“Same old fucking same old.” I grin, “Hey, you ought to have seen the fella I met last week. He was an electrician doing some wiring at work. Well, we got chatting, and one thing led to another. Let’s just say I’ll never look at the broom cupboard in the same way again.”
“Soph, you didn’t! Not even you would do that!” She covers my mouth but is unable to suppress her snort of laughter.
“I fucking did! I couldn’t walk straight the rest of the day.” My grin widens, “Another thing crossed off my bucket list. Now, what’s going on with you and Ethan? I’m not joking about that visit; I’d love to see how the other half live.”
“Didn’t anyone see you?”
“No. And don’t change the subject. How’s that man of yours treating my bestie?”
Unusually for us conversation lags, and it deepens my suspicions that she’s not living the perfect life she’s describing. For once the atmosphere is awkward between us, but if I try to get her to talk, she just turns the topic back to me. Oh, I’m happy enough to tell her about the guy from the solicitors I bagged when I’d dropped some documents off at his office, but could I get information about her? No way.
Six months ago
Zoe had cut off all contact with me, and I hadn’t a clue why. I’d tried phoning her, but it seemed she’d changed her number. I even tried calling Ethan’s mansion, but was told Zoe didn’t want to talk to me and told in no uncertain terms that I shouldn’t try to get in touch again. At first I was hurt, then puzzled and worried about my friend. Finally, I shrugged it off. She knew where I was if she needed me.
Then out of the blue, there was a knock at my door.
“Zoe!” My pleasure at seeing my friend was quickly chased away by my concern when I saw the bruises on her face and the hunched way she was walking. It wasn’t hard to see she was in a lot of pain. “Oh my God, Zoe! What the fuck?”
She put her hand on the door frame, leaning on it for support. “I’ve left Ethan, Soph. I’m going to my mother’s in France, but I don’t have any money…”
“Hey, come in. I’ve got some I’ll give you.” I ushered her inside and sat her down. “Do you want a coffee or anything?” I was over the moon she’d come to her senses about Ethan, I’d always suspected there was something off about the man. And he’d been hurting her? The bastard!
Declining my offer, she shook her head, “No, I just want to get away.”
It seemed like every word was an effort for her, the stress of leaving the man who’d been her world for almost a year had got to her. So I didn’t press for details; that first look at her face told me all I had to know, and there was no thought in my mind but that I had to help her.
Not too far from my house was a garage with a convenient ATM, so with no hesitation I grabbed my keys and jumped in my car to go and get all my available money out. Returning as fast as I could, I gave her everything I had, enough for her journey and a little on top to keep her going. She burst into tears as she thanked me, and we clung together like the best friends we’d always been. She gave me her new number, and promised to let me know when she was safe with her mum. Then, after an emotional goodbye, she was gone. I watched as she drove down the road until the car disappeared into the distance.
I’d never seen her again. She’d never called me. But I knew she didn’t make it to France.
And the very next day my life was shattered.
Chapter 1
Sophie
Oh for crying out loud! Who’s ringing my flipping doorbell now? Well, whoever it is can just go away and leave me to my pity party. I’m not expecting a delivery and am definitely not in the mood to be disturbed.
I stare down at my phone having just ended the call, a conversation I’d rather not have had. My boss wants me back at work. Oh, he was really nice about it, telling me about the adaptations that have been made following the access audit the health professionals had required the company to carry out. They’ve bought me a new fucking desk, for God’s sake, one that can accommodate a wheelchair. At that point he’d paused, as though he expected me to make some comment showing I was over the moon about that information. Then, when I’d only grunted, he’d helpfully added that the building had been confirmed as fully DDA compliant, so I’ll have no problems getting in and out and, of course, there were accessible toilets on every floor. He’d made changes to my job description too; I’d be working from Head Office now, and not expected to be out and about. Shit, why not admit I’m only a pathetic excuse for a human being now, one they’re only keeping on because they have to? Oh, and to make their stats look good on government returns when they can add my name to the number of disabled people they employ.
