Page 1 of Snared Rider

Chapter One

Kingsley train stationis nothing more than two platforms and a timetable board. It sits in the once bustling town of the same name between the motorway and the canal, surrounded by cheap, low-quality housing. This was not always the case. At one time Kingsley had money and it was obvious it did. Like many northern towns in the UK, it grew around the coal mines. Now, the industry that made it affluent is long gone and the only hint it ever existed is the graveyard of collieries scattered throughout the town.

Alighting from the carriage, I shift my rucksack on my shoulders and take in the familiar landscape. It’s twilight, so the sky in the distance is a hazy orange as the sun starts its descent behind the rolling hills. On the far side of the platform, one lamp illuminates the concrete, and it is under this light I see a familiar figure waiting for me.

He’s leaning against the iron railings that surround the platform and tracks, his large frame out of place. He’s also the only person here, which is not unexpected as I am the only person who got off the train.

Spotting me, he takes a long drag of his cigarette, the ember on the end glowing before he moves to the bin to stub it out.

As he turns, I catch the back of his leather kutte—a sleeveless jacket worn by Club members—and the insignia so familiar I could draw it in my sleep: two crossed swords dripping blood onto a skull wearing a helmet. It has a T-cross piece over the skeletal nose and the eye sockets are red, burning coals. In a half circle across the top (the top rocker) it says ‘Lost Saxons’, the bottom circle (or bottom rocker) says ‘Kingsley’. The MC (motorcycle club) patch sits in the middle of the two, to the right of the insignia, and the one-percent patch that declares these men live outside the law above that. He wears it like a second skin, which is unsurprising given his long history with the Club. Like me, Dean is third generation Saxon, meaning he was born into this life.

I cross the small space between us and come to stand in front of him, unable to stop my lips lifting at the corners. It’s been, what? Ten months since I last saw him. I’m surprised by how different he looks. Then, his hair was buzzed close to his scalp. Now, it’s only shaved on either side, but the hair on top is long enough to style.

His head dips as his gaze roves over my face, searching, seeking. What he’s looking for I don’t know, but whatever it is he finds because his expression relaxes. Then, his eyes go over my shoulder and his brows draw together.

“That bag all you brought?” His voice is deep, the gravelly rumble of a man who smokes and drinks more than he should. Like most men in the Club, Dean does everything more than he should.

I glance at the rucksack slung across my back in confusion. “Yeah, why?”

I hear the train doors slide shut behind me as his shoulders shift.

“You don’t seem to have packed a lot, which tells me you’re not staying for long.”

Now, he sounds annoyed. I resist the urge to tell him I’m not sixteen but thirty-years-old—old enough to make my own decisions, but I don’t let my temper flare; there’s no point. Every time I come to Kingsley it’s the same shit.

Why don’t you move back?

Stay for longer.

We miss you.

Kingsley is your home.

I know my family wants me here, but what I can’t make them understand is London is my home now. My life is no longer in this small town; I have a good job in the capital, friends and a lifestyle I enjoy (most of the time).

I also make good money, something I could never do in Kingsley. The town traded its coal industry for call centres and food services—minimum wage jobs that barely cover the rent. Most people living here rely on government handouts to manage day-to-day. The town is dying on its feet and I doubt even the long-time residents can stay for much longer. I suspect the only people making any money in Kingsley is the Club.

Coming back here would change my life, and not in a good way. For a marketing graduate there aren’t any opportunities. I’m not sure a single business in this town knows what marketing is.

But it’s more than just a lack of job prospects. I left for a reason. A very, very good reason.

Logan Harlow.

Being in town, seeing him, it’s too hard. The pain is still too fresh, even close to a decade later. Of course, Dean doesn’t know this. No one knows Logan is the reason I fled hundreds of miles from home.

“Are you planning on staying for a few days and then running back to London?” he presses.

I turn to watch the train pull off, the lights moving further away until they’re just a blur in the distance. It has taken me the best part of four hours and two trains to get here after working a sixty-two-hour week. I do not need this shit.

I turn back to him.

“I’ve only got a week off work, Dean,” is all the explanation I give him because I don’t owe him anything more. I am an adult, despite my family refusing to see that. I don’t need to explain my actions, nor will I start. Besides, it’s more than a week with the weekends. It’s ten days. Ten whole terrifying days.

Christ, it’s the longest trip home I’ve done since I left and the thought of it scares the holy hell out of me. I can avoid Logan for a couple of days; ten might prove impossible. However, Dad railroaded me into the extended visit.

Dean’s lips pull together at my words, but he doesn’t lay into me as I expect. Instead, he raises a hand to his bearded chin, which even in this light I can see the hints of copper among the dark brown, and runs his tattooed fingers over his jaw.

“I guess it’ll do.”

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