Match Me Perfect

by Jessica Ames

  “Are you planning on staying for a few days and then running back to London?” he presses.

  I turn to watch the train pull off, the lights moving further away until they’re just a blur in the distance. It has taken me the best part of four hours and two trains to get here after working a sixty-two-hour week. I do not need this shit.

  I turn back to him.

  “I’ve only got a week off work, Dean,” is all the explanation I give him because I don’t owe him anything more. I am an adult, despite my family refusing to see that. I don’t need to explain my actions, nor will I start. Besides, it’s more than a week with the weekends. It’s ten days. Ten whole terrifying days.

  Christ, it’s the longest trip home I’ve done since I left and the thought of it scares the holy hell out of me. I can avoid Logan for a couple of days; ten might prove impossible. However, Dad railroaded me into the extended visit.

  Dean’s lips pull together at my words, but he doesn’t lay into me as I expect. Instead, he raises a hand to his bearded chin, which even in this light I can see the hints of copper among the dark brown, and runs his tattooed fingers over his jaw.

  “I guess it’ll do.”

  I’d been lucky to get that much time off, so it would have to do. My boss, Jan, was not keen on letting me go, but I convinced her. The only reason she authorised my leave was because I told her I can work remotely while I’m away.

  Dean stares at me for so long I shift under his scrutiny. Then he says, “I’ve missed you, Beth.”

  The tension in my shoulders disappears and I can’t help it; I grin. “I missed you, too.”

  And then I’m in his arms. He pulls me against his chest and I can smell the leather of his vest, the aftershave he always douses himself in, and the smell that just is Dean Lawler. I relish the contact, the familiar embrace and sink into it. God, I have missed him. I didn’t realise how much until this moment, but being in his arms, against his chest feels so good I don’t want it to end. Unfortunately, it must and he’s the one who ends the hug by pulling back from me.

  “You can’t leave it this long between visits, B.”

  This statement—unlike the others—doesn’t annoy me, even though I know it is a jab at my lack of visiting this year.

  “I know. I’m sorry. It’s been hectic at work the past few months and before that Alistair was wrapped up in family stuff.” I stop talking because I’m doing what I said I wouldn’t do: explaining. “I’ll try to get up more. You know, you lads could always come to visit me.”

  He snorts and holds a hand out for my bag. I oblige, slip‐ ping the straps down my shoulders. He doesn’t explain his response either, but he doesn’t need to. The Lost Saxons are Kingsley men. This is their domain. They rarely stray outside their patch, and for a good reason. It opens it up to a hostile takeover. However, the boys have ridden south a few times in the past twelve months. Dad and Grandad came to visit me twice last summer.

  “You still with that dickhead?”

  I bristle at his calling Alistair a dickhead, even though Alistair is a dickhead. He made that case before I left London. The blazing argument we had was not fun. It left me wrung out, drained and with a headache to rival all headaches. This made the train journey complete and utter hell.

  Still, I say, “Don’t call him that.” “I say it how I see it.”

  “You do realise you’re not my father, right? That you don’t have any say on who I date.”

  He snorts at my statement, the meaning clear: it’s irrelevant. The bonds of family are fluid in the Lost Saxons’ world. Brotherhood is the foundation of the Club, so because Dean is Club, as am I, that makes us family. Blood is not important. Families are built in our world, not born.

  He is the closest thing I have to a brother, and it’s a role he fulfils whether I want him to or not. We were both Club brats under the watchful eyes of the old ladies (wives and girlfriends of the patched members) and a host of pseudo-uncles who thought it was their jobs to look after us. Dean’s just two years older than me, so of all the Club’s kids, he (and once upon a time Logan) is the patched brother I feel the most affinity towards.

  “Come on, B, let’s get out of here.”

  He drapes his arm over my shoulder, the other hand clutching my rucksack, and steers me towards the gated exit.

  “Are we going straight to the clubhouse?” “Yeah. Everyone is itching to see you.”