Disability Discrimination Act or not and however much people say it will do me good to return to my job and normality; they’re missing the fucking point. I’ll never be normal again. Never! Every fucking minute of every fucking day I have to live with the body I’m left with, having to endure the pitying looks and false sympathy from people I once called my friends, and who have forsaken me now. No one wants to be bothered with the ex-party girl who can’t even fucking walk!
The knocker rat a tat tats now. Christ! Go away and leave me alone! I’m in no mood for company.
Another long ring and then a loud banging. Who the heck is it? Why haven’t they got the message by now? Who the hell is trying to knock my door down?
More knocking. Oh for goodness sake! It doesn’t sound like they’re going to give up. Fuck it!
Eyeing my wheelchair across the room and the crutches, slightly closer, leaning against the side of the sofa, I wonder which is easiest to get to and use. Knowing my physiotherapist would tell me I need to try to use my legs―well, what’s left of them―I bend down as another knock comes followed by three urgent presses on the bell, indicating the person seems determined to make me go out of my way to answer.
“Alright, alright I’m coming!” I yell as loudly as I can while pulling the crutches towards me, “Give me a fucking minute will you?” Whoever is so desperate to see me will have to curb their patience a bit longer, getting to my feet isn’t easy. Mind you, just about anything is difficult these days. Placing my hands on the handles, I push down on them until I’m sufficiently upright to get the supports under my armpits, and then, very carefully, making sure all my weight is on my hands, I pull myself to my feet. I’m unbalanced and wobbling, as usual. Shit, I know I ought to have kept up with my physio appointments. But when you don’t have much desire to go on living, pushing yourself to try to learn to walk again, when no one seems prepared to give any guarantees that that will be a possible result, comes in right around the bottom of the damn list of things I want to do.
Eyeing my wheelchair again, I wonder whether I should just give up and go plonk myself in that. Or do I try to make it to the door under my own steam? Oh fuck, I’ll go for it.
There’s silence now from the front door. Hopefully they heard me and are giving me the time I need or, even better, whoever it is has given up and gone away. I bloody well hope it’s the latter. I’m categorically in no mood to be sociable. That call from my boss emphasised I’m no longer a fully functioning member of the human race and I’d prefer to be left alone to wallow in my misery.
I’m out of my chair, balancing on my crutches and one good―hah! That’s a joke!―leg, and start to get into the rhythm my physio taught me. By the time I get to the door of the lounge, I realise I shouldn’t have even tried this, the muscles in my arms are trembling as the weakness and pain in my remaining wasted leg stops me from putting much weight on it. But the awareness I shouldn’t have tried this comes far too late. One of my crutches catches on the threshold bar joining the carpets by the door and I can do nothing to stop myself falling, crashing into the hall table and sending it and everything on it toppling to the floor. FUCK! Yes, I’ve hurt myself, but the scream I emit is as much frustration as from pain. I can’t even do something as simple as opening the bloody door!
Within secon
ds there’s a tremendous splintering sound, and my eyes widen in disbelief at the sight of my front door swinging from its hinges, and looming in the now open gap is one of the largest men I’ve ever seen in my life. Gazing up at his face, standing what must be at least six feet above me, I shake my head in disbelief. As well as his huge size I can’t help but notice a rugged but handsome enough face surrounded by dark hair and in one ear glints a golden earring. I don’t know him from the proverbial Adam.
Lying prone on the floor with no dignity-saving way of getting myself up I feel a flicker of fear as I study him more carefully. Who is he? And why is he here?
Dressed in a black leather jacket, wearing dark denim jeans, he’s holding a motorcycle helmet in one hand, and is rapidly taking off his gloves as he walks towards me, his dark eyes narrowed as he takes in my plight, immediately crouching down in front of me, assessing. Though a scar across the lower part of his face suggests he’s no stranger to violence, he looks concerned rather than threatening.
That he’s worried is confirmed when he opens his mouth, “Are you alright? Where are you hurt?” No introductions, he just gets straight to the point asking his short urgent questions in a deep gruff voice.
