by Jessica Ames
“He was waiting when I went to the car,” I tell her. “He demanded to see Hattie.”
“He wasn’t keen on hearing no, either,” Dean tells Holly.
She pales.
“Did he hurt you?”
“I’m okay,” I assure her, even though my back is starting to let me know it’s going to bruise.
“Only because I got there in time,” Dean counters, his arms crossing over his chest. “You should report it to the police. That guy is a fucking maniac.”
“Yeah,” Holly agrees but her eyes stay locked on me. “We will.”
“He went to the shelter first,” I tell her.
At my revelation, Holly is already reaching into her coat pocket for her phone—no doubt to call June and check in. She was holding down the fort today. Our only saving grace is that June is a battle-axe, so I’m not surprised Monroe had a hard time getting past her.
“I’ll leave you ladies to it,” Dean mutters and my gaze snaps to him.
“Thank you,” I tell him, hoping he hears the sincerity in my voice, because I really am sincere. He saved me back there.
He gives me a strange look I can’t read before he squeezes my shoulder and says, “Anytime, darlin’.”
He ducks out of the stall, leaving me and Holly alone. I pull my gloves off as she makes the call to the shelter, asking rapid-fire questions about the situation. When she’s finished she hangs up and calls our contact at the police station. She gives him all the details on Monroe before she ends the call. When she does, her attention comes straight back to me.
“We’re going to get into the whole Dean saving your backside later, but for now, tell me—are you really okay?”
I’m not sure what I am. Having a man put his hands on me like that brought me back to another time, a time when I was under Simon’s thumb. I didn’t like the loss of control or the way it made me feel. Logically, I know the two situations are different, but my body doesn’t seem to care whether I was facing Simon or Monroe.
Still, I say, “I’m fine, Hol.”
She stares at me, then ducks her head. “Christ, I’m sorry, Olivia. You should never have got caught up in something like this.”
“Occupational hazard,” I tell her, my voice wry. Then I sober. “I know it’s a risk of being at the shelter—we all do—but to be honest, I’m more worried about Hattie. He came at me in the middle of the day and I’m pretty sure he waited until one of us was alone to make his move.”
“Hattie’s safe. He’ll never find where she’s gone.”
And he won’t. We don’t keep written records and only me and Holly know where she ended up. Both of us will protect that secret to death, although let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.
“What I’m more concerned about,” Holly continues, “is what he’ll do next, particularly if he believes she’s still at the shelter. We need to protect us.”
And that I wholeheartedly agree with.
Chapter Six
It’s four days after the charity event and the Monroe incident. The police still haven’t located him, although I’m not sure they’ve done much in the way of searching. Kingsley is a mid-sized town with a troubled population, meaning the police are frequently kept busy. Nothing short of imminent death or a dead body is likely to garner much attention from the local force, which means my altercation with Monroe is probably at the bottom of a very big pile of other cases. While I understand this, it doesn’t alleviate my anxiety about the situation. Knowing he’s out there is not a good feeling, and while the police say it is unlikely he’ll try anything again (or target me), I’ll feel better once he’s been located. My attack was coined ‘a crime of opportunity’; he could have come after any one of the shelter’s staff. This statement put Holly into mother-bear mode, meaning security was stepped up at the shelter and we were all put through a training session about keeping ourselves safe at home.
In an attempt to forget about the situation, I threw myself back into work and focused on that, but today, I have a rare day off. I’m supposed to be volunteering at Hope House, but Holly is still feeling guilty about what happened so I was told—ordered—to stay home. I wanted to go in, but eventually she’d talked me around (translation: she talked at me until I accepted her terms). I should have pushed though, because I’m bored out of my head. Sitting around is not something I’m used to. Even when I was with Simon, I was never idle.
This means I find myself hunting for tasks, and once I’ve tidied inside the house the only place left to go is outside. Since the charity event, the weather has taken a warmer turn—thankfully. There’s still a chill in the air, but it’s not the biting frost that attacked just a few days earlier. The sky is heavy with clouds but they are mostly white rather than a worrying shade of grey. It feels more like mid-May than early February. This milder air leaves me no excuse for not cleaning out the gutters over the porch. They’ve been overflowing every time it rains for at least a week and I figure it’s time to do something before I destroy the structure of the house.
After snooping around in the old shed at the bottom of the garden I find a rickety stepladder—presumably left in there by my landlord or a former tenant. It’s metal, although it’s a little rusted in places and one of the rubber feet is missing so it’s on a wonk, but it works.
Trying to avoid the cobwebs gathered around the bottom rungs, I open it out in front of the porch and armed with a compost bin, a pair of thick gardening gloves and a mini shovel, I get to work.
