by Anna Brooks
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Someone who needs to speak to you in private.”
A different guy, same gruff nature with a ponytail but no beard, puts a hand on Barrett’s shoulder. “Anything you need to say to our brother you can say to us.”
“I’m just gonna grab one of my cards out of my wallet.” They tense as I reach behind me, but I hold it through the chain-link, and Barrett takes it.
He reads the words and understanding comes to him. His head pops up. “Let him in.”
“What the fuck?” one of them says. “We don’t let someone we don’t know in the clubhouse.”
“I know him.”
A few men say shit under their breath, but the blond dude pushes a button, and the gate groans as it slides open. “You packin’?” Barrett asks me.
“It’s in the vehicle.”
He lifts his chin. “Follow me.”
He opens the heavy wood door to the massive old warehouse, and I keep my eyes averted from the chick suckin’ someone off and make a quick note of the exits through the smoke haze in case this gets bad. Don’t anticipate it happening, but just in case.
Old beer signs line the top of the walls and framed photos plaster behind the bar. There’s a really big black leather L-shaped couch that divides the large space, and a massive flat screen across from it.
An archway leads to what looks like a game room with a pool table and darts that I can see.
Down the hallway to the right are two tall wooden doors that are closed, but we stop at the first door on the left. As soon as he shuts us in, he asks, “She okay?”
“No.”
He tenses, his sharp blue eyes exactly the same as his daughter. “What the fuck?”
“Her piece of shit aunt is blackmailing her.”
“Say what?”
“She’s making her work until she can barely stand, do photoshoots where she’s practically naked with guys touching her, and after she was attacked, she didn’t do shit about her security. And that’s just some of it. It gets worse. Before she hired me, she used to hit her and do shit like pinch her and leave bruises where nobody else could see them.”
He unclamps his jaw. “What the fuck do you mean after she was attacked?”
I just stare at him, shocked he doesn’t know since it was all over the news. “A few months ago, a man got past her neighborhood security, bypassed the gate and system to her house, and broke through her locked door to assault her in her own bedroom.”
He reaches for the first thing within grabbing distance, which is a chair, and throws it across the room. It crashes against the wall, and the door bursts open as a couple of guys barrel in. “Leave,” Barrett commands.
They back up, clearly not liking the situation, but do as he says and close the door behind them.
“You got a name?”
“Nope. This bastard’s slippery.”
He crosses his beefy arms. “I’ll find him.”
“Or,” I suggest, “I deal with him and tell you why I’m really here.”
He motions to a chair that’s not broken in pieces and sits across from me. “She know you’re here?”
“Nope.”
“When’d she tell you about me?”
I take my cell out of my pocket and toss it on the table as I sit back. “Couple of weeks ago. She has a show in Reno, so I took a chance that you’d be here.”
His hands fist on the hardwood.
“I’m gonna tell you like it is. Don’t know you, Barrett, but if you’re the kind of man I think you are, you’ll be just about as pissed off as I am. I’ll let you know, too, I don’t care if you’re not. I’m ending this shit with Gail because I’ve still got a goddamn stalker after her who I need to lay down.”
He simply raises his chin, then lights a cigarette.
“Gail has proof that you’re her father and threatens to expose you. Now, Quinn, being the woman she is, wants to protect you, so she gives the threats credibility because Gail is very specific about telling her how much Demon Dust would love to kill you.”
“Fuck,” he clips.
“Quinn is terrified. Of not only a crazy man after her, but that if she doesn’t act as Gail’s puppet, they will kidnap her, torture you, or both. Gail’s told her this other MC has kidnapped people connected to millionaires before and starved them, then before it’s too late, they demand ransom money. Since the victim is near death, the money is always delivered fast, then they bail. She doesn’t want anybody knowing who you are because she’s afraid that you will get hurt by the knowledge. She’s worried for your safety and putting it above her own.”
