Flawed Rider: A Lost Saxons Novel #6

by Ames, Jessica

  He snorts. “She’s pretty and completely not your type.”

  “I don’t discriminate when it comes to women, Ad.”

  And I don’t. I never have. I like all sizes, all shapes, all women.

  “You like this one, though. She’s been around a lot more than any of the others.”

  I do. I like her more than I have any right to, but I don’t care. She’s mine now and I’ll do whatever I need to keep her.

  “What are you? My mum?”

  Adam holds his hands up in supplication. “I’m just showing an interest in a brother’s life.”

  “I like her,” Dean says. “You’re better with her. You seem more focused, more grounded too.”

  I have no idea what this means, but I ask, “You mean less of an arsehole?”

  Dean laughs. “I mean less of an arsehole,” he agrees before he scrubs a hand down his face. “She seems like a good girl.”

  “She is,” I admit. “She’s too good for me.”

  And this is the God’s honest truth.

  “They’re all too good for us,” Dean says, and his eyes get distant. “Liv… I don’t deserve a woman that pure, but while I’ve got her, I’m holding on fucking tight.”

  I’m doing the same with Chloe. I’ve been in her bed nearly every night since we got together and I don’t plan on there being a time when I’m not. She’s in my head, under my skin and I want her in every way imaginable.

  I never thought I would feel this way about a woman, ever. I’ve always been the love them and leave them type, never the stick around in the morning type, but Chloe understands me. She gets me in a way no other woman ever has, and she’s not with me for the prestige of fucking a brother or because she wants something from me. She sees me. Really sees me.

  It should scare me. It does scare me, but my need to have her is greater than my fear. Do I worry about my past? Yeah, I do. That fear that I might one day become my father will never disappear, but I don’t believe that’s all I can be now. And that’s because of her.

  Chloe made me believe in myself. She saw through my flaws and stripped them down until she found the real me. I guess this is what love is about.

  It doesn’t scare me—not like it used to and I don’t know why. It should terrify me, the prospect of settling down, but with Chloe, I want to go home to her, I want to spend time with her.

  I sound pussy whipped, but I don’t care.

  She’s fast becoming my world.

  I need to see her.

  I hate to bow out of a brother’s party, but Charlie is so fucked I doubt he’d notice anyway. I remove myself from the conversation with Dean and Adam to find King. When I do, I ask him to drive me to Chloe’s, considering I’m on the wrong side of drunk myself.

  Like a good little prospect, he agrees. No questions asked.

  I have no idea why I’m going over. It’s late. She’ll probably be in bed, but the thought of spending the night without her makes my stomach twist. I need her.

  I drop a message to Chloe.

  ME: I’m coming over. Are you awake?

  “Was that your first patch party?” I ask King while I’m waiting for Chloe to reply.

  King nods, resting one elbow on the side window while lazily holding the steering wheel. “Yeah. I’m pleased for Charlie. He’s a hell of a guy.”

  “Yeah, he is. He’s a good brother.” I scratch at my jaw as I watch the world pass by through my own window, the darkened shadows of Kingsley more sinister in the night.

  “It won’t be long until you’re patching in, too,” I tell King who grins.

  “I hope so. I love this Club and I want to be a part of it.”

  He’ll make a good brother, too.

  My phone pings. I glance down.

  CHLOE: I’m awake. Can’t wait to see you.

  I can’t wait to see her either. Just as this thought enters my head, I see a flash of bright lights and then I’m shunted in my seat as a vehicle ploughs into the side of the car.

  Glass sprays inward and I turn my head to protect myself as we roll over and over.

  The crunching of metal is deafening and I can hardly hear anything over it. When the car jolts into a resting position, I’m upside down and my seatbelt is the only thing keeping me in my seat. The pressure on my chest is intense and my head is throbbing. Darkness creeps into the edge of my vision as I turn slowly towards the driver’s side and see King limply hanging in his seat. Blood is streaming down the side of his face and dripping to the car’s roof beneath him. My entire body feels like one big bruise and my head is throbbing, my ears ringing.

