suddenly find the air less difficult to breathe when I no longer have two enormous men hovering over me.
Looking first at his president, and then at me, he throws a question out into the air. “Do you know what the dark web is?”
I shake my head. Drummer is looking smug, Horse is looking as mystified as I am.
“Okay, well, so there’s the dark web, and the deep web,” Mouse starts his explanation. “Now, IP addresses. The IP address is a string of numbers by which anything connected to the internet can be found. Your computer would have its own IP. If I had a website and you visited it, normally I’d be able to see which IP addresses, and thereby computers, had accessed my site, and likewise, you’d enter my website via its IP. Most IPs you’d come across are easy to find—you can search for them on Google or Bing or any of the other search engines.” He pauses to check we’re with him so far. “Now there’s a huge fuckin’ number of IPs you’d never come across. People using the dark or deep web hide their IP addresses so you can’t look them up, and it’s virtually impossible to find them. Unless you know what you’re doing, that is.” He pauses to smirk, which suggests he does. “Normally the deep web isn’t used for any nefarious purpose—banks use it to store your account details or companies for their intranets. But the dark web, well, that’s where all the black deeds are done. Drugs, arms… and any types of services can be bought on the dark web, with only a few people being any the wiser.”
“Mouse knows his way around the dark web,” Drummer tosses in, sounding full of pride.
Useful, I would think, considering some of what I suspect the club is involved in.
Mouse throws a grateful nod at his president before resuming, “Yes, I do, and I check it regularly. What for is club business. But yesterday I picked up something interesting.”
Club business? My suspicions about their illegal activities seem to be confirmed. Drugs and arms? I suppress a shudder, realising I don’t want to know. It becomes clear these are the type of things Horse is warning me to keep my mouth shut about. I’m certainly not going to ask them to clarify. Deciding to stay away from dangerous topics and wanting to get things back on track, I prompt, “You’ve found something about Ethan?” I can think of no other reason why this discussion would involve me.
“About you, actually.”
“Me?” My voice comes out as a squeak. What would anything on the dark web have to do with me?
The slow bobbing of his head accompanies his words. “Yes, I’m afraid so.” He pauses to glance at Drummer, as if querying whether he should be the one to tell me what is looking like is going to be bad news. The president dips his chin toward Mouse, so it’s the computer man who enlightens me. “There’s a fuckin’ contract out on you, Wheels.”
“A contract to kill me?” I hold my breath and feel an icy shiver down my spine and goosebumps rising on my skin. God, Zoe, what kind of man did you get tangled up with?
Horse’s hand reaches out to touch mine and gives it a squeeze.
My eyes are still fixed on Mouse, and I only exhale when he gives a quick shake of his head and hurries to reassure me. “Not at the moment. They want you located and presumably taken.”
“Ethan St John-Davies, he’s behind this?”
“That’s the assumption we’re making,” Drummer butts in. “The identification of the person behind it is hidden, Wheels, but if there’s anyone fuckin’ else after you, we need to know.”
I’m what I would have classed as an ordinary woman. I am, or was, a fashion buyer for God’s sake, and a fairly lowly one at that, and probably now unemployed. I’m disabled in a wheelchair. I am not the type of person who’d have a contract put out on them! My mouth falls open, and although I’m ashamed to admit it, tears are pricking at the back of my eyes. Why, why the fuck me?
I come up with the only answer I can. “I’ve got to go to the police and tell them.”
You’d have thought I’d used the dirtiest swear word possible from their reaction. All three men sit back and glare at me with a look of horror on their faces. “No fuckin’ way are you bringing the heat down on us,” Drummer states firmly. “Your St John-Davies has the English police in his pocket. Horse tells us you found that out for yourself when they botched the investigation of the hit and run which injured you. Who knows how far his reach is here? And how are you gonna reveal how you know about the contract on you without giving away Mouse and the rest of us? I won’t fuckin’ have us dragged into it. The police will not be involved, nor any other authority.”
His obvious anger at the thought shows I don’t have any choice in the matter. But I don’t know what else I can do, so in a quiet voice overflowing with dejection I tell him so.
