Page 7 of Snared Rider

Chapter Three

“What doyou even like about that place, B?” This question comes from Adam Harlow.

Logan’s little brother is sat in a chair, a leggy brunette called Becca (his latest girlfriend, according to Dean) sitting in his lap. She’s wearing denim shorts that do not leave a lot to the imagination and a halter top that might as well be a bikini. She’s also as thick as two short planks.

“Adam!” Becca smacks him in the gut with a manicured hand.

Adam groans, then scowls at her. “It’s a legitimate question, babe.”

It’s also the thirtieth time someone has asked it. For the past hour I’ve been sat in the common room with Dean, Adam and Jem Harlow, a newly patched brother called Weed (who keeps eye fucking me across the table), and the Harlows’ younger sisters, Mackenzie and Sofia. All six are interrogating me like they’re MI5.

Until now I’ve humoured them, but I’m losing patience. The amount of alcohol I’ve chucked down my throat also means I’m losing the ability to defend myself. This is dangerous because it leaves me vulnerable to divulging things I shouldn’t.

“I mean,” Adam continues, “she ditched home for the best part of a decade to live in a shoebox flat that costs the earth. I want to know why. What’s so good about London?”

Logan isn’t there.

This, I don’t say. Instead, I take a long drink of my beer, resisting the urge to throw the bottle at the nosey bastard’s head. As much as I don’t like Becca, I don’t want to accidentally bash her brain in because I’m too drunk to throw straight.

As soon as she’s off his lap, however…

“That’s not your business,” Becca tells him, and I change my mind. I do like Becca. In fact, she’s my new best friend; she’s the only one of these fuckers who is defending me.

“Bec, I’ve known Beth since she was born,” Adam says. “Her business is my business.”

Dean grunts as he leans forward to grab his packet of cigarettes off the table. “You’re five years younger than her, idiot.”

“And for your information,” I interject, my tone haughty. “My business is just that, Adam Harlow: mine.” I only slur my words a smidge (which is impressive considering how much I’ve imbibed tonight), but Jem’s ducked head and grin tells me it didn’t go unnoticed.

Adam stares at me a beat, then says, “That place must shit rainbows to keep you down there this long.”

I snort at his words. “And it breeds unicorns.” That sounded a little less wobbly. I shoot Jem a triumphant smile, but his attention has wandered back to his drink.

Becca chooses this moment to share, “I love unicorns!”

This surprises no one, least of all me. Becca seems like the type of person whose entire life is filled with unicorns and rainbows.

Jem clearly agrees with my thoughts because he rolls his eyes and pats her leg. “Of course you do, sweetheart.”

Then, he gives his younger brother a look that says so much, and what it says is ‘what the hell are you doing with this one?’ Adam shrugs in response to the silent question as his hand goes to Becca’s neck, kneading the space between her throat and shoulder. She moans a little as her head tips to the side to give him better access, and who can blame the girl. If he had his hands on me like that I’d be moaning too.

Jem and Adam are easy on the eyes. They both have dark blond hair that reaches their chins in loose, tousled, wild waves. This differs from their eldest sibling and their sisters. Logan is dark, not fair, although his hair curls where it touches behind his ears and at the nape of his neck. He has good hair. Very good hair. It is hair designed for running fingers through. It is hair I loved running my fingers through.

No.

I can’t go there.

I put the brakes on that painful trip down memory lane and refocus on the two men in front of me. I can see why Becca is so enamoured with Adam; he’s easy to love. All the Harlow boys are, including (as much as it pains me to admit) Logan.

“I’m guessing no one gave Mr Mathematics over here shit about not coming home or asked why he loved Cambridge more than his family. Fucking favouritism.”

I don’t mean to say this out loud, but my brain to mouth filter is apparently on holiday because I both speak these words and say them sounding like a sullen teenager.

Adam grins at me, while Dean’s expression is unreadable.

“Ouch, Little Bee,” Jem mutters, “why’d you have to bring me into this shit?”

Jem tagged me ‘Little Bee’ within the first three seconds of seeing me. This was because he tried to stick his tongue in my ear by way of greeting, so I gut-punched him. He found the whole thing hilarious, saying I pack a ‘sting’. I’m ignoring the name and hoping he gets bored of it.

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