Deciding he’s not asking for a catalogue of my injuries from my original accident, I don’t answer for a moment, instead test my arms and leg, and decide though I’ll probably have a few bruises later, I haven’t done any permanent harm. Well, nothing more than I’ve already got and yet another dent to my self-respect, so I tell him, “I’ll live.” Then after a moment’s thought, I swallow down my pride and add, “But I’d appreciate you giving me a hand up. Then you can explain what the fuck you’re doing in my house!” He could be here to burgle or murder me for all I know, and here am I, relying on a stranger for assistance. Well, it’s either that or perform a degrading crawl back to my chair.
To my surprise, he doesn’t offer me his hand to help me to my one remaining foot, but simply gathers me into his strong muscular arms and picks me up as if I weigh nothing at all.
“Where to?” His voice is rough and gravelly, but not at all unpleasant.
Gobsmacked I’m being held by an unfamiliar man, I wave back into the room I’ve just struggled from, and when he steps over the threshold, point to the couch. With a gentleness I don’t expect, he sets me down, and once again crouches down in front of me.
“Are you sure you’re okay? Do you need a doctor or anything?” he queries, his voice laced with worry.
“No, I’m sure.” Yes, I hurt and I’m sure I’ll be feeling it later, but it fades into insignificance with everything else I’ve been through so it’s nothing I can’t handle. And to be honest, I’m sick to death of being prodded and poked by anyone from the medical profession.
“I didn’t mean to make you hurry to the door.” As the corners of his mouth turn down, and his gaze drops briefly to the floor, he sounds rueful.
“Well, you shouldn’t have kept bloody banging on it then!” I admonish him, probably snapping more than I should have, but fuck it, I don’t know who the hell this is, or why he’s here. “And what about my fucking door? You kicked it in!”
He has the grace to look sheepish but is unrepentant. “Yeah, but what was I supposed to do? Leave you lying on the floor? You could have hurt yourself badly hurt for all I knew. I heard the crash and didn’t know what the hell had happened.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and his brow furrows and silent for a moment before he decides on a course of action. “Don’t worry; I’ve got a friend who can come fix it. I’ll take care of that now.”
Evidently, this man doesn’t hang about once he’s got a plan. While I sit with my mouth hanging open, he gets out his phone, dials a number and is soon telling the person the other end of the line that there’s a broken down door that needs fixing. When he’s not clearly not asked for an explanation, I start to wonder whether he makes a habit of kicking doors in and calling on his friend to make good the damage. Who the hell is he?
When he ends the connection after chuckling at a joke I’m not privy too; he turns back to me. “Cut will be round in an hour.”
Slowly I move my head from side to side, my eyes wide as I try to make sense of everything. Who exactly is Cut, and what kind of name is that? Presumably he knows what he’s doing and will be able to fix my smashed in front door. But, except for the workmen making necessary adaptations, how on earth have I gone from not having a male visitor in my house for six months, and now will be faced with two?
The stranger gives me an assessing look, “Here, do you need anything? Can I get you something? Make you a drink… Grab some painkillers for you?”
Suddenly I’ve had enough of this, and sit up straight, my eyes blazing, “You can tell me who the fuck you are? And why you’re here?” My brain kicks into gear, and I need to know why a huge scary biker is in my house in the first place. I’ve never seen him before or anyone like him, for that matter. Anger gives way as a shiver of fear runs down my spine, and I start to shake.
He stares at me for a moment, recognising beneath my bravado that I’m scared. He heaves a sigh and indicates the chair behind him as though asking my permission to sit. My lips drawn tightly together and not completely certain I’m doing the right thing I nod to give my consent, accepting I’m in no position to throw him out of my house. Hell, he’s so big I wouldn’t have a chance even if I had the use of my legs. At least he won’t be looming once he’s seated and as I’ve found, it’s easier talking to someone when you’re on the same level.
