Angel: An SOBs Novel

by Irish Winters

  Everyone sat around the fireplace in the front room, brainstorming with Senator Sullivan about the army that had attacked the cabin and where the mission needed to go from here. Gallo lay asleep on his rug in front of the fire, no doubt drugged with the pain meds Pagan gave him.

  McQueen had changed his hunter’s wear for ordinary Rider jeans, cowboy boots, and a light blue sweatshirt with Dallas Cowboys stamped across his chest. Pagan and Kruze wore jeans, but Pagan had topped his off with a white T, while Kruze wore a white tailored, button-up shirt and enough men’s cologne to fog the entire cabin. The boy always did like that crap.

  The latest FBI word out of Portland was that Viktor Patrone was in town with a five-man entourage of muscle. Patrone didn’t merit diplomatic immunity, so the moment he’d landed, the FBI had climbed all over him. Homeland Security too. They made no bones about inspecting his single piece of carryon luggage, as well as his person. Of course they’d found no guns, not on him or his men. Those items were easy to get on the streets.

  “Yes, Americans, but those were not Patrone’s men,” Chance repeated. What had started as a simple one-man show now threatened the status quo of the entire state of Oregon, possibly the nation. It had to be stopped.

  “Then whose were they?” McQueen bit out.

  “Had to be Tennyson’s. He’s the only gringo in this mess, and trust me, Patrone would’ve used his own guys. I’m telling you, it’s time we strike back before he does.”

  Kruze grunted. “And that means what?”

  Chance lifted Suede’s hand to his mouth and kissed the back of her fingers. “It means Suede and I need to leave our mark in Portland.”

  “We do?” she asked.

  “Absolutely. I’ve given this a lot of thought. You facing your father will take this debacle out of Montana and put it in Governor Tennyson’s front yard where it belongs. Let him clean up his own mess.”

  Pagan leaned forward, his elbow to his knees and his fingers steepled under his chin. “I get it. That press conference you wanted to hold. The big reveal, right? Let the world know she’s still alive?”

  “Exactly.” Chance angled sideways to face the nervous woman at his side who would soon be center stage, if she agreed. “Look him in the eye the same way you did York. What do you think?”

  Suede blinked, then brushed her free hand over her chin, cupping it before it dropped to her throat and back to her chin again. He could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. Her hips twitched against his, and she was nervous. He got that, so he waited. The whole room did. This was her decision, and it was a tough one, especially with her mother’s funeral just days away.

  He’d asked her earlier if she’d wanted to attend, but she’d said no. “Let her have her day.” She and her mother hadn’t been close when Vera was alive. To attend the funeral would only prolong media speculation and incite the gossip rags.

  At last, she pinched her lips and swallowed hard. “But those guys are all killers.”

  “I hate to tell you, lady,” Kruze drawled, “but so are we.”

  “I know that, but you’re different.” The trepidation radiating up Suede’s arm to her fluttering fingertips worried Chance. He knew she loved him, but she’d seen him accidentally kill the unarmed man she’d let live. That alone could be a game-changer.

  “The difference between them and us is we’re on the right side of the law,” McQueen bit out, then qualified, “at least the moral side of the law.”

  She cocked her head at him. “Is there a moral side to killing?”

  “I’d like to think so,” Chance said evenly. “The law can’t reach some of the biggest, baddest bastards on the planet. We can. I’m totally good with whichever answer you give, but Pagan’s right. We can’t hide out here forever. The bad guys already know you’re here, and they’ll be back. Do you dare take a chance on us Sinclairs to help fix what’s broken before it kills more innocent people?”

  “When you put it like that…” She stared at Pagan, her lips pinched tight and the slightest tremble to her head. This had to be the greatest leap of faith of a lifetime for her, yet she of all people knew how wicked the world was. If she wasn’t willing to share this side of Chance and his brothers, all bets were off. He’d have to break ties with her—somehow. The sooner, the better. The notion pained him, but the thought of her living another unhappy life hurt worse.

