12. Paul
12
Paul
“I need to call my dad,” Harper whispered.
“That’s not going to help,” Paul said. They were beyond that point. Though, did she really expect him to allow her to call for help? She wasn’t stupid. What was her deal? Did she think she’d fucked him into idiocy?
“He might know something you don’t.”
He scoffed and shook his head. “You think if your dad were aware of this, you would’ve been out alone?”
She glared at him.
Paul had purposely waited two days before he acted on things. He watched her intently as she went back and forth to court, out to dinner with her family, but never, not once had she had a biker escort. Snoopy, her father and the president of the Roughneck Riders Motorcycle Club, should’ve put her under protection. Any idiot aware of the situation would have.
So why hadn’t he?
The only thing Paul could imagine was that he hadn’t known. But how the fuck did word not get to him by now? They were a sloppy organization, deep into the drug trade, but still. This was his goddamn kid. Not having ears to the ground about her was completely unfathomable.
It made Paul’s blood boil. He shouldn’t be in this situation. Harper shouldn’t be in this predicament. She should be protected, even if it was by inept goons in leather. Someone needed to look out for this gorgeous tattooed woman.
“I can’t just sit here and wait for you to kill me,” she sneered.
“So you think I’ll let you call in reinforcements?” Paul snorted. She was out of her damn mind, but then again, he couldn’t blame her. She’d been thrown quite the curveball. Honestly, she handled it well.
“You’re such a dick,” she spat.
He nodded. Fair, but really, she should be pissed at her dad. He should’ve known and acted.
Balling his fists, he tried to find an outlet for this rage that pulsed through him. The sparks of pain shooting through his chest from the slice weren’t helping.
Twisting slightly, he eyed the wound. The bleeding had stopped, but it still looked nasty. He should get it covered before it got infected.
When he winced, Harper’s gaze went to his wound, and she frowned. “Is it bad?”
Heading to the bathroom for some towels, he shook his head. “Nah. You stab like a girl.”
She put her foot out, and he hopped over it to avoid being tripped.
“Asshole.”
Snickering, he kept his retort to himself. “Don’t do anything stupid. The bathroom is right by the door. If you try to leave, I’ll stop you. And the windows are sealed shut.”
If looks could kill. She crossed her arms and long, beautifully inked legs and scowled.
She was even more beautiful when she was pissed.
Paul winked. “Glad we have an understanding.”
Monitoring the door, he ducked into the restroom momentarily to grab a towel and wet it. Swiping at his side, he hissed as the sting shot through him. Yep, definitely a stab wound.
Exiting the bathroom, still cleaning himself, he was about to sit on the bed when a knock sounded at the door.
Both their heads jerked in that direction.
“Room service,” the muffled voice said.
“One moment,” Paul answered.
That was far too quick. His hackles rose, and he reached for his gun. To her credit, Harper stayed back as he approached the door. Glancing through the peephole, Paul noted someone in hotel attire carrying a tray.
It still didn’t feel right.
Snapping his fingers, he got her attention. He pointed to the bathroom, directing her to get out of the line of fire. If it was innocent, no harm, no foul. If it wasn’t, she wouldn’t be hit with a stray bullet. Better safe than sorry.
Staring at him with knitted brows, she hesitated momentarily. He snapped again. Rolling her eyes, she stomped in his direction. What was her problem? He was trying to protect her. Would it be too much for her to move her fine ass a little quicker?
Finally, with Harper stowed away, Paul carefully turned the knob, his gun at the ready.
He’d barely opened the door before it flew back. Momentarily pinned between the door and the closet, Paul kept quiet as the man, dressed as a bellhop, entered the room, pointing his weapon ahead of him.
Pain radiated from the back of his head where it had smashed against the hardness behind him. Paul gritted his teeth, shoved the door closed, and pointed his gun at the man scanning the room.
“Fucker,” he called.
Leading with his gun, the man turned, but Paul shot first. A silencer was a good idea. Too bad he hadn’t thought of it. Blood splattered from the back of the man’s head. As he fell back, the fake bellhop squeezed the trigger.
Harper screeched, drawing Paul’s focus to the right.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he demanded. “Get back in there.”
Gripping her shoulder, he shoved her back inside the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. The room wasn’t safe. He hadn’t told her to come out. This insane woman had a death wish.
Paul had to clear the room and get them the hell out of here fast. His gun was loud, so it wouldn’t be long before shit hit the fan. Goddammit, he should’ve been prepared for this.
Cursing at himself, he stomped over the body to get a good look. He needed to know who else was after Harper. Who wanted the bounty?
Getting on one knee, he looked over the corpse. Dull, blank eyes stared up at the ceiling. The hole in his forehead smoked and leaked blood. Cocking his head, Paul frowned. He didn’t recognize the man. Whoever sent him hadn’t sent their best.
Why would they? It was just a woman.
They obviously hadn’t done their research. The next person coming after her would be better.
Lifting the fake bellhop’s shirt revealed quite a few tattoos on his abdomen and chest, but nothing he was looking for. He pushed up the right sleeve and then the left, and there it was. On his inner bicep, the large clover tattoo.
“Damn. The Irish,” he muttered.
“Is that bad?” Harper asked from over his shoulder.
“Goddammit, woman!” He spun and got to his feet. “I told you—”
“If you think I’m just going to sit around and wait for someone to kill me, you’re fucking nuts.”
She had a point, but they didn’t have time for this. “Get your shit.”
Blinking at him, she stood still, holding on to her arm. “What?”
Already scrambling to grab shoes and anything personal from the room, Paul pointed. “Your shoes,” he barked. “Put them on.”
He snagged his phone and tucked it into his pocket before heading toward the front of the room.
When she didn’t move, he growled. Snatching her purse and flats, he rolled everything in the blazer she’d worn the previous evening to make a sack of sorts. They had to go.
As he approached her, he saw the red spilling over her fingers.
Panic, which he didn’t have time for, gripped his throat. “Did he hit you?”
With his free hand, he knocked hers away to see the large gash gushing blood from the outside of her arm, just above her elbow.
As he examined the wound, she hissed. “Ow.”
“Fuck,” he cursed. “It looks like a graze.” Probably the best outcome. “But we have to go.”
Forcing her to turn, Paul shoved Harper toward the door. The clock was ticking. He could practically hear sirens in the distance. It was definitely his imagination—the cops didn’t respond that quickly—but he didn’t want to be here when they arrived.