  “King?” I try to say his name, but it slurs together. My vision is starting to darken more and I’m struggling to keep my wits about me. “King?” I repeat, but he doesn’t stir.

  Everything is rolling around me, but I see a pair of jean clad legs and boots appear in the window frame. The figure crouches and when he does, I feel sick to my stomach.

  Dylan grins at me. “Quite the mess you’re in, Weed.”

  Then, I pass out.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Pain lances through my chest and it’s this that brings my eyes fluttering open. I should have kept them closed. Fuck me. The smell is the first thing that hits me. It’s musty and in the cold air I can pick out the stale scent of what I’m sure is urine.

  I blink, trying to clear my vision, and I get my first look at where I’m being held. It’s a dank, dirty room with no furnishings in other than the chair I’m slumped in and a table on the opposite side of the room. Scattered over the floor are bits of old newspapers and junk. It looks like the place has been abandoned for a while and hasn’t been cleaned for longer.

  My hands are tied to the arms of the chair I’m sitting in, as are my feet. I try to jiggle my wrists, hoping the rope will come loose, but it doesn’t move, just cuts tightly into my skin. Clearly, they were tied by a knot expert or someone who was once a Boy Scout.

  It was Dylan.

  He’s the last thing I remember—his bastard face dancing in my darkening vision. I try to glance over my shoulder, but my neck twinges and pain reverberates right through my torso.

  Fuck, that hurts. It hurts so badly it steals the breath from my lungs. Note to self… don’t try that again.

  “You’re awake.”

  Dylan’s voice comes from behind me and this time I twist, not giving a shit about the pain. I need to see my enemy. I can’t be unaware of what is coming.

  “Where’s King?”

  “I didn’t need him. He’s a prospect. No one would shed a tear over him.”

  He’s wrong, but I don’t say this. King is practically a brother now, and even if he wasn’t, hurting prospects to get to the Club is never going to go down without retribution.

  “I’d say it’s nice to see you, but it’s really not.” That only sounded a little raspy, right?

  “Funny, but then that’s you, isn’t it Weed? The funny guy of the group.”

  “I’d argue Jem’s funnier, but if you say so.”

  He moves around from behind me and comes to stand in front of me. I have to say, I don’t like what I see. I expect him to look like shit, considering he’s been on the run for months, but he looks… dare I say it, good. He’s clean, tidy even. He’s clearly shaved this morning because there’s barely a hint of a five o’clock shadow. His hair is not greasy or dirty. The biggest surprise is the kutte he has on his back. I recognise the insignia, but even if I didn’t, the Reapers top rocker and the Northampton bottom rocker tells me who he’s allied himself with. His old club.

  I wouldn’t have thought they’d take him back, all things considered, which makes me wonder if the Reapers are as allied with us as Derek thinks.

  “I’m surprised your old club took back a traitorous piece of shit like you.”

  His mouth moves into a macabre looking smile. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  Were they in on the plan to help Tap destabilise our Club and return it to its glory days?
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  “I can see those cogs turning in that stupid brain of yours,” Dylan says. “You can’t work it out, can you?”

  “I don’t give a shit why.” It’s a lie. Forewarned is forearmed, after all.

  “Not everyone is happy with the status quo.”

  “If you’re going to keep talking in riddles then I’d rather you shut your fucking piehole.”

  “Too bad you don’t get a say.”

  Dylan paces the space in front of me like a caged lion, waiting for the opportunity to attack. I hate the fucker. If I wasn’t tied to this chair, I’d rip his head off.

  “Why, Dylan? Why’d you betray us?”

  “We want your territory, specifically, your drug running empire. The Lost Saxons are a gateway between the north and south of the country. You take a lot of our business.”

  ‘Our’ business—Reaper business. It makes me wonder if he was ever really a Saxons. He should have been made to prospect. Maybe then we might have picked up on the fact he was playing us. The fact he walked right in the front door with a Saxons kutte on his back is a travesty. Derek and Slade fucked up there, big time. Then again, who the hell expects a support club to go rogue?