  Chance pressed her knuckle to his lips for what might be the last time. If anyone needed a safe place to land, it was Suede Tennyson, and God, he loved her more everyday. He had yet to say the words to her, but he knew it to his core. Unfortunately, love didn’t solve all the world’s problems. That was just the way it was.

  “Would I have to talk to him?” she asked.

  “To the Governor? No, ma’am,” he answered. “You don’t even have to see him. This face-to-face will be pre-recorded from here, right where you’re sitting in fact. You don’t even have to dress up. All you have to do is look directly into the camera and tell the world what happened.”

  A breath of relief poured out of her until she gulped and said, “But no one will believe me. Not after all the things I’ve done.”

  McQueen took that challenge. “Let the truth speak for itself, Suede. Yes, there’ll be a media-frenzy, but that’s what the press does best. They’re no better than jackals nipping at the king of the jungle until they draw blood. Let me deal with them.”

  “But York was the Lion, not me.”

  “In name only,” Kruze growled. “He was more of a vulture than king of the jungle. Get that through your head right now. He shoved you over a cliff, for hell’s sake. What kind of a man does that?”

  Suede turned on Kruze, her chin lowered. “That’s true, but I’m not him, am I?”

  Chance could’ve kissed her. The longer she stayed with him, the more he detected a lady of class and nobility behind that timid veneer. He was proud of how she’d just put Kruze in his place without resorting to theatrics or threats, and she hadn’t dropped an f-bomb in—he had to think—days.

  “No, you’re more like a robin, Suede,” Pagan murmured from across the room where he sat, the reverent tone in his voice capturing everyone’s attention.

  Suede’s head came up, and there was a connection between her and his brother that Chance hadn’t seen coming. He cocked his head as a different side of the spoiled brat, baby brother he’d grown up with emerged like a butterfly unfolding out of its dusty cocoon. This Pagan was—sensitive. He didn’t look away from Suede, and she didn’t break eye contact with him. It was as if they were the only two in the room. What the hell?

  “You’re not as big or as fierce as the eagles, owls, and hawks of the world, Suede, and for sure, you’re no lion. Thank God for that. Not everyone needs to be a bird of prey,” Pagan told her, his voice uncommonly gentle. “But that doesn’t make you any less important in the scheme of things. It just means you see the world in a different light. You have a better purpose than I do. You get to deal with life, not death.”

  He ran a quick hand over his scalp from front to back, ruffling his deep black hair. It ended in messy spikes. “You don’t have to live in the shadows like I do. Trust me, the world needs more songbirds, and you’re the robin who’d rather sing in the sunshine and build a nice safe nest for her family than hunt the scum of the world. It’s true. You’ve been fed a pack of lies all your life, but those days are done, and that person you thought you were, never really existed. She was a lie, but I see the real you now. I think you do, too.”

  Quiet Pagan certainly had a lot to say on this subject, but Suede had leaned forward as if hanging on his words. This was precisely what she’d needed to hear.

  “You’re everything your parents could never be, because you’re made of better stuff,” Pagan continued. “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through, and I know you’re scared, but even a mother robin will fight to defend her nest, little sister.”

  “Oh,” squeaked out of Suede, and Chance had to give Pagan cr
edit. Whether he knew it or not, he’d just given her the very thing she craved most, something Chance never could’ve given her. Her first sibling.

  “Robins can be fierce, too,” she told Pagan in a whisper.

  “I know you can be fierce,” he said with an encouraging nod. “You’re brave. The whole world knows you’re unstoppable. Hell, you’re also the first person to ground me in years, and no, Chance doesn’t count.”

  “Hey, wise guy,” Chance shot back good-naturedly. “I do too count.”

  “No, you don’t. Not in my book. ” Kruze deadpanned, shaking his head for drama. “He mean something to you, Baby Brother?”

  Pagan’s face wrinkled as he aimed a wink at Suede. “He does know how to cook.”

  “So does Betty Crock—” Kruze caught a pillow in the face for that one. But when Suede snuggled back into Chance with her head against his bicep, the battle was over.

  McQueen shot Chance a sharp look from across the room. “Goddamn, she’s a keeper.”

  Wasn’t that the truth?

