Page 27 of Snared Rider

Because I want to throttle him.

“How the heck do you think I manage in London, Dean? Which is, may I remind you, ten times the size of Kingsley! I’ve been there since I was twenty-years-old and never had a problem. I doubt Kingsley, which should be a hundred times safer given it’s Club territory, will pose any issues!”

My challenge gives him pause and I’m not sure if that’s because of my words or because he doesn’t want to admit Kingsley isn’t safe.

After a moment, he holds his hands up in supplication. “Fine. Jesus, don’t bite my head off.”

I smile in triumph, amazed he folded so easily. That feeling dies quickly when he adds, “But I’m not just letting you wander the bloody streets.”

“I might be mistaken, Dean, but I’m pretty sure taxis do exist this far north.”

He isn’t impressed by my sarcasm. He translates this with a reproachful glare as he leans over the desk to a small board on the wall. It’s filled with rows of car keys, all different sizes and shapes hanging from hooks. He snags a set and thrusts them in my direction.

“Use the Ford on the front.”

I take the keys hesitantly. “This isn’t a client’s car, is it?”

The suspicion in my tone makes him snort. “Like I’d trust you to drive a client’s car.”

I scoff at his statement. I’m a great driver—at least, I was ten years ago, which was pretty much the last time I drove. Dean ignores me and continues, “It’s a pool car. I have two on the books in case someone needs a replacement vehicle while we’re working on theirs. No one needs it, B. It’s yours for the rest of the week.”

Hmm, having access to a vehicle would make it easier to avoid Logan…

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I close my fingers around the keys and beam at him. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, well, I want you safe. Besides, I’m the one who should be thanking you for your help today. I guess the Club could use a marketing guru full time.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “It could, could it?”

“None of us know shit about this digital stuff. To be honest, we could do with your help across all the businesses.”

I desperately want to ask if Dad set this in motion. However, I’m also aware of the clock ticking away. Logan could arrive at any moment and I want to be gone before that happens. I shelve my questions for another day, but I plan on asking both Dad and Dean about it.

“Let me know about going for a ride,” I tell him. “Today was a teaser, but I want the full experience.”

“Yeah, of course.” He stands as I push up and wraps his arms around me. Then his lips go to my hair. “Be careful.”

“I’m only going ten minutes down the road, Dean. I’ll be fine.”

“Just humour me, okay? Text me when you’re home.”

“Will do, Dad,” I mock.

This earns me a chuckle.

Dean then walks me out of the office and back onto the garage forecourt. The only Ford parked up front is a bright red Focus. It’s maybe six years old and looks smart. It’s been a while since I last drove (living in London there isn’t much need for a car), so it takes far too long to adjust the seat, my mirrors and to remember how the hell everything works. It’s complicated further by the fact the vehicle is an automatic, not a manual; my left foot keeps looking for the clutch and finding the brake.

Dean watches my attempt at manoeuvring with dismay, and I get the distinct impression he regrets offering the car. Too late now.

Finally (after a lot of faffing), I get the vehicle moving and am pulling out onto the street when I see a bike coming towards me.

I know it’s Logan before he gets close. I can tell by his frame and the way he sits on the bike. Even with his helmet covering his hair and sunglasses shielding his eyes I know it’s him. I don’t think or stop. I continue to navigate the car up the street towards the main road, my gaze locked firmly ahead.

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.

It’s hard not to. Logan looks amazing on the bike, like he was made to ride it. He fits it like it is an extension of himself. He’s not wearing his kutte, but a full leather jacket in the Club’s colours. I catch a flash of white beneath the garment, but I don’t focus long enough to take in anything more. I can’t. One look at him on that bike and everything south of my navel reacts. I hate that he still has that power over my body, given how much I dislike him.

Despite keeping my eyes locked forward, in my peripheral vision I notice he glances at the car as he passes and I see him do a double take.

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t fucking look!

It nearly kills me, but I keep my eyes on the road. I hold my breath until the car passes the bike and then my gaze flicks to the rear-view mirror. He slows down and twists to look over his shoulder at the back end of the car. Then, he turns forward and guides the bike into the garage parking area.

And I survive my second near miss with Logan Harlow.

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