  We should have.

  Keep your enemies close, that’s the phrase, right? The Reapers did that spectacularly.

  “How’d you get Tap on board with your crazy arsed scheme?”

  “It was easier than you’d think. The old bastard felt disenfranchised by the new generation, coming in and changing things up. He wanted to reclaim the glory days of your Club—days that could never be recaptured. The drink made him more pliable to things.”

  My lip curls up. “The guy was ten sheets to the wind half the time. You took advantage of that.”

  He shrugs. “Opportunities are opportunities, wherever they fall.”

  Tired of hearing his pontificating, I say, “Why am I here?”

  “I need to send a message to the boys.”

  A message doesn’t sound so good. I brace. “Do I look like a messenger boy to you?”

  He moves fast and I see the flash of metal before I feel it pressing against my throat.

  “You never did know when to shut your fucking mouth.”

  I stare him straight in the eyes, letting my fear of having a blade pressed against my throat down. Fear is the one thing I can’t afford to show.

  “I have a lot to say.”

  “You’re here because I needed to deliver a message.”

  “Then deliver it, because I’m tired of hearing your fucking voice.”

  He presses the blade deeper and I feel the trickle of blood working down the column of my throat. Just a little more pressure and I’m going to be pushing up daisies. He pulls the knife back and pulls away from me.

  “The Reapers want Kingsley. You step aside and let us take it and there will be no blood spilt. You don’t….” He shifts his shoulders. “We won’t be responsible for what happens.”

  His words send a spike of fear into me. They want Kingsley? What the fuck? We’ll die before we hand over our patch, and the brazen way he’s demanded it is ballsy but stupid as fuck. We’re not some weekend riders club and while we may look easy going on the surface, I know all of my brothers will die to protect our home.

  I tilt my head to the side, considering him. “You showed your hand a little early here, pal. I mean, telling us we’re at war is just going to make us hunker down ready.”

  “Good. We’re ready for you.”

  “So, this is what you cooked up with Tap? He’d clear the way for the Reapers and you guys would sneak in while the going was easy?”

  Cowardly fuckers. I keep my expression blank.

  “Well, you can shove your message up your arse,” I tell him. “Deliver it your fucking self.”

  Dylan grins and I don’t like the maniacal look in his eyes as he says, “Oh, but you are going to deliver it whether you want to or not.”

  And then he hits me.

  He hits me so hard in the face I see literal stars. My ears ring as my head snaps to the side, the bindings around my wrists and ankles keeping me in place.

  Fuck me. I swear this bastard wasn’t this strong when we sparred at the clubhouse. My bell rung, I shake my head, trying to clear it. It doesn’t work.

  And he doesn’t give me a chance to recover before he’s slamming his fist into my torso. My breath sticks in my chest, unable to move as I feel the bones shifting beneath the force of his punch.

  My head tips forward onto my chest, a reflex action as I try to draw air in, but I can’t get it past the swirling pain in my throat. I gasp and eventually a hint of oxygen floods my deprived lungs. I pull in another shallow breath and get a little more before I’m able to take nearly a full breath.

  “Fucker…” I grind out, as Dylan shakes his fist out. Good. I hope it fucking hurt.

  “I’m going to kill you,” I tell him, squeezing my eyes shut as the pain in my chest becomes a little more pronounced.

  He laughs. “Yeah, except you’re the one tied to the chair.”

  He has a point, but not one I’m willing to concede.

  “You should die for what you’ve done to my Club.”

  His arms go out to his sides, inviting. “Come and get me.”

  “Untie me and we’ll play.”

  “I don’t think so. I like you trussed up like that.”

  “Fucking coward.”

  “Maybe.”

  When he hits me this time, he catches me just beneath the eye. My head snaps back with the force and I feel the skin split and the blood wend down my face.

  I brace myself for what is ahead because I have a feeling Dylan isn’t going to stop until he’s left me a battered mess.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Pain. My body is one big ball of pain. I can barely lift my head off my chest and there is blood dripping off my face and chin. Every inch of me hurts, but it doesn’t stop me wanting to get my hands around this fucker’s throat and squeezing it.