  Suede cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Senator, but you’ve got to stop swearing. Scarlett Sinclair wouldn’t approve.”

  Chance nearly choked at that prim reminder after some of the words she’d spit out when she’d first arrived, but McQueen took it well. “You know, I just might do that for you, ma’am. I’m damned, er, I mean…” He touched his index finger to his forehead in a quick salute, his soft blue eyes brimming with respect. “I’m mighty proud to know you.”

  Chance pressed a kiss to the top of her head and whispered from the bottom of his heart, “Welcome home, Suede.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Camera. Lights. Action! Despite the weather, McQueen flew a national news crew straight out of New York City and into Montana by the wee dark hours of the next morning. Kruze and Pagan led them inside the cabin through the tunnel, no doubt because of the shredded trees and damage to the front of the cabin during what Chance called ‘that little skirmish’. No TV cameras needed to see that.

  Suede had the worst case of butterflies. Dressed conservatively in a gray pencil skirt, a blushing pink button-up silk blouse, and three-inch strappy heels no one in the viewing audience would ever see—courtesy of McQueen’s savvy wife—Suede hadn’t dared drink coffee with the crew. She had enough nervous energy to buff the ceilings without needing a ladder.

  Prior to leaving the safety of Chance’s bedroom, she’d wound her hair up high on her head and secured it with a clip, striving to present the image of a strong capable woman instead of a slutty girl-gone-wild.

  “Don’t worry,” Dixie, the pretty make-up artist patting powder on the tip of Suede’s nose said. “Once the camera starts rolling, you’ll settle down.”

  Dixie was a free spirit who wore green leggings under a bright orange slouchy sweatshirt with bold black lettering that read ME! COFFEE! NOW! across the front of it. She’d twisted her blonde, purple, and pink hair into a topknot and tied it off with a scrap of frayed black velvet ribbon. She also liked feathery earrings, the black and pink kind that dangled to her shoulders.

  “How do you know?” Suede asked, winding a thick strand of hair around her index finger and shifting her backside farther into the kitchen chair.

  Dixie’s left cheek scrunched. “Easy. You’re the expert here, nobody else. Just answer the questions, and once you get rolling, Micah will let you take it from there. You’ll see.”

  If you say so...

  “And stop messing with your hair. That makes you look weak. Keep your chin up. Look at Micah until he signals you, then talk to the camera. Tell ’em what you know. You’ve got this, girlfriend.”

  Dixie certainly sounded confident.

  “Ready?” Chance asked, his hand extended for Suede’s. He’d just broken away from where he’d been with McQueen and his brothers at the fireplace.

  She had to look twice. Wow, what a sight. The transformation in this guy knocked the wind out of her still tender lungs. Chance had swapped his normal jeans and T-shirt for a navy blue button-up, tan chinos, and dark brown dress shoes. His hair was combed evenly to the side and he’d trimmed his scruff and shaved his neck. Sophistication dripped off him, and, oh my, my, my. She girly-fanned her lips so she didn’t drool. The man was Esquire delicious, and those melted honey eyes? Mmmmmm, mmmmmm good.

  “Look at you,” she breathed, giving his massive body another visual once over since she couldn’t molest him with her fingers. Or her mouth. Or her tongue. “You’re beautiful.”

  His cheeks reddened as he clasped her hand. “Nah, you’re beautiful. I’m just some guy. Ready?”

  Suede sucked in a deep breath and lifted to her feet, wishing they were going dancing instead of to an inquisition. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Dixie whisked the make-up trays out of the way, and it was show time. Suede took her place beside Chance on the couch facing the fireplace. They didn’t cuddle, but sat side-by-side like co-workers. He leaned back with one arm sprawled along the back of the couch like he did this kind of thing everyday, while Suede sat at the edge, wringing her fingers and wishing this interview were done.

  Micah Watanabe, the anchor for America’s largest broadcasting network, sat to her right in an easy chair, just as relaxed as Chance. Dressed in an expensive looking three-piece gray suit, white shirt, and a soft green tie, Micah was a charming mountain of a man. A stalwart Samoan with a mic hidden on him somewhere, he represented corporate America. Trimmed and manicured, suave and polished, he was her dad’s kind of people. Not hers.

