Page 5 of Snared Rider

Chapter Two

And music iswhat I am facing. As soon as I step inside the main common room the bass tones of a classic eighties rock song assault my ears.

It’s been months since I was last here, but I’m always amazed by how nothing changes despite the elapse of time. The clubhouse is a perfect example of this because it hasn’t updated (other than changing the paintwork and the new deck) since the initial building work was completed back in the early noughties.

The common room is at the front of the building and is the main meeting area when the Club comes together to socialise. This is because it is also where the bar is, and if there’s one thing these men like to do (other than riding their motorcycles) it’s drink.

Scattered around the main floor are tables and stools, although most people are standing, rather than sitting. On the far side of the bar there are two full-sized pool tables, which I’ve played on more times than I can count over the years, and a forty-inch LCD television hangs on the wall at the opposite end.

The decor is a strange mix of modern and olde worlde, and so different from the utilitarian squareness of the building’s exterior. It looks like any local pub in any small town.

Most of the furniture was purchased from clearance sales over the years, so there is a variation in style. Even the taller stools pushed under the bar are all different. It’s an eclectic mix that shouldn’t work but does.

The only noticeable change since I was last here is the walls are no longer magnolia but bottle green and the floor is now dark wood, rather than carpet— something I’m sure the prospects are grateful for, given the amount of beer (and God knows what else) that gets spilt.

I can’t even count the number of times I’ve sat in this room over the years, but being here brings back memories of a past I ran to escape: a past no one knows about but me and Logan.

As I scan the room, I see new faces in the crowd. The brothers have added to their ranks, both patches and old ladies. I feel like a stranger, even though this was home for two decades.

I try not to look for Logan specifically, but old habits die hard. I don’t care if he’s here, but I don’t plan on talking to him if he is. Avoidance is the name of the game, and it’s a game I’ve become adept at playing.

When I don’t see him the bands around my chest loosen enough to focus on my father.

Jack Goddard is a formidable man. He’s standing with his back to me, his silver hair pulled into a mini-mohawk. Like Dean, he’s shaved underneath shorter, so I can see the tattoo that creeps up his neck from beneath his kutte. It’s part of a larger design that spans his back and part of his chest.

He’s stood talking to the Club’s vice president, Henry ‘Slade’ Thomas, a pint glass in his hand. I notice Slade’s dark hair has hints of salt and pepper that were not there the last time I was home. I don’t know why but the realisation he’s getting older hits me hard; I wish I’d been less distant over the years.

Dean nudges me, then slings an arm around my shoulders.

“Look who I found loitering outside!” He yells to be heard over the music, and I elbow him in the gut. I don’t need fanfare. I would prefer to slink in and mingle than be the centre of attention.

This choice is taken from me when someone hollers, “Beth!”

All eyes in the room come to me. Then, it’s chaos.

Dad reaches me first, pulling me into a bone-crushing hug. He may look like he’d break your face if you say the wrong thing to him, but he’s a hard-shell around a gooey centre—at least he is when it comes to me.

I snuggle against his chest as my arms tighten around his waist and I hug him close. Growing up, it was just me and Dad—and the people in this room. I seem to have lost sight of that somewhere along the way and I hate that I have.

Dad pulls back from me, although I sense his reluctance to let go. I sense it because I feel the same. Hugs from Jack Goddard heal all wounds, and I have a ton of wounds that need healing.

His eyes narrow on me. “You look tired, girl. Are you getting enough sleep?”

I look tired because I am tired. Between the train journey, the fight with Alistair and anxiety over seeing everyone again, I’m exhausted. Since I do not need the aggravation of trying to calm my father on top of all this, I smile and say, “I’m sleeping fine.”

His eyes narrow and he frowns. I know what that means—he doesn't swallow my lie. He doesn't push me for answers either, instead he forces a smile. I wonder if he senses my mood and decides it’s better to let this one go—for now, at least.

“It’s good to have you back, darlin’.”

Sometimes I wonder if Dad regrets encouraging me into higher education. I suspect if he’d known that move would be permanent he would not have let me go.

Truthfully, I wish I hadn’t gone. At the time, the distance had been necessary to reclaim my sanity. Now, it’s been too long to rebuild my life here. So, I lie to myself and I lie to the people who love me. I tell them I’m happy in London, but I’m not. I’m isolated and I miss my family desperately. This is compounded further by the growing discontentment in my relationship; Alistair and I have been at each other’s throats for the past six months.

“Stop hogging her, Jack,” Tap complains.

As usual, the brother is halfway through a pint. Tap likes his booze and has for as long as I can remember (most of the men do, but Tap is without a doubt an alcoholic). I grin as I take him in: kutte, jeans, boots and all.

His face is more weathered than it was during my last visit and his red hair is darkening into a deep brown, but he looks like the same old Tap. After Slade’s evident ageing, I’m reassured by that.

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