  I’m glad King isn’t here, experiencing this shit, but I’m hoping he’s managed to raise the alarm. Chloe must be out of her mind with worry too. I messaged to tell her I was on the way to her place, but I never arrived. Fuck.

  Her face dances in my mind as hit after hit rains down on me. I can hardly remember my name, my head is one big fog of agony, but Chloe keeps me grounded, keeps me focused. Seeing her face helps me push aside the pain a little.

  The beating stops and I hear another voice, a new voice, through the ringing in my ears. I can’t hear what is being said, and when I try to raise my head to see who is here, I can’t. Even if I could, my eyes are so swollen, I doubt I could see shit.

  I focus on drawing air into my abused lungs, but every breath is aborted. I can only manage shallow inhalations. I’m sure my ribs are cracked or broken and I probably have internal bleeding, given how badly beaten I am. I suspect I’d be face down on the concrete if it wasn’t for the ropes keeping me tethered to the chair.

  A hand goes into my hair and drags my head up. It takes a moment for the figure to come into focus, but when it does, I’m greeted with Dylan’s smug as fuck face.

  “Time to be the messenger boy.”

  The ropes are cut from my wrists and I want to fight him, but I sag against him instead, unable to keep my own weight up. The humiliation burns through me, but I don’t have time to consider it as I’m dragged up by him, and I realise another man. I can barely make out his appearance, but I do see the Reaper kutte on his back.

  I feel nauseous, my head rolling. Somehow, I’m manoeuvred into the back of a car and I find myself face down on the upholstery. At the least I wasn’t shoved in the boot because I’m not sure I can deal with that level of claustrophobia. As it is my head is rolling and my stomach with it. It takes everything I have not to puke. I try to listen as the two men climb into the driver’s and passenger seat, but my ears feel full, like I have cotton wool stuffed in them.

  I must pass out for a little bit,
because the next thing I know, I’m being dragged from the vehicle. My stomach roils and fear dogs me as I’m pulled out and hit the ground hard enough to elicit a whimper of pain from me. I don’t fear dying, but I don’t want to leave Chloe. Not like this.

  I brace for a gun shot, for a knife, for that killing blow. It never comes.

  Then I hear the squeal of tyres before silence.

  I’m not dead.

  This much I know.

  But I’m lying on something hard—tarmac, I realise. I try to twist, to get up, but I can’t. Through the slits in my eyes, I can make out a large building. It takes my brain a moment to work out where I am. I’m outside the back entrance of the clubhouse. Prospects patrol the fence line, so I’ll be found, eventually. For now, all I can do is lie in the freezing air and wait.

  I drift and as I do all I can think of is Chloe. Will I see her again? Am I going to survive this? I can feel my body slowly shutting down, the mix of my injuries and the cold killing me.

  “Weed?” a voice comes to me through the fog. “Weed, wake up. Fuck, get help. Now!”

  I feel something drape over me and heat starts to infuse my cold bones.

  “It’s okay, brother. You’re okay.”

  I don’t know if this is true or not, but I latch onto those words. I’m okay. I’m safe.

  “Move aside, Rabbit,” a new voice demands. I think it’s Logan. I’m not sure. My ears are still stuffy. “Fuck. He needs the hospital.”

  “You’re not qualified to make that decision,” another voice argues. I can’t make out who it is.

  “Look at him, Slade. He’s a fucking mess.”

  “Clara can patch him up.”

  “There’s no patching this up. He needs professional help, not a few plasters sticking over his boo boos.”

  I guess Logan wins this round, because the next thing I know I wake up in a hospital bed. The steady, rhythmic bleeping of a machine at my side is like nails down a chalkboard. I try to glance around the sterile white walled room, but my eyes are slits and my head hurts the moment I move it. The rest of my pain seems to be dulled, but I’m still aware of it. I can feel the familiar drug haze, although this is stronger than taking a hit of weed.