My gaze glued to his, I wait for his explanation but he seems in no hurry to enlighten me. I scowl as he removes his jacket and gets himself settled. But even though his presence is annoying, I can’t prevent myself noticing underneath all that leather is a very large, muscular body and, now they’re revealed, I can see full sleeve tattoos down each arm. He’s got that bad boy image down pat, and a physique that would have attracted me in my previous life, but now has no effect on me at all. Yeah, the old Sophie would have been all over that.
My chair groans audibly under his weight making me hold my breath, hoping it doesn’t break. I’m convinced I see it sag, but it must be up to the job as he sits back into it, folding his arms and crossing his legs, resting one ankle on the opposite knee. After he’s made himself comfortable, I cock my head to the side in encouragement.
At last, he takes the hint and introduces himself. “My name’s Horse.”
Yup, it would be. My eyebrows rise as I question his unusual moniker, and he smirks and glances down at himself drawing my eyes to his crotch. I give an exasperated sigh. Fucking men!
“So?” Even if his package lives up to that of the animal that’s his namesake it’s of no interest to me. Not nowadays. “Okay, so you’re hung,” I say scathingly, deciding to be blunt, “That doesn’t tell me anything about why you’re here.” Or at least, I hope it doesn’t. No one has to spell out how vulnerable I am.
After a quickly snorted laugh at my crude comment, he sits forward, his expression quickly growing serious, “Sorry, about the door, but I came over in a bit of a rush to make sure you were alright. I didn’t mean to scare you, okay?” He pauses, and the corners of his mouth turn up in a weak smile, then, finally, he gives me the explanation I’m looking for, “Your friend, Zoe Baker sent me.”
Zoe? Zoe Baker? My friend from Uni days and who I’d kept up my friendship with, meeting regularly until her bastard boyfriend put a stop to both our regular get-togethers as well as me ever walking again? Bloody hell, I hadn’t heard from her for months, since the day before I had my accident! Pulling myself up straighter I put my hands on my knees. “Zoe? How the fuck is she? Where is she? Is she all right? How do you know her?”
For an answer, he shakes his head, and the sad look on his face gives me a bad feeling about what he’s going to say next, “Tell me she’s not still with him, is she?” I don’t explain who ‘he’ is, but it seems Horse knows exactly who I mean.
“No,” he’s quick to
reassure me, “She’s left St John-Davies. She got away this morning.” As he pauses I have time to thank God for that. He draws in a deep breath and continues, “He hurt her quite badly, Sophie, but she left under her own steam, and my partner, Josh, is helping her get away as we speak.”
My hands go to my face, my palms cupping my cheeks. And though I’m pleased Zoe’s escaped, I can’t help but remember the last time she tried to get away from Ethan. I’d given her money to help her leave and paid a hefty price for it. I shudder, remembering just how much.
Horse studies me, and then resumes, “Zoe’s concerned about you. She thinks St John-Davies might come after you again.”
Oh, fuck. No! I collapse back on the couch, and put my head back, closing my eyes. I’d always known Ethan St John bloody Davies had been behind my accident, though officially there had never been anything to prove it or to link the hit and run driver back to him. It had been too much of a coincidence, coming a day after I’d helped Zoe escape his abusive clutches. And the conclusive evidence had come a few days later when a bouquet of flowers were delivered to my hospital bed, so beautiful all the nurses had been oohing and ahhing over them. And so did I, at first. Until I’d taken out the card that accompanied them and read, ‘Never help my woman try to leave me again.’
As soon as I was able to I’d tried ringing Zoe, but she must have changed her phone yet again, and I couldn’t get through. I’d tried the number for the mansion but had no joy there. Of course, I’d worried about her for months, but she hadn’t made any move to contact me, and in my position, well, I couldn’t think of anything else I could do.
And that’s the point. I hadn’t seen her in yonks and had nothing to do with her current escape so I can’t understand why Zoe would think I’m in any danger now. There must be something I’m missing, “Why would Ethan be a threat to me? I’ve not heard from Zoe in ages, and how could he possibly think I could help her like this?” I wave my hand down my body to emphasise the state I’m in.
Turning Wheels (Satan's Devils MC #1): A Blood Brothers Spin off Page 2