He lights another smoke with the one he just sucked down. “What’s this about her security and a crazy fucker able to get to Quinn?”
I’m not the type of guy to roll my eyes, but I do. “Fuck if I know. But Gail thought rent-a-cops were adequate when Quinn was home alone, so that says all I need to know. She’s a fuckin’ dumbass, and I swear she’s trying to hurt my girl any way she can.”
“Your girl.”
I stare at him dead-on, not giving him any emotion but telling him how it is. Fuck yeah, she is.
His throat works as he swallows. After he snubs out the cigarette butt, he stands, then bangs on the door twice.
A group of men—seven, I count—file in and stand around, arms crossed. If I didn’t have my own crew, I’d think they were intimidating, which in their own right they are.
“Quinn Valentine is my daughter,” Barrett educates.
A collective gasp vibrates through the room.
“No shit?”
“That hot piece?” Blondie whistles. “Dayum, Jury. How’d you make somethin’ as sweet as her, ass like that—”
I push up from my seat and lean across the table. “Shut your fuckin’ mouth.” Barrett says almost the same thing. “That’s my fuckin’ daughter, High. Shut the fuck up before I let him do it for you.”
High looks at me as I sit back down. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Her man.”
“And her bodyguard,” Jury adds. “And I just got some information that… concerns me and involves the club’s reputation. Need to take a vote on how to handle it. But first”—he lifts his chin at me—“tell my brothers what you know.”
Quinn
The bright lights aren’t anything new, and the deafening sounds are familiar. But it’s the chill sliding up the back of my neck that is unusual. Ever since Wesley got back from wherever he was this morning, I’ve had this weird feeling in my gut.
I don’t know if part of it is because he refused to tell me where he was or if it’s something more, but either way, I really don’t like it.
I straighten my legs and stick my ass out, shaking it for Antonio, one of my long-time dancers. My arms break out in little goose bumps, and I subtly glance over my shoulder and then up, wondering if there’s a fan blowing on me from somewhere.
My shows have dancing, but not so much that I can’t sing. I love performing, and a big part of that is the actual singing. It’s in my blood and something I’m adamant about. It’s pretty much the only battle I ever won with Gail. No lip syncing. Ever.
And minimal choreography. The backup dancers do most of the dancing, and I sing.
Oh, and I got Royal Ace Security. I won that battle, but I had to go behind her back to do it, so I don’t know if it counts as a win or not.
I switch the mic to my other hand, subtly checking to make sure I still have the rubber band on my wrist, then twirl my fingers in my hair and search for Wes. He gives an almost unnoticeable twitch in his neck as he follows my movement. I smile at him, but I know it’s not a genuine one, and the tightening of his jaw tells me he knows it, too.
When I turn around, I walk to the end of the stage, leaning down to touch hands with the audience. A young girl sits on a man’s shoulder with a sign that says, this is my first concert. I crouch down and let him take a selfie, then walk back to the center.
After I
do another routine during the chorus, I go back to the end and lean down to touch hands with my fans. Just as I’m about to pull away, something sharp glides across my palm. I yank it up, and before I even can take a step back all the way, I’m in Wesley’s arms. “Hold on, baby. I got you.”
I drop the mic, the music stops like a screeching record, and I shiver as he rushes me off stage. Several sets of boots run alongside us, and the voices I hear are muffled as my head bounces off Wesley’s shoulder.
“Need three decoys. Damien, drive.”
As he’s carrying me through the halls, I peek down at my hand, blood trailing down to my wrist. “Wes.” My voice is shaky, and the amount of blood makes my stomach churn.
“I know. Hang in there. Almost outta here.”
Droplets fall to the floor, leaving a path in their wake. “Oh, God.”
“I’ve got you. Hold tight and don’t look up.”
The sound of a door opening makes me grip him with my right hand tighter. Voices yell, and the wind hits my face. Camera lenses shutter, their flashes bright even with my face buried in Wesley’s chest.
