Swift’s Game (Saint’s Outlaws MC: Madison, WI #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Britta

Eight days.

Eight short, ridiculous, life-flipping days.

That’s how long it had been since some psycho decided to shoot me.

Rude.

I stared up at the ceiling above my childhood bed, tracking the faint hairline crack that ran from the corner near the smoke detector toward the window.

I’d noticed it when I moved back in here a week ago—when my mom had practically shoved me into her car after I got discharged from the hospital and announced I was staying with her until I healed.

The crack hadn’t changed.

Neither had the stupid glow-in-the-dark star stuck above my dresser.

My mom had put those up when I was twelve and going through my “space phase.” I’d begged her to take them down when I was sixteen because they were embarrassing.

She’d refused.

Now here I was at twenty-something, back in my childhood bedroom, recovering from a gunshot wound and staring at those same damn stars like they were my only entertainment.

Somehow, this was my life now.

I sighed and shifted on the mattress, immediately regretting it.

Pain shot through my shoulder like my body was personally offended I tried to move.

“Son of a—”

I sucked in a slow breath through my teeth and let my head fall back onto the pillow.

Being shot sucked. Ten out of ten would not recommend.

During the day, the pain was manageable. Annoying, but manageable. A dull ache that throbbed when I moved wrong.

But at night? It was like the pain clocked in for its shift.

Every time the house went quiet and I tried to sleep, my shoulder started pulsing like it had its own heartbeat. I’d toss and turn until three in the morning, half delirious and cranky.

Then I’d finally fall asleep and wake up at eight-thirty feeling like I’d been run over by a truck.

Which explained why I was currently lying on my back staring at the ceiling like a bored house cat.

Eight days ago I’d been working behind the bar at the Badger’s Den.

Pouring beers.

Talking shit.

Laughing with Tempi.

Now I had a hole in my shoulder and a biker babysitter on my mom’s porch.

A soft knock sounded on my already open bedroom door.

I lifted my head and saw my mom standing there in the doorway.

She was already dressed for work in her usual bank attire. Black slacks, navy blouse, and her hair pulled into the neat bun she’d worn every weekday for the last twenty years.

It was eight-thirty.

She had to be at the bank at nine.

“How was last night?” she asked gently.

I let my head flop back onto the pillow and laughed flatly. “It was a rager,” I said dryly. “Never had more fun being bedridden.”

The past six nights had been exactly the same as the first.

Pain.

Restlessness.

Me glaring at the ceiling.

My mom laughed softly and stepped into the room. “It’s going to get better.”

I turned my head toward her. “Have you been shot before?” I asked.

She gave me a look. “No, Britta.” Then she softened. “But I can assure you that you are going to be fine.”

I would really like to know when the fine part was going to start happening.

“Sorry,” I sighed and closed my eyes. “This just sucks.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and patted my leg through the blanket. “Which sucks more?” she asked. “Being shot or having to stay with your mommy?”

I couldn’t help it. A laugh bubbled out of me. “Being shot,” I admitted. “The only good thing is that I do get to spend more time with you. Though I feel like I’ve just been sleeping most of the time.”

Mom laughed. “So nothing really changed from when you lived here in high school then.” She gave me a knowing look. “I remember not being able to get you out of bed until two o’clock on weekends.”

“It wasn’t that late,” I grumbled.

“Sure, honey.” She stood up and smoothed her blouse. “I need to get to work. Anything you need?”

I shook my head.

She smiled toward the front of the house. “Well,” she said lightly, “I’m sure if you need anything, your biker outside will be able to help.”

“Mom,” I groaned. I had told her over and over that Swift was just making sure I was safe until they figured out who shot me.

Just temporary protection, no big deal.

Of course, Mom’s immediate response had been that it was the police’s job to protect me.

But interestingly enough?

She hadn’t pushed Swift to leave.

Not even once.

Even she seemed a little intimidated by him and the club.

Twister had charmed the hell out of her when he and Tempi came over to check on me a couple days ago. The man had some kind of supernatural charisma switch he could flip on when needed.

Swift?

Not so much.

Swift mostly stayed outside on the porch.

Watching.

Waiting.

