Page 28 of Snared Rider

Chapter Eight

Fourteen years earlier…

Friday nightsat the clubhouse are usually for patched members only. I don’t know who started this rule or why, but it has been this way for as long as I can remember. I guess it is a time for the brothers to come together and unwind. Mary Harlow has a different theory; she reckons it is because the men want a break from their old ladies and kids for a night. She’s probably right, although I think it should be the other way round; being attached to a Saxon is not an easy life. Over the years I’ve seen a lot of women crash and burn, running far and fast—my own mother among them. Don’t get me wrong, I love these men, but they are difficult to deal with, my father included. Growing up the only daughter of an overbearing, overprotective bossy biker has been a tribulation, I’ll tell you; being married to one, I imagine, would make you age prematurely.

But tonight is a Friday night, meaning the clubhouse should be filled with brothers doing whatever the hell they do when the women and kids are out of the picture (I don’t even want to think about what that might be). Instead, there are old ladies congregated around a buffet table filled with hot and cold food and children running around shrieking, pretending to ride motorcycles while shooting each other.

Being here on a day that is usually forbidden makes me feel like a trespasser who has invaded the inner sanctum. However, this is not why I’m hiding at the back of the room trying to blend in. I’m not really hiding at all—at least this is what I’m telling myself. And I tell myself this because if I am hiding I’m doing a piss-poor job.

I’m leaning against the wall, a bottle of beer clutched between my fingers, necking it like it’s juice. I’m not old enough to drink—not for another few years—but I doubt a single man (or old lady) in this room will pull me up on it. If I was knocking back spirits that would be another story. In fact, I’m sure Jem, who is manning the bar tonight, would have refused to give me anything stronger than lager. And for good reason: my father will kick him senseless and he knows it. Still, I’m not willing to risk having my drink confiscated, so I’m blending.

I’m also taking a moment to revel at being in the clubhouse on a Friday night. This is definitely novel, although not unheard of. There have been a few occasions in the past where the bar has been opened to everyone, but usually they try to schedule events for the Saturday.

And this is a special occasion. It’s also why the room looks so bright and girly. There are hot pink and white balloons and streamers dotted around the walls. This is a contrast to the decor, a decor infinitely more fitting with a motorcycle Club. It’s bizarre to see these burly tattooed men standing among the splashes of colour, although it’s not the first time it’s happened. There are a lot of women attached to the Saxons and a lot of these women like pink. Since the men in this Club like to keep these women happy they do whatever that takes—even if it means sticking pink balloons to the walls and wearing bright pink party hats (something my grandfather has already done with relish). Club vice president, Slade, is wearing a birthday banner draped around his body like a Miss Universe model—if Miss Universe wore leather and denim and swore a lot.

From my vantage point I watch Mackenzie move from brother to old lady, receiving hugs and kisses and presents. She’s thirteen today, although she looks more like twenty-three. This is the reason her older brothers are so protective of her. God help poor Sofia; she’s nine going on ten and already her brothers are overbearing Neanderthals.

I’m grateful I’m an only child. This does not mean I escape this behaviour, not at all, it’s just not constant. Since Dad is away a lot on Club runs (jobs for the Club), I’m left to my own devices more than I would be if I had siblings and a mother on the scene.

“Does your dad know you’re necking booze like a sailor?” Logan’s voice at my side startles me. I cover this and the blush creeping up my neck by shoving one hand into the pocket of my jeans and bringing the bottle clutched in the other to my lips.

As always, being in his presence makes my stomach flip-flop and my heartbeat pick up. The man is gorgeous; all the Harlow boys are in their own way, but Logan… he makes me feel things I didn’t know I could feel. My hands tremble as I clutch the bottle tighter. I wish I could rub the chilled glass over my heated face, but that might draw attention to the fact I’m glowing like a beacon right now.

This is not unusual behaviour for me when I’m in Logan’s presence. It’s like my brain goes on holiday and my body goes rogue. I’m too hot, too shaky, too everything.

Too bad he doesn’t notice.

For as long as I can remember I’ve loved Logan Harlow. That feeling is not mutual. He thinks of me as his little sister’s friend. In fact, he probably looks at me as another little sister. We grew up together, and even though there is less than three years between us, he acts as if it is ten. This gulf has become wider since he got his full colours.

“I’m seventeen in, like, three months,” I say before taking a long, deep pull of my drink. The malty taste of the beer spreads across my tongue before I swallow it down and I wish it was stronger. My birthday can’t come quick enough. It’s one step closer to adulthood and doing what I want when I want without an inquisition.

I’m also hoping Logan will see me as a grown up then, and not some silly kid. I want him to notice I’m a woman, not a little girl.

“Three months from seventeen isn’t seventeen,” he says with a grin that makes my breath catch.

Oh crap.

He’s letting his dark hair grow, meaning it’s long enough to curl behind his ears; he looks edible. Then again, he always does, especially with that five o’clock shadow he’s got going on.

Still, I can’t stop from being surly with him.

“Yeah, who are you? The alcohol police?”

“Just a concerned citizen worried about underage drinking.”

Even though it is said in jest, I want to smack him. He did his share of underage drinking not that long ago and no one ever questioned him. The boys in this Club get away with murder; the girls do not. It pisses me off.

I remember the day Logan turned eighteen. The Club threw him a hell of a party. They will do this for me, too, although at my party I will not be presented with a brand-new leather kutte and a prospect patch. Not like Logan, not like Jem, not like Dean and not like Adam will in a few years’ time. I will have a cake, and that will be it.

And yes, that is jealousy in my tone. I grew up in this life the same as these boys, yet because I was born with tits and not a dick I’m relegated to outside the circle. I’ll never wear a kutte or be allowed to sit in church—the Club’s official meetings. I’ll never be part of this Club unless I become a brother’s old lady. Even then, my role is limited to supporting my man. And doesn’t that just grate on my nerves?

My father raised me to be strong and independent, then put me in a lifestyle where I can be neither.

Am I resentful? Fuck yes.

This means my tongue is sharper than I would like when I respond to Logan’s ribbing.

“So, go and tell Jack,” I mutter. “I’m sure he’s really going to give two shits that I’m drinking a beer at a family party while he’s standing two feet from me.”

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