Page 24 of Snared Rider

Chapter Seven

The next morningDad heads out early again with Slade and Wade, leaving me in the house alone. Once I’m showered and dressed I go downstairs to spend the morning working on my laptop while I eat breakfast and consume more coffee than is humanly healthy.

Being in Kingsley has not been as bad as I thought it would. Then again, I haven’t seen Logan since the first night and even then, I didn’t speak to him. If I actually had to converse with him that might change.

Dean arrives midmorning to go on a ride. He apologises profusely for failing to see me yesterday, but something came up. Since I had a lovely day with Kenzie, I wave it off.

However, I can’t stop the excitement that rolls through me at the prospect of getting on the back of a bike again. I do manage to rein it in long enough to offer him a brew (it is the polite thing to do) and to ask him about the online stuff Dad mentioned.

At first he seems perplexed by my endless list of questions about the business but answers them anyway. It doesn’t take me long to get to the bottom of what he needs and mentally build a strategy for the business while I’m listening.

“I can help with all of that,” I tell him, taking a sip of my tea. We’re on our second cup and have yet to move from the breakfast bar and my laptop. We’ve been working away for the past few hours, our morning ride all but forgotten.

Dean scratches at his bearded chin absently. “You can?”

“Oh yeah, it’s simple. Believe me, compared to most of the clients I deal with what you need is a breeze.”

Dean looks bemused, but still manages a grin. “Well, whatever help you can give will be greatly appreciated, darlin’. I’m no good with this digital shit. Give me a bike or a cage, I can take the engine apart in record speed and fix the onboard electronics without blinking, but all that twittering and insta-shit? Fuck no.”

I laugh at him as he shifts on the stool next to me. Cars—or cages as the boys call them—are all Dean knows. He was tinkering with engines from the moment he was tall enough to reach under the bonnet.

“You know, digital marketing isn’t the devil’s work, Dean. You really need to move with the times.”

He snorts. “I don’t want to move with the times. Social media… all it does is rot your brain.”

He’s not wrong, but the internet is the future of business—particularly enterprises like the Club runs.

As I talk through his options, I purposely avoid any marketing jargon so I don’t overwhelm him, but I still confuse the hell out of him. He’s definitely a more practical hands-on type of man. Me, I’m a problem solver and I love using words and graphics to relay messages. This is why I am naturally drawn to marketing. I’m an excellent communicator—at least I am with everything but relationships. I fail there. My relationship with Logan had been a disaster and I’m sure Alistair doesn’t get me at all. The string of short-lived relationships I’ve had between the two have been just as disastrous.

Dean glances down at the silver watch on his wrist with a wince. “Doing all this shit means we’re not going to have time to go on a ride. I’ve got to get back to work.”

I had already surmised this myself, but I shrug. I’m here for a little while yet, so there’s still time to fit a ride in. “The garage?”

“Yeah.”

“Take me with you. I want to see if there’s anything we can do with signage outside or the branding.” I slap my hand against his chest. “Plus, this means I’ll get at least a small ride in.”

He shakes his head at me, even while grinning. “Go get ready then.”

Since we’re only going a short distance, I don’t bother with full leathers, just my riding jacket. I do grab my helmet from the hook where it hangs in the utility room because I like my brains inside my skull. I trust Dean’s riding skills, but I don’t trust other road users. Besides, I’m certain he will not let me on the back of his bike without headgear.

After I lock up the house, we walk over to where Dean’s Harley is parked. It’s a stunning bike, emerald green with pearl accents. It started life as a 1993 Dyna, but it’s been customised so much over the years you’d be hard-pressed to see anything of the original design in it.

I expect to climb on the back and get going, but instead I’m subjected to a ten minute lecture on riding safety. I’m sure he only does this because Dad will kill him if I get hurt (not because it’s been a while since I was last on the back of a bike). Then, he pulls on his helmet, climbs on to the bike and finally gives me the signal to get on.

I place my foot on the pillion nearest to me, then use Dean’s shoulders to steady myself as I swing my leg over and take a seat on the back. He waits until I’m settled before he turns the ignition. The roar of the engine is loud and vibrates through my entire body. God, I forgot how much I love that sound. It is like a balm to my soul. There is no better feeling than the roar of a Harley beneath you.

He glances over his shoulder, and I give him a thumbs up. I wrap my arms around his waist and hold on as Dean pulls out of the driveway. He takes it slow to the end of the street and until we’re out of the estate, then he opens up the throttle and we’re moving fast.

Nothing can compare to riding a motorcycle: the feel of the wind, nothing between you and the road, the power beneath you. Dean rides like the pro he is, moving carefully but expertly between the traffic. I relax into the ride, watching the skyline of Kingsley as we head deeper into town.

Tower blocks loom in the distance, standing above the houses and businesses. There’s a factory pumping smoke into the air, the grey melting into the clouds, and the skeletal remains of the old collieries can be seen dotted between new housing estates as we hit higher ground. I watch the road, leaning where he leans, making sure I do nothing to upset the centre of gravity of the bike.

Moor Street Garage sits, as the name suggests, on Moor Street. It’s a wide road that runs along one of the main thoroughfares in and out of Kingsley. This means it is perfectly situated for both customers in town and out.

As Dean guides the bike through the double gates and into the garage complex, I glance at the signage and notice right away it needs to be more prominent. The font is all wrong. It’s too hard to read and too square. It doesn’t scream friendly.

The garage is a large building with a tall roller door that provides an entrance for vehicles. There is a smaller squat building next to it that acts as the office and reception. The main roller door is up, revealing a car hoisted in the air, a man in coveralls working beneath it. Weed is standing on the other side of the garage with a younger lad, showing him something under the bonnet of a dark blue vehicle.

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