He sets me in the back seat of an SUV, and instead of getting in to drive, he slides in next to me. He doesn’t even look around as we drive away; he just grabs my hand.
“Jesus fuck.” He tears off his white button-down, leaving him in just a tight white T-shirt, and uses the material to wipe my hand off. “You feel anything weird? Are you dizzy, your stomach upset, anything out of the ordinary?”
“No, just the cut in my hand. It hurts.”
“ETA, D?”
“Seven minutes.” He responds from the driver’s seat as he makes a sharp turn.
Wes applies pressure where it stings the most. “We’ll be there soon. You see who did this?”
“No, I. Ow.” I try to pull it away unsuccessfully.
“Need to stop the bleeding.”
I let him do his thing, and he talks to me the entire drive. His voice calms me. Mostly, he’s trying to distract me because he’s asking weird things, like having me look at the clock on the radio to tell him the time or the lyrics of the last song I was singing. The tires squeal, and we come to an abrupt stop. Then the door opens, and in a blur, I’m put on a stretcher and wheeled in through the back door of the hospital.
I very rarely use the front entrance to any building, but a hospital especially is tricky. Not for me necessarily, but for the staff because a crowd can form rather quickly and cause a lot of chaos.
Wes walks alongside me, his eyes busy but controlled as he looks around us. They start to bring me into a room, and one of the nurses tells him he can’t come in.
“I go where she goes.” He pushes past her and comes to stand next to me. I reach for him, his hand engulfing mine and assuring me that everything is going to be okay.
Chapter 7
Wesley
After we got Quinn to the ER, they ran a shit ton of tests. We’re still waiting on the results from some, but the preliminary report says she’s fine. I didn’t think there would be anything, though. My guess is he used the same knife as the night he broke into her house, and he’s just playing games now. Getting impatient. He gave her a couple of months to let her guard down and is starting up again. Showing her—and me—that he can get to her… or he thinks he can.
I stand outside her door and talk to Q on the phone as he’s looking through footage back at Royal. “Fuck me, I can’t see shit, Wes. There’re too many goddamn people.”
“I didn’t see anyone, either.” And that’s what gets me the most. How damn slippery he continues to be. And that I was less than ten feet away from her, and she’s bleeding… the fact that I didn’t prevent it is something I’ll never forgive myself for.
“I’ll keep looking and hit you up if I find anything.”
“Thanks, man.”
I hang up with him just as Gail steps out of the elevator.
“Is she okay?”
Three hours. We’ve been here for three hours, and she just now shows up. “Yes. She’s sleeping.”
She tries to walk past me, but I block the door. “She’s sleeping.”
“I need to talk to her. I scheduled a press conference for tomorrow morning, and we have to fly after that if we’re going to make it to her next show on time.”
“She’s not doing a press conference, and she’s not doing her fucking show tomorrow.”
Gail narrows her eyes at me. “Yes, she is. It’s just a cut. And as soon as I let her know what her itinerary is, she’ll agree. She always pulls through. This is her career. She can’t just cancel a show.”
“This is her life, and she is canceling a show. She’s canceling the next couple of weeks, to be exact.”
She gasps. “Listen here, I don’t know who you think you are, but I will—”
“I’m not the one you want to threaten, Gail.” I lean down, my mouth next to her ear. “You might have gotten away with threatening Quinn, but that shit ain’t gonna fly with me around. Quinn is mine. Mine to take care of and mine to protect, and trust me when I say, you don’t threaten what’s mine. This’ll only play out one way, and I can guarantee you’re the one who’ll end up getting screwed in the end. So do whatever the hell you’ve gotta do to cancel everything for the next two weeks while I work on tracking down the man who’s stalking her, and get the fuck outta my sight.” I step back and am pleased to see she actually looks scared.
“That’s millions of dollars she’s going to lose.”
“Her life is worth a fuck of a lot more than that.”
