Taken by the Bikers (Screaming Eagles MC)

The question is if Janey found some other way to fuck me.

“What are you waiting for? Don't you want to get back to your rich girl life? Champagne and lobster, dresses and balls. Fuck, you've got to be sick of running around in the guys' sweaty old T-shirts and boxers you have to belt in.” She gestures for me to move forwards.

I was actually starting to get used to the guys' T-shirts and boxers. They smell of them. Like they're there to touch me, even when I'm dressed.

God, I hate going behind their backs like this, but if they can't get past the fact that they're not going to be able to handle a full on police siege on their own, I have to do this on my own. I'm not going to let them go down over their stupid pride.

“I'm coming.”

We round the corner into a little plaza between a couple of restaurants and a barber. And there's the press, waiting for us.

The moment they see me, nine news outlets, cameras, mics—all the stuff I've hated since I was a kid—surround me. Beyond them are a bunch of locals who've popped out of the buildings to see what's going on. I've never liked being the center of attention, no matter how many times Dad would drag me out. And now, here I am, calling my own press conference.

The things I do for the guys.

I look around, searching for threats. After borrowing her phone, I used the maps app to pick the location, just to make sure that Janey wasn't putting me somewhere to set me up. I don't see anything, but I hope the chills wrapped tightly around my spine are just from my nervousness and not a real threat I haven't noticed yet.

In the middle of the plaza is a little fountain. There's no water in it, but there's still a raised stone wall there that I can stand on. It puts me up above the reporters a little, and it helps. At least I won't be looking up into the cameras like a little kid. The reporters trail me like Jupiter after Eagle-eye shakes his treat box.

“Hi,” I begin, trying to figure out where to start.

Janey keeps to the back, leaning up against a light post, but the way she's watching me with that smirk of hers has me worried. Like there's more going on than I know about. Too late to do anything about it now, though.

“I'm Emily Hawthorne. As you can see, the news of my demise has been greatly exaggerated.” I had to practice that line like five hundred times in my head, but it seemed like a perfect starter.

“Ms. Hawthorne, how did you escape?” asks one of them as all of them stick their mics in my face. I have to push down my instinct to recoil.

“I didn't.” Other than right this moment, I guess, but it's a white lie. This is for the good of the club. “I chose to leave.”

“Weren't you a hostage? There were pictures of you with a gun to your head.” This time a woman on the left.

“At first, but I have learned a lot of things since then. Like my father's willingness to sacrifice me for his political ambition, even when there was no reason for it. I'm not here to talk about the Screaming Eagles or their motivations. I'll let their actions speak for themselves, but I would advise that you look into who truly protects the people of South Side.” Taking a page from Dad's playbook, I level the most accusing gaze I can right into one of the cameras.

“The real reason I am here is because my father has lied to you. Over and over. In his eagerness to run for the senate, he's used me as a pawn to promote his own agenda. I was never in lethal danger, not until Dad attacked, and the only one who has tried to physically hurt me was one of his officers. He lied about evidence for my death. There was no such evidence, and likely he made it up when he realized he couldn't get me out of here. When he now threatens to go in, guns blazing, he's not only talking about mowing down a group of citizens without giving them their due rights or the opportunity for a trial, if he really has something on them—he's talking about mowing down his own daughter for his own political gain.”

I stop there to let it sink in. Was it too heavy? Too light? Did my point come across? Even the reporters look a little taken aback. One opens her mouth to ask another question, then is distracted by something behind me. All of them are.

Gravel crunches as a car pulls into the plaza. My stomach drops at the sound. I whirl around to see an all too familiar black limo come to a stop behind me. As usual, the bodyguards come out first.