Page 110 of Property of Rattler

I continue rubbing her feet, being too far away to take hold of her hand. “Ames, you knew her better than anyone. Sure, we had suspicions, but they were circumstantial. As Bronwyn says, it was her who lied to you, you did nothing wrong.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

AMES

Bronwyn measures my blood pressure again, while I think on the words she and Flynn had given to me.

Satin had saved me, she’d picked me up from the streets when she didn’t know anything about me. She’d upended her life, not once, but twice, moving first from Phoenix to Tucson, and then to this little town of Gravity, just because she wanted to help hide me. My bodyguard, she’d called herself. She’s been the only port in my storm, and when she’d introduced me to Freak as her sister, I hadn’t argued, I’d grown to love her like a sibling.

I’d never told her the root of my problems was money, I realise. Then wonder, why not? Had I, as I thought at the time, really considered it wasn’t an issue? Or had there been a niggling doubt there all the time, that if she’d known in a few years I’d be worth more money than a stripper can earn in a lifetime, that that would change her opinion of me?

I suspect Volkov had offered her money. There’s no other inducement that would have caused her to betray me.

The clubhouse door crashes open, I flinch.

“Shush,” Bron hushes me. “Nobody wanted to cook, so they ordered pizzas. It’s just a couple of the boys who went to collect them.” She adds as an afterthought, “Could you eat?”

I’ve had nothing since breakfast. When I nod, she looks delighted.

My mind back on line, I suddenly think to ask. “What happened to Dee? He’s been shot. Shouldn’t you be with him?”

She chuckles softly. “Saint’s in the medical room with him. He was an Army medic, and is up on gunshot protocol. The bullet went straight through his arm, it just needs cleaning and stitching up. Saint’s well able to set up an IV as well.”

“Dee saved me,” I breathe out.

A deep baritone voice sounds. “Is it okay if…?”

“Yeah, Bullseye. Ames is going to be fine.” As she squeezes my fingers, I sit up, pull my feet from Flynn’s lap, and sit up properly. I do, however, slide along so I can feel Flynn’s body against mine. His closeness grounds me. I notice Bron glides away.

Bullseye seems less sure of himself than I’ve seen him before. “You okay?” he asks. When I answer that I am, he grimaces. “Shouldn’t have let her into the clubhouse. But wanted to prove which side she was on. Should have foreseen that she might have been trouble, and left you better guarded.”

“I’m alive,” I tell him. “What happened isn’t your fault.”

His head shakes once. “The buck stops with me. Everything that happens in this clubhouse is my responsibility.”

“Delusions of grandeur,” Flynn stage whispers into my ear.

Bullseye’s eyes go a steely grey. “Wondered when the asshole would surface.” But then he grins. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but it’s good to have you back to yourself, Brother.”

Quick to respond, Flynn mock blows him a kiss. “Knew you missed my wit.”

Despite everything that’s happened, my lips twitch.

Bullseye suddenly pats his pocket, and pulls out his phone. His face tightens. “I’ve got to take this.” He disappears across the clubroom, I suspect to his office.

“Shall I get you some pizza?” Flynn asks, drawing my attention to where everyone is huddled at the other side of the room, they’re crowding around tables laden with food.

“No, I’ll getyousome,” I tell him. I might have had the wind mentally knocked out of my sails by Satin’s sudden death, but at least I’m physically able, unlike him.

I still feel a little shaky as I get to my feet. But with each step I feel stronger. As I approach the table where boxes are laid out, the brothers step aside to make room for me. I get a few nods, or those chin raise things the men use to communicate, and a couple of sympathetic pats to my shoulder.

Trixie hands me a couple of paper plates, and I load up a few pieces of pizza. I take them back to Flynn, then ask, “Do you want a drink?”

“Beer, please,” he answers eagerly.

I head for the bar, coincidentally arriving at the same time as Bronwyn. She’s got a young boy beside her.

When I raise a brow, she supplies the answer, “This is my son, Trip. Trip, this is Ames. You going to say hello?”