It takes all of five minutes for Bellamy’s shoulders to relax.

I don’t know what she was expecting out of my friends—my oldest friends—but I’d imagine it was a caricature of the wealthy. Not Jax’s restrained wit, unleashed after a few glasses of wine. Or the way Cate laughs with complete abandon and always returns to him, touching his arm, touching his face. Bellamy never could have known how whip-smart Eli could be, anchored with Quinn by his side, or how Jett Brandon is the center of every conversation but never takes his eyes off Angelica.

And there’s one surprise waiting that even I couldn’t orchestrate myself.

I don’t see it coming until Cate stands up and waves. “They made it. Jess! Usual table!”

There is so much laughter and hugging that it all blends into one. Alexander Caldwell, the royalty among us, sits down at the last two seats with his wife Jessica, who fans herself. “Security must be insane in here tonight,” she says with a laugh. “You’ve got Secret Service, don’t you?”

“Against my will.” I raise a glass, toast her, and take a sip.

Bellamy’s eyes are shining. “This is intense,” she says, so quietly she might as well be whispering it into her drink.

“They’re legit royalty. Alex, tell her what it’s like at the palace.”

He looks at her across the table, and even though it’s totally innocent, even though he is married and one of my oldest friends from this club, his gaze on her skin feels like an invasion. Which is absurd. I tamp that shit down. I’m not committing her to a convent, for God’s sake.

“Changing of the guard,” he says, nodding seriously. “It’s real.”

“Wow.”

“You should visit someday.” He lifts his wine glass in our general direction. “Both of you. All of you.”

“God,” says Jett, already laughing. “We’d level the palace.”

“I have systems in place for that. You could be quarantined to reinforced areas.”

Jax wraps his arm around Cate’s shoulders. “It’s nice to be appropriately valued.”

“Oh?” I say it with such innocence that they believe me for a split second. “What’s that like?”

Laughter rises around the table. “It’s good to have you back, Graham.” Jax raises his glass in another toast. Nobody can stop toasting each other.

Alex follows. “It’s good to be back.”

“To being back,” shouts Jessica, and then there’s another flurry of toasting and laugher, so loud that it separates us from the rest of the club.

That’s why I don’t hear it at first—the murmur.

It’s like the whisper of water leaving the shore before a tsunami, and by the time I recognize it for what it is, it’s too late.

Bellamy turns her head and I follow her gaze.

My Secret Service agents are barreling through the Swan, all coming from different areas in the room, all hustling toward us with a speed that says emergency.

“Up. Stand up.” I tug Bellamy out of her seat.

She wraps her arm around my elbow, as if they might separate us, as if this might be the end of something, forcibly.

“It’s all right,” I tell her.

There’s a silence beginning at our table that ripples outward through the club, a hole in the wall of sound, and only the music from the DJ station covers it.

Jameson gets there first, his hands out, hovering above my jacket like he might have to pull me out of here by my lapels.

“Jameson.”

“You need to come with us, Mr. Blackpool. Both of you.”

His tone is deadly serious, and as much as I want to tell him to fuck off, to leave me be with my friends, I’m not going to get in the way of his job. Not tonight. Not like this.

I follow close behind, Bellamy staying close to my side. Jameson speaks into his earpiece, low and quick, and I can’t make out a single thing except entrance is clear and front isn’t an option.

“What’s going on?”

“Protesters.”

“Protesters? For what?” The hallways at the Swan are conspicuously quiet for protestors. “Why isn’t everyone else getting pulled out?"

“Not just here. All over the country.” Jameson leads us to the side door, and through the window, I can see that they’ve pulled the SUV right to the door. All we have to do is go out this exit and into the back. “Against the president.”

“What? Why?”

Bellamy is stricken. “Is this about us?”

Jameson shakes his head. “Into the back of the SUV.”

I brace for the worst as we push out and hustle Bellamy into the open back door, then jump in beside her. Jameson is last, after me, sitting by the door. “We’re good to go,” he tells the driver—and I do a double-take. Someone from the Secret Service is driving, and my driver is riding shotgun.

We accelerate out of the alley and onto the main street. Bellamy gasps. “Holy shit. Protesters.”

It’s a small crowd, but gaining steam, with signs and chants, outside the Swan.

ACTION IN BAHARA NOW

SAVE THE CHILDREN, SAVE OUR SOULS

“Why here?” Jameson won’t have classified information about what’s going on, but he will understand this.

He looks at me, his gaze hard. “You. They think you’re the way to the president.”