Page 22 of Property of Saint

I can feel her eyes on me as I prepare the simple fare, and I know it’s taken her by surprise that I even care to feed her. Fuck knows how long I’ll be able to keep her breathing, but starvation won’t be what she’ll be dying of. Not on my watch, anyway.

Once the bacon’s cooking, as could be predicted, the aroma lures the brothers into the kitchen. First is Woody, our road captain, who naturally has a good sense of direction, followed by Rattler and Words, who are just nosy, and clearly hungry brothers. Paint and Short follow soon after.

“Whatcha doing there, VP?” Rattler asks, pulling out a chair and casting a curious, and not too friendly glance toward our visitor. “Thought bitches cooked.”

Now I don’t mind yanking her chain, but for someone else to do it? Before he can blink, my knife’s out of the sheath strappedto my leg and the blade’s quivering in the table right between his fingers.

Rattler’s eyes go wide and look like they’re going to budge out of his head. “What the fuck, Saint?”

“Damn, I missed,” I say regretfully and casually. Then harden my voice. “Rattler, she’s got one working leg, one working arm. How do you fuckin’ expect her to cook for us?”

Woody is pointing and laughing at Rat’s predicament. “Thought women could conjure magic in the kitchen.” As I turn my glare on him, he shrugs and continues, “Well, my mom did when my dad beat the shit out of her.” His voice has gone flat, and it doesn’t take a mind reader to know how his mom’s death at the hands of his father had fucked him up. In fact, I read approval in his eyes that I’ve not forced Pippa to cook and wait on us. I give him a chin raise.

And when Rattler, whose brains I sometimes fear are scrambled, points at Woody and, oblivious to the undercurrent, simply states, “Now that’s what I’m talking about.” I slap him around the head.

“What the fuck?” He rubs his skull ruefully.

“Best shut up, Rat,” says Paint, also eyeing Woody warily. Once the road captain sinks into one of his bouts of depression, it takes a while to get him out of it.

I notice Pippa is watching the interplay carefully, but with no expression on her face to show what she thinks of our interactions.

Finally, a prospect, Heathen, enters the kitchen. He grins when he sees I’m at the stove, but his mirth soon fades as I hand him the spatula. “Finish this crap off,” I tell him, “And don’t fuck it up.” Having handed off my kitchen duties, I put the stack of pancakes I’ve already cooked on a plate, fill another with bacon, then place them in front of Pippa. I add silverware for us both, and two plates.

“Eat,” I instruct her. Then slap Short’s hand when he tries to pinch a rasher of my bacon.

Ignoring my brothers as if she doesn’t give a damn what they think of her, she loads her plate with pancakes, bacon, and slathers a healthy dose of maple syrup over the top. She then proceeds to eat. She doesn’t seem at all fazed that she’s surrounded by men who are her enemy, or it certainly doesn’t affect her appetite as she devours her food as if she hadn’t eaten for days. Which, actually, is close to the case. Casting sideways glances at her, I discover something else about her. She’s a woman who’s not afraid to stuff her face or pretend to pick at her food. And the moan of appreciation as she puts a particularly heavily syrup covered piece of pancake into her mouth, makes my dick twitch, and causes me to glare at my brothers around the table in case they might have a similar reaction.

Heathen continues cooking. As expected, he does his best, but the pancakes and bacon are brown tinged and smoking when he lays them down. More than one pair of eyes is obviously coveting what I’ve cooked for myself and Pippa, but hey, I’m the VP, I’m not their fucking chef.

While we eat, Knight, one of our other prospects, wanders in, and Heathen ropes him in to assist him. Tempest, Freak, Genie and Piston appear. The only person missing is Bullseye. Oh, and the final prospect, Gris, who’s currently away from the club visiting a sick mom.

Having been served first, Pippa finishes her breakfast and drinks the coffee that Heathen had gotten going. Around us brothers eat, burp, fart and as hands wander under the table probably scratch regions that should, in public at least, be left well alone. The Arizona Kings aren’t used to eating in female company, or not unless it’s bitches who spent the night in their beds, with their cocks in their mouths and pussies who’ve earned no such respect. I watch her carefully, wondering whether she’smentally taking notes, in the hope that she’s somehow going to get out of here and be able to brief her superiors on the inner workings of the club. I console myself by thinking even if she did get away, she’d be leaving with no information other than we’re a bunch of assholes with no manners and, from the conversation around me, a severe lack of intelligence.

Rattler pushes his hands through the stubble that covers most of his head, then flicks the braid that’s made of the clump of hair left long at his crown back over his shoulder. He sits forward, his eyes totally focused on the woman sitting by my side. I almost hold my breath wondering what he’s going to say, but actually it’s a fairly sensible question, and one to which I’d like to know the answer.

“How did you join the Secret Service?” Rat asks, his head tilting to one side to indicate he’s interested in how she’s going to reply.

Glancing Pippa’s way, I see her shrug. “The cliff notes version is that I applied, was accepted, worked my ass off and two years ago, achieved the grade to get to where I am now.”

Rattler’s brows rise. “And what if I don’t want the short version? What makes a woman like you qualified to provide security at the highest levels in this country?”

Still watching her, I see one side of her mouth turn up. “Okay, but stop me if you get bored with the story.”

Nudging her gently with my elbow, I encourage her. “Go on, I’m interested.”

When Heathen walks around offering top-ups of coffee, she pushes her cup forward, reclaims it and takes a sip. Then, wiping the back of her hand over her lips, she starts. “I didn’t know my parents, or at least I can’t remember them. They died when I was two years old. Dad was a Secret Service agent.”

“Died in the line of duty?” Freak asks.

A mirthless grin twists her mouth for a moment. “Wrong place, wrong time.” She pauses and shakes her head. “They were in England. Mom had travelled to meet Dad after his assignment. He was off duty, and they were driving back to the airbase after a day out exploring the sights. A car appeared around the bend on the side of the road they were driving on. Head-on collision wiped all of them out. I was the only one alive as I was in a child seat in the back. It wasn’t even far from the base they’d been heading back to. The driver who hit them was a US administrator working on the base, and she’d been on the wrong side of the road. Well, the right as far as we’re concerned, but in England, they drive on the left, which my father had been doing.”

As I’m trying to take in the trauma she’d experienced as a child, Freak sums it up nicely with his heartfelt, “Well, fuck.”

“I could see myself doing that,” Short states. “Must be fuckin’ difficult trying to drive on the wrong side of the road.”

“Not for my dad,” Pippa snaps back.

Prospects normally know to keep quiet, and their ears closed, but Heathen proves he’s obviously been listening. “It was a bitch driving,” he states with a shrug.

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