Christmas Rider: A Lost Saxons Novel #5.5

by Ames, Jessica

  If that’s the case, then why do you feel jealous as fuck watching Dean play the doting dad?

  I silence that voice in the back of my head. It’ll lead places I don’t want to go—like to my own fucked up childhood.

  Instead, I focus on the room. There’s Christmas shit everywhere—presents and wrapping paper. There’s even a small tree in the corner of the common room. It looks like an explosion in a grotto, but I guess this is what happens when you let a bunch of women organise Christmas Day festivities.

  “What’s up with your mug?” Logan demands, taking a sip of his pint.

  We just finished our first ‘Club Christmas’ meal. Piper and the other old ladies arranged it and while it was nice (the food was out of this world), it was all a little too kumbaya for me.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing sure as fuck looks like something.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I’m peachy, Lo.”

  In fact, I’m high as a kite, but I keep that to myself. I’m pretty sure Dean will throw a shit fit if I’m baked and around his kid. The guy seems to be on cloud nine, and who can blame him? Family is important. Too bad I never had one.

  “Peachy? Are you stoned?”

  It’s like being caught by Dad when Logan is like this, so I decide to embrace the facts, rather than lie.

  “Ding dong, merrily I’m high!” I grin, pushing my dark thoughts aside.

  Christmas is always a weird time of the year for me, but I’m feeling it more this year, seeing all my brothers happily settled down and creating their own families outside the Club. I’m jealous, I’ll admit it. Their women are good people and strong old ladies. I seem to find whiny hangarounds who don’t want me, they just want the property patch.

  “Don’t go near Danny while you’re stoned. Dean’ll tear your head off.”

  “Don’t worry, Lo. I’m going to be on best behaviour.” I salute him and then push off my stool. “I think I might head to bed. This is too—” I break off, unsure what words to use without being an offensive prick, but Logan seems to understand.

  He pats my shoulder. “See you later, brother.”

  He emphasises the ‘brother’, telling me clearly we’re all family. I don’t know if that pity from him makes me feel better or worse.

  I head up to my room in the clubhouse. The urge to get on the road and let it soothe my mood away is overwhelming, but I don’t smoke and ride. I unlock the door and step into the darkness before flicking the light on.

  The room is basic, bland even, but it’s home for now. I got kicked out of my last place. In fact, I’ve been kicked out of so many places, I’m starting to think I’m blacklisted in Kingsley. I don’t know why I go out of my way to make shit hard for myself, but I can’t settle anywhere. The Club is the longest I’ve stayed anywhere, in fact. I thought I might have got itchy feet and moved on by now—gone nomad or patched over—but this is the closest to home I’ve ever felt. I’ll die for my brothers, just as I know they would for me, but I want what they have. I need it.

  I sag back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, my hands pillowed under my head. I’m drifting off when my phone vibrates against my leg. I pull it out and peer at the screen. Unknown number.

  I answer, “Yeah?”

  “Uh, hey, Weed, it’s Jesse.”

  What the fuck? We have two apprentices working at the garage—Jesse and Miles. Jesse is about as useless as they come. Honestly, I have no idea why Dean hasn’t let him go yet. I suspect it’s a matter of lack of time to deal with it, and because Lawler is a fucking sucker for second chances. If I was in charge, the little shit would have been gone weeks ago, and I’m not shy about telling him this. It means I’m a little confused why the hell he’s calling me.

  “What the fuck do you want, kid?”

  “Look, I hate to call and normally I wouldn’t, but Dean ain’t picking up.”

  That’s because Dean is downstairs cooing over his kid. “Okay, so what do you want?”

  “I need help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “The kind where I’m in jail. It wasn’t my fault,” he adds quickly.

  I close my eyes. “Kid… how in the fuck did you end up locked up and it’s not your fucking fault?”

  “That fucker hit my sister, so I slugged him back. Fuck, Weed, no one touches my sister. Not even him.”

  The vehemence in his voice surprises me, but I’m struggling to keep up here. He’s never mentioned a sister. Then again, we don’t do a lot of talking. “Who hit your sister?”

  “My arsehole father.”

  His words send a slither of guilt working through me. The kid is sixteen and I see him five days a week. I had no idea any of this was happening in his life. It sure as fuck explains a lot, though.

  Is he being hurt at home?

  Is he safe?

  I was so focused on his performance I never once stopped and asked the kid about his life.

  Flashbacks of my own past roll through my brain on repeat. If someone had stood up for me, helped me, I might never have spent most of my life lost in the system.

  “I’ll be there in ten with a solicitor. Don’t say a fucking word to the pigs. Don’t agree to any interviews. Just keep your piehole shut until I can get there, got it?”

  “Yeah, Weed,” he sounds relieved, “I got it. And thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, Jesse. I might not be able to do shit. It’s the holidays. People are busy.”

  “It’s okay if you can’t…”

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t.” I sigh. “Sit tight, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  I hang up and immediately hit the number for the Club’s legal team. Yeah, it’s Christmas Day, but given how much we pay those fuckers to keep them on retainer, they’d best suit up and work their fucking magic. No way am I letting that boy sit in a jail cell over the holidays.

  Fuck.

  The End

  Did you love reading about the Lost Saxons Motorcycle Club? The story continues in book six: Flawed Rider…

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  About the Author

  Jessica Ames lives in a small market town in the Midlands, England. She lives with her dog and when she’s not writing, she’s playing with crochet hooks.

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