Once my mom left for work, he’d come inside to check on me, then he’d head back to the porch after making me breakfast.

Throughout the day he checked in periodically.

At night he camped out on the couch.

Then he was back outside again when the sun came up like some kind of extremely handsome guard dog.

“Call me if you need anything, okay?” Mom said.

I nodded. “I will.” Then I paused. “But I won’t.”

She laughed. “You are too much like me, honey.” She walked toward the door. “I’ll see you when I get home.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.” Then she disappeared down the hallway.

I listened as she moved through the house. Her footsteps and the jingle of her keys. The front door opening and closing. The quiet that followed felt different.

Two minutes later, the front door opened again.

Heavy footsteps crossed the hardwood floor, slow, confident, and familiar.

Swift appeared in the doorway of my bedroom and leaned against the frame like he owned the place. His arms crossed over his chest. “Morning.”

“Morning,” I replied. My eyes drifted over him before I could stop them.

Swift looked exactly like the kind of man you expected to see in a motorcycle club.

Tall.

Broad-shouldered.

All lean muscle and quiet strength.

He had the kind of body that looked like it had been carved by years on the road rather than hours in a gym.

Dark blond hair that was a little longer on top, light stubble along his jaw, sharp cheekbones, and eyes.

God, his eyes.

Steel-blue with this constant calculating edge to them like he was always ten steps ahead of whatever was happening around him.

He was handsome, but not the polished kind.

The rough kind.

The kind that looked like he’d punch someone in the face if they crossed the wrong line.

Which, considering the club he belonged to, was probably accurate.

“Ready to get up?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

Swift pushed off the doorframe and walked toward the bed.

I held up my good hand. “I got it.”

He stopped.

“I need to get back to doing things on my own.”

He scoffed. “You were shot, Britta.” His voice was low and gravelly. “Pretty sure you have a pass to let me help you.”

I grunted as I carefully pushed myself upright. The movement tugged at my shoulder and I sucked in a sharp breath. “Being shot sucks,” I muttered.

“Never tried it, sweetheart,” Swift said. “But I’ll take your word for it.”

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a second until the room stopped spinning. “Can’t believe I’m more badass than the biker,” I joked.

Swift’s mouth twitched. “That you are.” He took a step toward me like he was going to help.

I immediately held up my hand again. “I am fine,” I said. “Just let me at least try to feel like a normal human being.”

He raised both hands in surrender. “Whatever you want.”

I knew I wasn’t going to be able to do everything yet. Hell, getting dressed was still a whole production, but I needed to start trying. Otherwise, I was going to go insane.

A knock sounded on the front door.

Swift went completely still.

The shift in him was instant. His shoulders tightened. His posture changed.

Every muscle in his body looked like it locked into place.

I stood slowly and winced. “I don’t think if they’re here to kill us, they’ll knock,” I joked.

Swift grunted. “Just stay here.”

I gave him a mock salute. “As if I can do anything more than gingerly walk.”

He shot me a look before turning and moving down the hallway.

His footsteps were quiet despite his size.

I listened as he crossed the living room, then his voice boomed through the house. “Who’s there?”

“Tempi!”

Relief spread through my chest and a grin tugged at my lips.

Of course it was Tempi.

I raised my voice toward the hallway. “I’ll be right out!”

“I’ll get the coffee going!” Tempi called back.

Bless that woman.

I carefully made my way toward the bathroom down the hall, moving slowly.

Each step tugged slightly at my shoulder, but it was manageable.

I flicked on the bathroom light and stared at my reflection in the mirror.

Same messy blonde hair. Same freckles across my nose. Same face.

If someone looked at me right now, they’d have no idea that a week ago I’d been shot. From the outside, I looked exactly the same.

But under the oversized T-shirt I was wearing? There was a neat row of stitches in my shoulder. A small hole where a bullet had gone in. A matching one where it had come out.

Six more days and the stitches would come out.

Then each day after that I was supposed to start feeling better.

Stronger. More normal.

I turned on the faucet and washed my hands slowly. For a second, I considered changing my clothes, but the idea of wrestling with a shirt right now felt like a bad decision.

I dried my hands and looked at myself one more time.

Same Britta, just with a bullet hole.