  Which means Clara Thomas, Mary Harlow and Dorothy Lawler have arranged a party in my honour tonight.

  Great.

  The last thing I feel like doing is drinking. What I really want is a good meal, a hot bath and my bed.

  But resistance is futile.

  My family will do what they think they need to do to welcome me back into the fold—even if I’m only here temporarily.

  I force a smile. “Well, we better not keep them waiting.” Dean grins at me. “You could try to sound more enthusiastic.”

  “I am enthusiastic!” My tone is defensive, which only makes Dean grin harder.

  He pushes the gate open. It creaks so loudly I’m sure the hinges are only being held on with rust, and we walk towards the car park. I’m surprised to see three cars but no motorcycle.

  “You didn’t ride here?”

  He shakes his head. “I figured you’d have luggage. If I’d known you were packing this light I’d have brought the bike.” I packed light because I thought I’d be on the back of a Harley. I hoped I would be. I can’t stop my disappointment from bleeding through, which makes Dean laugh. “You want to ride?”

  Of course I want to ride. I sat on my first Harley-Davidson when I was six weeks old. Granted, Dad was holding me and we didn’t go anywhere, but I was still on a bike. From the moment I was old enough to sit on my own, I was on the back of Dad’s bike or any of the brothers who would take me out. I loved it. I loved the feeling of being on the open road, wind in my hair, freedom on the horizon. There are some stunning bike routes in this part of the world. In my life, I’ve ridden the length and breadth of the UK. Dad even took me to Europe one summer. This means I am an accomplished passenger. I had intended to get my own motorcycle, but leaving put the brakes on that.

  “Um, yeah, dummy,” I tell Dean, “I want to ride.”

  Dean runs the fingers of one hand through his hair. “I’ll take you out tomorrow, if you’re up to it after tonight.”

  If I’m not too hungover, he means. Given the way Club parties usually go this is a high possibility.

  “That’d be cool, Dean.”

  He stops at a light blue people carrier on the nearest side of the car park and hits the central locking on his keys. The flash of orange follows the click of the locks disengaging; it's bright in the rapidly darkening evening. Dean opens the passenger door for me and gestures to the seat flamboyantly.

  “Your carriage awaits, Princess.”

  I smack his arm before I climb in. I am not a princess, not even close, although my father would probably disagree. He doesn’t see a grown woman when he looks at me, but his little girl, still in pig-tails. Most of the men in the Club who knew me from knee-high are the same.

  Dean shuts the door behind me once I’m settled in the passenger seat. I’m fumbling with my seat belt when he opens the back door to put my bag in, and then moves to the driver’s side.

  Visiting Kingsley is always bittersweet. The nostalgia hit is a smack to the solar plexus while the gratitude I escaped small town living is just as severe a blow. As Dean steers the car onto the main road, I can’t help but stare out the window.

  Don’t get me wrong, Kingsley isn’t a bad place, it just stopped developing in the late nineteen-eighties. Once the last colliery closed and the mining companies moved out, hundreds lost their jobs. Most of the town had the sense to leave before things got too bad, but a surprising number stayed while Kingsley crumbled around their ears.

  Driving through town, it’s clear to see the deprivation continues to spread. A good proportion of the high s
treet’s shops are boarded up, the businesses long gone. It’s better than it was last time I was here. It looks like a few new boutiques have opened, but it is still a sorry sight to see.

  I’m not sure if Dean senses the reason behind my disquiet or if I’m just an open book, but he says, “Shit is better here. I know it doesn’t seem it, but it is.”

  Turning towards him, I take a second to study his face in profile. He has a strong jawline and a bump on his nose from when he broke it in his late teens.

  “It’s just bleak, Dean. I mean, you live and you die in Kingsley.” For the most part it’s the latter rather than the former.

  I was lucky; I got out, but I had a dad who could pay for my education. I went to university in London, got a first-class degree and got a decent job. Most kids in Kingsley will never have that opportunity.