  Suede dropped her lashes, fighting a wave of anxiety that threatened to send her into the restroom where she would lock the door and never come out. This was so not a good idea, outing her father and his dealings with York. The reasons to not go through with this interview ticked at the back of her mind, but the worst of them? In too few minutes, everyone would know what happened to foolish young women who thought they knew everything.

  “Relax,” Chance said, his warm hand blanketing hers where she’d stabbed it under the cushion between them. “You’re not under fire here. You can do this. Breathe.”

  “This is your show,” Micah chided Suede while her stomach clenched as if her intestines had just twisted into a hangman’s knot that would eventually find its way around her neck. “Don’t say anything you don’t want to. If I ask the wrong question, let me know. Smile. Now tell me about your dog.”

  “Gallo?” Her gaze settled on her faithful companion in his place near the fire. That she could do. “He’s not mine, but he might as well be. Gallo follows me everywhere. He thinks he’s a lapdog.”

  Micah canted his head. “How so?”

  And she was breathing again. Gallo was a safe subject. “Well, look at his big ears, for one. How can you not adore a fur baby with big brown eyes topped off with those fuzzy, floppy ears? He’s adorable.” And I love him.

  Chance grunted. “He does think he’s cute.”

  “I understand that pup saved your life?” The leading question came sooner than she expected, but Suede knew what to say. Chance had told her to be honest. Pagan told her to be kind. Kruze said ‘give ’em hell’. But in keeping with her burning need to change from the inside out, Suede started her story at the beginning, with the neglect she’d endured as a child in her parent’s various homes, then the abuse she’d suffered at the hands of America’s flamboyant tennis star, Lionel York.

  Micah listened intently, asking questions to be sure he understood while the camera rolled. What Mitch had done to her as a child screamed for its turn in the spotlight, but she swallowed that nightmare down. This interview was about her father and her ex-fiancé; the two men who should’ve loved her most but who’d plotted to kill her. A shiver jerked over her shoulders. As bad as they were, the monster that had assaulted her in her own home still lurked like an evil minion in the shadows.

  Not now, she told her sorry self. He’ll get his. Someday.

  If that wasn’t the most ludicrous thought.
It was possible the sharks had already gotten Mitchell Franks. That would be perfect. He was still missing. A girl could hope he stayed that way.

  Chance chose that moment to settle his warm palm at her shoulder, giving her strength and bringing her back on task. Suede slammed the door on Mitchell Franks and kept going.

  She talked about the abused women’s syndrome, and how she’d allowed York to do what he’d done, mostly because of her age and inexperience, but also because she’d been too proud to admit she was wrong and ask for help. All through their relationship, she’d blamed herself for the cruelty he’d inflicted on her. She’d honestly thought it was her fault when she’d made him slap her.

  She’d also accepted the blame for York’s reaction when she wasn’t pretty, quick, or sophisticated enough to please his perverse tastes. In short, she was always responsible, never York, an adult male ten years her senior. He never stepped up to be a man because she hadn’t known then how to stand up for herself as a woman and demand that he grow up or drop dead.

  Micah’s cues were minimal. A small smile of encouragement here. A covert wink there. A simple question… “How did you hook up with a celebrity like Lionel York in the first place?”

  Oh, that. Deep breath. “After I sued my parents for emancipation, he stopped by my apartment one day. He said I impressed him and he wanted to meet me. That he admired my spunk.”

  Micah cocked his head. “He just dropped by? Didn’t you find that odd since he lives in California? Was there a tennis match in Portland at the time?”

  She shook her head. “No, what really happened is that my father made a deal with him to take me off his hands. Dad wants to be president and I was” —she ducked her head into her shoulders— “bad press.”

  Micah’s brows slammed together. His eye narrowed. “A deal? What kind of a deal?”

  Suede was beginning to like this man. “York got me, and the Governor…” I am never calling him Dad again “…got a clear shot at the White House.”

  Someone off-camera growled. Didn’t sound like Gallo. Might have been Dixie.