Page 4 of Snared Rider

“Yeah, Weed and King—a new patch and one of our latest prospects—are helping out, and I’ve got two kids right out of school that I’m training up. We’re doing a shit-ton of business, so much so I had to hire a girl to do the paperwork.”

“Well, I’m pleased for you, Dean.”

“Thanks, B.”

We ride in silence until he says, “How come Alistair didn’t come with you?”

I go still, then my gaze shifts to the side window. “He couldn’t get time off work.” The lie rolls off my tongue far too easily. In the past two years since I’ve been with Alistair it’s become so commonplace for me to make excuses for him I do it without thinking.

“It’s been fucking years and no one but your dad has met the guy. And from what Jack said he’s not exactly winning any prizes in the personality department.”

This is true, but not what I want to hear. I didn’t leave London under the best circumstances. The argument me and Ali had was still replaying in my head two hours into the journey.

Things between us have been tense for a while now and honestly, there are days when I wonder why in the hell we’re still together. As much as I hate to admit it, I suspect the only reason is that he’s not a biker named Logan Harlow. Don’t get me wrong, I love Alistair. He offered something Logan couldn’t: security, normality, freedom. But he couldn’t offer me the one thing Logan could: passion.

“He’s just… busy,” I finish lamely. “He has an intense job that means he can’t just drop everything whenever I ask.”

While this is true, Dean does not think this is a good enough reason because he says, “It's been two years. If he loves you, he should drop everything at least once to meet the people who mean something to you.”

Well, I can’t argue with that, so I don’t try to. I also don’t point out that Alistair isn’t the only one who didn’t want me to come; I didn’t want to come either. And it was this that made our fight volatile. However, I also don’t want Dean to know how terrible things are between Ali and me, so I hedge my words.

“His job is important.”

“So is his woman.”

I almost roll my eyes at the word ‘woman’, but there is no point. Dean is who Dean is, and Dean is who Dean has been since he was old enough to cogitate.

“He’ll come next time.” This is doubtful, but I say it with enough vehemence it sounds convincing. He doesn’t believe me, however.

This is evident by the sceptical scoffing sound he makes before muttering, “Sure he will.”

I open my mouth to offer another excuse when I notice the lights ahead and the gates. The Lost Saxons clubhouse was once a warehouse in a thriving industrial estate, but after the businesses moved out the Club bought the building and the attached loading bay. The brothers spent years converting it and painstakingly customising the space to fulfil the needs of the Club. The loading bay is long gone, the huge roller doors bricked up, and the land in front has been made into a secure car park. Around the back is an outdoor space used for barbecuing in the summer. Last time I was here they’d just installed a covered decking area for the boys to smoke under when it’s raining, and it rains a lot in the north of England.

Inside the complex is the main common room, offices for the Club’s officers, a dining room and kitchen, and several bedrooms for brothers and out-of-town affiliates. There is also a meeting room, a television room for relaxing in and a number of small private spaces for the brothers to use. The entire compound is surrounded by a ten-foot perimeter fence, a set of heavy iron gates and a security hut.

The location is perfect because while it is in town there are no homes in the immediate vicinity. This privacy is what makes the clubhouse such a great location, at least Dad always says that.

Dean stops at the gates and I expect a prospect to come out and open it. Instead, he reaches for a small egg-shaped device hanging from his rear-view mirror and the gate slides back of its own accord. Like magic.

My eyes widen. “That’s an upgrade.”

“Yeah, we had it installed a few months back.”

Dean guides the car into the compound and into a space between two smaller vehicles. To the side of the cars there are rows of shiny motorcycles and I instantly pick out Dad’s among them.

Nervous excitement swirls in my stomach: excitement thinking about seeing everyone again but nervousness at the telling off I’m in for.

Cutting the engine, Dean turns and grins, “Well, time to face the music, B.”

Time to face the music, indeed.

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