  He rests one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gearstick. “The Club’s investing a lot in the local area.”

  This I can believe because the Club is one of the few reasons there are still any jobs in this town. The Lost Saxons run three bars, two garages, and recently they’d invested in a local construction business. And that’s just the legal side of things. My father thinks I’m in the dark about the drugs they sell, but he’s wrong. I’ve known for years they shift cocaine and marijuana. I also know they deal with the McVay brothers—Irish mob. Do I like it? No. But since I can do nothing about it, I keep my mouth shut and stay as far away from it as I can. Like, London far.

  “Enough about Kingsley,” I say, shaking the darkening thoughts from my mind. “Tell me what’s new with you.”

  Dean scratches at his cheek before replacing his hand on the gearstick. “Prez gave me the management of the garage on Moor Street.”

  Prez—or Club president Derek Chambers—is the head of the Lost Saxons. His father Harry, alongside Sam Lawler (Dean’s late grandfather), John Harlow (Logan’s late grandfather) and my own grandfather, Jimmy Goddard, set up the Club in the sixties. The four, if the legend is to be believed, were tearaways, even back then.

  They grew up at the start of the mods and rockers era. Unsurprisingly, four teens who rebelled against authority and had a flair for trouble embraced the latter. Leather, jeans, fast bikes and a love of disturbing the peace—they were made for that lifestyle. By the end of the sixties, the Lost Saxons Motorcycle Club was established in Kingsley and already had numbers edging into the double digits.

  Dean may be Club royalty because his grandfather was a founding member, but he’s never asked for handouts—none of the boys with those links has. He worked his way up from prospect to patched member and was eventually offered a place at the officers’ table. He didn’t take it. Why? I don’t know, but he’s always grafted for the Club, so the news Derek has given him more responsibility makes me deliriously happy.

  “Really?”

  Dean rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Yeah, I’ve been running it for about a month and a half now.”

  The Club has two garages on either side of town. Moor Street, if I remember correctly, gets a lot of traffic from Kingsley but also from neighbouring Mountgerald, which has a more affluent clientele.

  “That’s fantastic!” I tell him, and I mean it.

  He smiles, trying to play it cool but I can tell he’s pleased. “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.

  You can read more about the Lost Saxons Motorcycle Club here: http://getbook.at/LostSaxons

  Acknowledgments

  A huge thank you to my amazing parents,
who have enabled me to reach my dream of publishing books, and to my family who have supported me every step of the way.

  I have to say a shout out to my author tribe: SE Roberts, Annabella Stone, Annie Dyer and Emery Rose—you girls seriously keep me putting pen to paper. I hope I inspire you all as much as you inspire me. Thank you for celebrating even the small wins with me.

  Thank you to my amazing group admins: Valerie, Debra and Michelle. Their hard work enables me to focus on writing. I love you girls. You are all amazing.

  I also have to thank my editor, Eliza, who just gets where I’m coming from and makes all my words sparkle.

  Thanks to Paige and Charisse for your hard work over the Christmas period to get this done. You are both fantastic!

  Lauren Dawes from Sly Fox for creating beautiful artwork and for being a friend!

  Thank you to my Street Team for being awesome and helping me to promote my books. Love you ladies.

  And lastly thank you to everyone who has bought my books and joined my social media channels. Your unending support means more than you know.

  About the Author

  Jessica Ames was raised in a small market town in the Midlands, England. She lives with her crazy mongrel terrier and when she’s not writing she’s playing with crochet hooks. From the moment she was old enough to hold a pen she created fantastical stories and by the age of 17 had written her first full-length novel: a fantasy story about an exiled boy king. It was a cliched mess, but she realised she could, in fact, write and finish a book!

  Knowing she needed to make money, she found work in the publishing world. Over the next decade, she honed her skills and worked hard to learn everything she could about writing. In January 2018, in a moment of insanity, she quit her job in magazine publishing to write books full time.

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