Page 6 of Snared Rider

Dad breaks into the moment by muttering, “She’s my fucking kid,” but there is no heat in his words. Every member of this Club had a hand in raising me, including Tap, and Dad knows this. He’s grateful for it, too.

Tap ignores Dad and tells me, “Get over here, girly.”

I do as I’m told and slip into Tap’s waiting embrace.

After that, I’m passed from brother to old lady to receive more hugs and well-wishes.

Grandad comes to me last.

Jimmy Goddard—or Prophet, as he’s known to the brothers—is an older version of Dad, with a deeply lined face and a hint of a gut. His white hair is long, even though it is thinning on top, and it’s tied at his nape. The leather of his kutte is faded and well-worn, but it’s clear he has taken care of it over the years.

He pushes up from his stool and is wheezing by the time he’s upright. I know he is sick, but I didn’t realise he was this bad; his laboured breathing sounds like wind whistling through a keyhole.

Instinctively, I reach out to support him, but stop when he glares at me. I can take a hint, even if it pains me to do nothing while he struggles.

Grandad was diagnosed with emphysema a few years back. He collapsed in the clubhouse and spent two days in a high-dependency unit, undergoing a battery of tests. It scared the hell out of us all.

At the time I’d been relieved it was emphysema. Considering his twenty-a-day smoking habit I expected the tests to diagnose cancer. Emphysema seemed like the lesser of two evils. Now, I’m not sure my relief wasn’t premature; he’s worsened since I was last here.

“Grandad, you should have stayed sitting,” I chastise as he wraps his arms around me. Despite his huffing and puffing he gives me a solid squeeze that knocks the air out of me.

“I’m not dead yet, girl,” he grumbles into my ear. “I can still get to my own bloody feet.”

If he’s grumbling things can’t be that bad, right?

“Of course you’re not and of course you can,” I say, patting his back before breaking the hug.

When he moves out of my space, his gaze narrows on me and I brace for whatever is coming next. He doesn’t make me wait long.

“Where the bloody hell have you been for months, girl? Why in the hell haven’t we seen you before now?”

“Grandad—” I start to defend myself, but Dorothy Lawler comes to my rescue.

“Leave the girl alone, Prophet!” she orders.

As usual, she’s garbed like she just walked out of Woodstock, in a long flowing floral skirt, a faux-fur gilet and huge hooped earrings. From her wrinkled neck hang multiple necklaces while bangles encase both wrists.

“Leave her alone?” Grandad grouses. “She disappears for months, forgetting her family exists and we’re supposed to leave that alone?”

Guilt and a good dose of shame flames through me. I am a terrible daughter and granddaughter.

Dorothy clicks her tongue. “What you’re supposed to do is hug your granddaughter and be happy she’s here now.”

And I could kiss her for saying that.

“Easy for you to say: your grandson is here all the time.” He gestures in Dean’s direction.

Dean, unlike his grandmother, doesn’t come to my defence. He merely shrugs at me, telling me I’m on my own with this.

Turncoat.

“I’m sorry, Grandad. Work’s been busy,” I explain, even though I told myself I would not do that.

Judging from Grandad’s expression this doesn’t help my case, but ‘sorry I couldn’t come home because I’m harbouring a ten-year grudge against Logan’ is unlikely to garner any additional sympathy either.

“All that matters is she’s here now,” Dorothy tells him, then says to me, “You look wonderful, darling.”

She’s lying; I look like hell. I appreciate the sentiment, however.

Dad’s arm drops to my shoulders as he plants a kiss on the side of my head. “Welcome home, love.”

And God, it feels good to be home! I do not voice this because Dad will have my flat packed up within the hour if I give even the slightest hint I want to come back. Instead, I kiss his cheek and turn to the room.

“So, who’s getting me a drink?”

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