Drummer, for all his authority and daunting presence, changes expression. His features soften, and a look of understanding and compassion covers his face. “You’re safe, Wheels, no one knows you’re here.”
“They can trace her to the airport.” Horse speaks for the first time, frowning as he realises we must have left a trail.
“Easily, yes, she used her own passport.” As I shudder and begin to doubt Drummer’s soothing words, Mouse continues, “But Dart and Slick weren’t wearing their cuts in the airport.”
“They could still recognise them.” Horse remains concerned.
“They could,” Mouse grins widely, “if the security cameras hadn’t suffered a virus about the time you arrived. It took them half a day to get the bug out of their system.”
At my look of incomprehension, he continues, “Knowing you wouldn’t want your whereabouts broadcasted, Wheels, we took certain precautions when Horse said he was bringing you here. It seemed a bit over the top and paranoid at the time, but I do like playing with my toys. Worked to the good this time. No one knows you’re here, and the last place anyone would search for a woman in a wheelchair is a biker compound.”
My head slumps down into my hands. I can only hope he knows what he’s talking about and that he’s right.
Chapter Six
Wraith…
Last night I jerked off to thoughts of the captivating woman in the wheelchair. This morning I wake up determined I’m not going to act on the strange attraction I feel toward her. Not only is she out of bounds to all us fuckers, but I’m a one-and-done type of guy, rarely, if ever, going back for seconds unless it’s with the sweet butts who know the score, or who should. Briefly, I remember how Chrissy seems to think she’s exclusive with me, and knowing that, I’ve got to shut that shit down fast. She’s got nothing special over the other girls, and it certainly wasn’t her I was thinking about in my shower. Uh-uh. It will be no loss if I steer clear of her from now on. With the variety of pussy we get around the club, there’s no need to tie myself to one person. And that’s why I’ve got to put the Englishwoman well out of my mind. Someone like her, well, she wouldn’t expect to be kicked out of my bed to be replaced with someone else the next night.
So while I didn’t consciously avoid Wheels at breakfast—I’d been in a meeting with Drummer and Mouse at the time—it was a good opportunity to keep my distance. The less I’m around her, the less I’ll be tempted.
I’m not going to be able to duck her for long though. She’s going to be around the clubhouse for the next few months, so the sooner my cock gets the message she’s off-limits the fucking better. And there it goes. As soon as I fucking see her wheeling herself out of Drummer’s office and back into the clubroom, I feel myself swelling just at the sight of her. What the fuck is wrong with me?
While a particular part of
me wants to get up close and personal, I force myself to stay leaning at the bar, observing instead of approaching. She’s gone as white as a fucking sheet, paler even than I noticed last night, and it’s not hard to fathom why. Prez had updated me earlier, and I didn’t see the necessity to crowd the room by staying and hearing it all over again, nor risk in front of Drum getting the predictable hard-on being in her presence would cause; he’d give me fucking shit for that.
Putting my strange sexual attraction aside, this whole business is worrisome. Mouse’s ability to access the dark web is one of the reasons he’s so important to us. Fuck, we make good use of it ourselves for club business, so I’m acutely aware of the dangers lurking beneath the surface of the internet and the bottom dwellers that skulk there—the type regular citizens like her would be in total ignorance of. She’s staring vacantly ahead as she enters the main room; my features tighten and I feel anger growing on her behalf. Not only has she suffered such devastating injuries, but now she’s being hunted by people who, without our protection, would quickly find and destroy her. And all because she did what any of us would do—she helped a friend.
But what’s this going to do to the club? As VP, that should be my primary concern. At the moment there’s only Drummer, Mouse, and myself who are aware of this latest development, but at the next church we’ll bring all members up to speed. Knowing my brothers, the now real confirmed threat against her will only strengthen their resolve to offer her protection. But we have to consider the risk to ourselves. Fuck knows what shit this might bring down on our heads.
Horse has planted her by a table and is approaching the bar with the obvious intention of getting her a drink. My eyes move from her and track him, only out of idle interest, and I see him stop halfway and answer his phone. I don’t hear his side of the conversation, and his expressions are hard to read. But as he glances back to his companion quickly before he resumes the conversation, I gather it’s got something to do with her.
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