Page 67 of Snared Rider

After an hour or so the pain in my ribs moves from a dull ache to a sharp throb. I need drugs, and I need them now. Remembering the doctor gave me a bag full, I snag the paper bag from among my belongings and read the instructions on what I’m allowed to take.

Carefully (and incredibly slowly), I push up to my feet, ignoring the flare of pain the movement brings.

Breaking ribs sucks.

One hand pressed to my side, which is now throbbing, I head to the kitchen for a drink. I can dry swallow tablets like a champ but these are not small pills. The last thing I need to do is choke because coughing is likely to hurt.

The kitchen in the clubhouse is more like a school canteen. There are rows of stainless steel counters, two large double-fronted cookers and a couple of fridge-freezers. It joins onto a substantial dining space used by the Club to get together on special occasions, or even just for run-of-the-mill meals. I have no clue who does the shopping, but I find the kitchen stocked to the rafters with every type of food you can imagine.

I peer through the internal window that separates the kitchen from the dining room and acts as a serving hatch. I’m surprised to see a lone figure sitting at one table because I thought the clubhouse was empty, but I’m glad it’s Clara Thomas, not one of the brothers. I’m not sure I can face an inquisition right now. Not that Clara won’t have questions, but we don’t know each other that well, so I’m hoping she will go easy on me.

Clara is Slade’s wife. They married about five years ago, and it’s a testament to how much I’ve avoided the Club because I’ve only met her a handful of times.

Of course, I came back for their wedding, which was held in the clubhouse in front of the entire Club—including hangarounds and some out-of-towners. Slade wore a dress shirt (probably for the first and only time in his life), his kutte and a smart pair of black jeans with his motorcycle boots. This just epitomises the mentality of these boys: live, breathe, and die for the Club. Christ, even get married in your colours.

Clara didn’t seem to care he wore his kutte to the ceremony; she was just elated to see him. Although, I think Slade got the better end of their deal; she looked amazing that day. She wore a knee-length ivory gown that cut in a ‘V’ at her neckline and showed her shoulders. Her ash-blonde hair had been loosely curled, flowing down her back and she’d been holding flowers in the Club’s colours—red, blue and white. During the ceremony, once the legal bits were done, Slade presented his new wife with her own leather jacket.

This declared Clara was ‘Property of Slade’. It was stamped across the back of the jacket for everyone to see. She put it on over her dress and kissed her man like he was her reason for breathing. I felt green-eyed envy watching them together because I’d had that kind of love once, the kind of love that consumes you in its intensity.

Not wanting to scare Clara by sneaking around, I pop my head through the interior window.

“Clara?”

Her head whips towards me, her hand going to her chest as if trying to stop her heart from exploding through her ribcage.

“Christ, you scared me half to death!”

“Sorry.” I wince.

She waves a hand at me and shakes her head.

“Oh, sugar, there’s no need to apologise. I was in a world of my own. I didn’t hear you bumping about in there.” She pats the table in front of her. “Come sit with me.”

It’s not a question, but I answer it anyway. “Sure. I was just getting a drink. Do you want one?”

She lifts the coffee mug in front of her with a shake of her head. “I’m good.”

I move to the nearest fridge and pull it open. There is so much food inside, it’s unreal. There’s a mix of healthy fresh goods and junk food—everything a growing biker needs. In the door are rows of bottled water, fresh fruit juice and milk. I take a water, close the fridge and head through the door into the dining room.

Clara watches me as I gently lower myself onto the chair next to her.

“Are you sore?” She winces with sympathy as I settle myself.

“Sore enough,” I reply, dumping my bottle and bag of pills on the table. She watches as I push out the tablets and take them with the water.

“It’s not right you getting caught up in this,” she says when I’m done. “I told Slade he and those boys better fix this for you and then fix it so this never happens again.”

This makes me grin. The thought of this tiny woman snapping orders at Slade is hilarious. And compared to him she is tiny; she must be around five-three while he’s at least six-foot.

“Thanks for sticking up for me.” Not that it will make any difference. She—and the boys—can’t undo what has already happened.

She takes my hand in hers, her skin soft against mine. “Us girls have to stick together. These men will think they rule the roost otherwise.”

I snort because these men do rule the roost. Clara might be the most powerful woman in the Club, given her status as old lady to the VP, but she doesn’t have as much power as she would like to believe. Club comes before women, even if that woman is your wife.

Always.

I don’t say this because I don’t want to ruin the banter or good mood between us—and because she undoubtedly already knows the status quo. Instead, I just smile at her, saying, “Good thing we know differently, right?”

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