Chapter Two Brigit

CHAPTER TWO: brIGIT

Glancing at my watch, I'm happy to see that I'm not as late as I thought. After the morning from hell where nothing was where it was supposed to be, I figured my chances of getting to work on time were nil. Maybe my luck is changing as I back into a spot only a few steps away from the rear entrance to the hotel where I work. Once inside, I head to my office to prepare for the day. I have a stack of applications to review. As the HR Manager, I always have a stack of applications to sort through. There is a constant stream of applications for every position, from bartenders to valets. My job may not be exciting, but it pays the bills.

As I unlock my office door, I hear raised voices coming from my boss's office. Mike Perry has managed the hotel for ten years. He hired me years ago when I first moved to Boston. We're friendly, but not friends. Concerned, I move closer to his office. His door is open just enough that I can see Mike isn't sitting behind his desk. Someone else is. The sound of flesh hitting flesh followed by a grunt has me shifting to get a different angle of the room.

"You've been ignoring my calls, Mike," says a gravelly voice with a bite of fury in his tone. "That was your second mistake. Want to tell me what your first mistake was?"

"How the hell was I supposed to know he was an undercover cop?" I hear Mike say in a muffled voice.

I push open the door further when I hear another grunt of pain. That's when I see Mike tied to a visitor's chair. Two men in suits stand on either side of him. The man on Mike's right returns to a standing position, his right fist still clenched. The man behind the desk stands and steps around it. I recognize him as a regular visitor to our hotel. Misha Orloff. Rumor is he's head of the Bratva in Boston.

"You're supposed to vet our clientele. You think the cartel or the brotherhood will buy from us after what happened last night?" Misha asks, shaking his head. "How did he slip through?"

"I'm not the one who vetted him. George did it. He's the one who screwed us over," Mike argues.

Misha's muscle delivers another punch to Mike's gut.

"I handled it," Mike whines.

Misha reaches into his coat pocket while Mike struggles against his bindings. "That's good. Now there is just one more loose end to tie up. I'll have to hire a new manager. Maybe that delicious HR Manager of yours. Bet she'll do as she's told." The loud bang startles a gasp out of me. Three heads turn in my direction.

Misha, yelling for his men to go after me, catapults me down the hall and through the exit. Grateful for splurging on keyless entry, I'm in my car and driving out of the parking lot just as the two thugs bust through the door. They shoot at me, but I'm down the street and out of sight in seconds.

My mind races as I swerve through traffic. Glancing in my rearview mirror, I don't see anyone chasing me, but that doesn't mean they aren't there. I have to hide, but where? The image of Wildcard flashes in my mind. He's my best hope. When my father went to prison six years ago, I was alone and vulnerable. Wildcard showed up on my doorstep in his leather kutte and riding his badass bike. Turns out my father sent him to get me out of Vegas and out of reach of Squiggy. The President of their MC. Wildcard smuggled me out of Vegas on the back of his bike. We drove across the country to Boston, where he left me.

As a kid, I spent very little time at the clubhouse, but enough to know that Squiggy was someone to stay away from. He wasn't a nice man. His eyes on me always made me feel uncomfortable. Those hungry eyes that made my skin crawl. With my dad out of the way, I knew it wouldn't be long before Squiggy showed up. The day I heard the motorcycle rumble to a stop outside my house, I'd never felt more scared. However, instead of Squiggy, Wildcard stood on my porch and offered me hope.

"Your dad sent me," Wildcard said as soon as I opened the door. He pushed inside and turned to me. "He's scared for you and asked me to take you somewhere safe?"

"The clubhouse?"

"No, not the clubhouse. Boston."

"Boston? The city? In Massachusetts?"

He chuckled. "That's the one. We have a chapter there, but I'm not taking you to them. Your dad doesn't want anyone associated with the club to know your location."

"Except you?"

"Except me. Let's get you packed so we can get on the road."

I didn't waste time arguing.

We spent two weeks traveling from Vegas to Boston and then another week looking for a place for me to live that met with Wildcard's approval. The day I moved into my new home was bittersweet. I was safe, but I knew Wildcard would soon leave me. Unfortunately, I'd fallen in love with my protector, even though I knew I shouldn't. He'd be gone soon, and I'd be alone.

When Wildcard left, he told me never to contact him, not unless it was an emergency. Well, seeing my boss murdered by a mafia boss counts as an emergency. Doesn't it? Instead of pulling into my driveway, I park in front of my neighbor's house. Rushing inside my home, I pack quickly but methodically. I know I won't be coming back here. Shoving everything I can't leave behind into two duffle bags. I toss them into the backseat before rushing to my neighbor's door.

"What are you doing home?" Abby asks when she opens the door.

"Something happened at work. I saw a man murder my boss," I say. Abby gasps, grabbing my arm.

"Go to the cops."

I shake my head. "I can't. This man has connections. I can't risk it."

"What are you going to do?"

"Leave town. I know someone who will protect me. At least I think he will. No, he will. He has to. But you should leave, too. You can come with me."

"No. You go, get out of here and get somewhere safe. I'll pack a few things and head to my cousin's house. Don't worry about me. You go. Do you need any money?"

Abby was the first friend I made after Wildcard returned to Vegas. She's been my rock. As a mother and a best friend, all rolled into one. I reluctantly leave her, but only after she promises that she'd be leaving, too.

Back in the car, I drive straight to the airport. The crowd is both reassuring and terrifying. I hustle to the nearest counter and take the first flight out of Boston. It isn't until I'm on the plane to Dallas that I realize I used my credit card instead of the one Wildcard gave me for emergencies. Stupid. Once I land in Dallas, I rectify my mistake by purchasing tickets to three different cities using his card. With any luck, I'll be in Vegas and with Wildcard before Misha tracks me down. I'm relieved when we touchdown in Vegas, but then I face a new obstacle. Getting to the clubhouse. I have the address, but I'm not sure I'll find a cabbie willing to take me there. I have to hope they'll at least drop me off close enough that I can walk.

Getting into the first cab, I give him the address and he nods.

We turn onto the road that leads to the clubhouse when a biker on a trike flies past us. He lifts his hand in a wave before speeding off. I watch him drive through the gate up ahead.

"You can pull over here," I tell the cabbie.

"You're going in there?" He asks. "Is that a good idea? This is their clubhouse, not the casino."

Since my thoughts are already on seeing Wildcard again, I ignore the cabbie and step out onto the shoulder. I approach the glass-enclosed guard house, making eye contact with the prospect standing guard.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, I hope so. I need to see Wildcard. If he's here?" My heart drops when I realize he may not be. Hell, he may not still be alive. What will I do then?

"Can I have your name?"

"Brigit, Brigit Jones," I tell him, just as the front door opens. I spot Wildcard coming down the steps towards an older man who was driving the trike. Wildcard says something to him, but I can't hear their words. However, I can see the man pull a gun from the waist of his jeans. The echo of the shot ricochets around the space. I watch in horror as Wildcard falls to the ground.