She glares at me “If she knows what’s good for her—”
“Christ, Gail. Shut the fuck up. She got stabbed tonight. Her hand, her entire palm is sliced open from some lunatic. She’s got more than a dozen stitches. Months ago, she was attacked in her own house. She shouldn’t be on fucking tour right now as it is. I know you’re a greedy bitch, but you’re also her mother’s sister. The least you can do is give her some damn time.”
“You have no clue what this will do to her career.”
“So she loses some money and pisses some people off. Big fuckin’ deal. If her fans can’t understand that she has a psychopath after her and realize that her safety is more important than a show, then they’re not really her fans.”
Her tight bob moves like a loose helmet when she shakes her head. “This could be detrimental.”
“It could also save her life. I’d ask if that was more important than money, but I’m afraid you’d only say it was because she’s no good to you if she’s dead.”
She stares me down as her high-heeled shoe taps on the bright white tile. “Ten days. That’s it. I’ll move some of the performances but she can’t completely vanish. She can have half that time to recoup… I can use that. Yes, that’ll work. She’s taking time to recuperate after being attacked on stage.”
If she’s expecting me to thank her for using this incident as a publicity stunt, she’ll be here all night. Although I know Quinn and I know it’ll be difficult for her to take any time off and disappoint her fans, it’s something she has to do for her own safety. I have been at this job for almost ten years, and Gail is not only the worst manager I’ve come across, but she’s the worst manager any of us has ever even heard about. Most of the time when we have a case with a stalker or another form of danger for the client, the entire team wants safety to come first.
But Gail completely disregarded Quinn’s safety.
She finally gives in and rolls her eyes before she disappears down the hallway. When I’m sure she’s gone, I go back into Quinn’s room and grab a chair, then position it in the middle of the room. If anyone comes in, they won’t get close to her.
I don’t expect her to sleep for long. She’s only been back from getting tests done for about a half an hour. The stress of everything she’s been dealing with is enough to tire someone out, but the sheer lack of shut-eye she gets only makes it tenfold.
Admittedly, she could get more sleep, but
when we lie down together at night, we end up talking… whispering and laughing about everything and nothing. I want more from her, but if she gives it right now, it’ll distract me, and I can’t have that.
I’m even tired from keeping up with her schedule. How she’s done it for years is beyond me. She’s never really gotten a break, but I’m gonna give her one. She needs it. Hell, I need it. But more importantly, the guys need it so they can dig deeper into everything, and I want them to have the time to do that.
My cell pings with an incoming text, and I slide the unlock bar across the screen to read the message from my dad.
Dad: Nobody’s at the cabin for the next few weeks. All yours.
Everything ok?
I never fill my dad in on any of my client’s cases. First, I’m not contractually allowed to. But secondly, I’ve never needed to. But with Quinn, it’s different. And because he retired from the police force three years ago, I know he’ll understand.
I’ve got a slippery suspect and want to disappear with a client for a few days.
Need the guys to do even more recon while she’s safe.
Our family’s cabin is so deep in the woods that the only way you know it’s there is if you know it’s there. I can guarantee he won’t find us.
Dad: Gotcha. I’m around if you change your mind.
I look over my shoulder when she makes a noise and text a quick thanks to my dad. Her eyes drift open, and I walk over. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine. I can’t believe I fell asleep.” She pushes up and lifts her arms to stretch.
“You’ve been through a lot. It’s understandable.”
Even with a bandage on her hand, she manages to fidget. “Thank you. For getting me out of there so fast. I don’t know how you knew. I had barely even figured it out, and then you were just… there.”
“I know you. And I know your body. The way you move, how your hips sway. And when you’re scared, you tense up. Normally, I’m watching around my clients to make sure everyone else is staying away, but you’re different. I have a crew at my back doing that during the shows, so I can concentrate on you while you perform. And when you get a bad feeling, I recognize it before you. That’s how.”