And no wonder it overflows every time it rains. The gutters are thick with decomposing foliage. I wrinkle my nose as I dig the trowel in and scoop out a pile of sodden, rotting leaves.
“Urgh!”
Gross.
I flick the handful of mushy stuff into the compost bin at the base of the ladder, hitting the target and internally cheering at my aim. Then, I go back in for another scoop.
As I work, I try not to let my eyes wander to the house across the street—the house where Dean Lawler lives. His motorcycle has been absent from the driveway since he jumped between me and Monroe. I don’t know why but that bothers me. Where’s he been for the past few days? Is he okay? I wish I had his number so I could check he’s not hurt or hasn’t been confronted by Monroe—although I’m sure Dean can take care of himself; he’s hardly a small man.
The ladder wobbles a little as I lean to reach the gunk at the far end of the guttering, dragging me abruptly from my musing. I freeze, letting the ladder resettle itself, and then readjust my position.
It’s then I hear the rumble of a motorcycle—a sound I’m becoming attuned to. I wipe my forehead using my wrist, careful to avoid putting any gunk from my gloves on my face and try to make it look as if I’m not watching as the bike comes into view, even though I track its movement the entire length of the cul-de-sac.
Dean.
I recognise his frame and the way he sits on the bike immediately. He cruises down the street slowly and pulls onto the driveway opposite. My stomach flips and my hands feel too hot inside the gloves as I cast sidelong glances in his direction. Then the engine cuts and I can’t help but watch as Dean throws his leg over the bike and climbs off. The bike is an extension of him, and he’s so at home on the back of it that his movements are fluid, like a dance.
When he tugs his helmet off, his eyes find mine.
Busted.
I wave to cover my awkward gawking and the movement makes the ladder wobble. Instinctively, I shift with it to keep it from toppling and once it’s steady I slowly climb down it as Dean approaches, his pace clipped.
“Hi.” I smile at him, but his eyes are not on me. They’re focused beyond where I’m standing.
“What’re you doing?”
I follow his gaze to the ladder, confused by the underlying irritation in his words. “I’m cleaning the gutters.”
“That thing’s a fucking health hazard,” he mutters. He’s not wrong; it really is a health hazard, but beggars can’t be choosers.
> “Uh, well, feel free to take it up with my landlord, since it’s his ladder.”
His eyes come to me and then they soften. Everything about this man is hard edges and solemn but when he looks at me like that I forget he’s a dangerous biker with criminal affiliations. All I see is the man—the man who stepped between me and a monster, the man who helped me for no reason other than it was the right thing to do. He can’t be all bad, right?
“Who’s your landlord?”
I laugh because he can’t be serious but judging from his expression he is. Very much so. This makes the laughter die on my lips. Shit, he’s not joking.
“Dean—”
“You can’t use that thing. You’ll break your neck.”
I have no idea how or why we’re talking about my ladder, but I find myself responding, rather than telling him it’s none of his business what I use to clean my gutters.
“Okay, but that’s all I have and the gutters are overflowing, so…”
He sidles around me, stopping my words in their tracks. He gives the ladder a slight push and we both watch as it wobbles dangerously.
“Well, I guess it’s seen better days,” I say.
“I’ll be back in a second,” he mutters.
He doesn’t give me a chance to say anything as he turns on a booted heel and he crosses the street, leaving me standing there like a spare part. I watch as he opens his garage, pushing the up and over door up with ease before stepping inside. A moment later he comes back out, holding a ladder that looks considerably newer than mine.
I watch as he strides back to me and opens the ladder out in front of the porch before moving the older one aside.
When he starts up the steps, my attention snaps to him.
What the bloody hell is he doing?
When he reaches halfway up the ladder he stops and glances down at me.
“Gloves.”
I don’t move at the command. Instead, I cross my arms over my chest and glare up at him.
“I don’t need you to clean my gutters. I can manage.”
His expression softens and my heart skips as he says, “I know you can, darlin’, but you don’t have to. Let me help.”
I don’t know why but his words make my insides feel liquid and all protestations about being an independent woman who does not need a man to solve her problems dissipate into the ether.
“Okay.”
He holds a hand out towards me again and repeats, “Gloves.”
I slip them off my hands and give them to him, our fingers brushing. I feel the reverberation of that touch all the way to my boots. I loved Simon—at least I thought I did—but I never felt anything like this with him. The way I feel right now, just from a touch, makes me question everything—like if I ever loved Simon at all.
I want to grab Dean’s hand, but I don’t think that would go down too well so I stay still.
Then he shrugs out of his leather vest and hands it down to me.
“Hold this. Don’t get shit on it.”
I take it from him, the leather soft and worn in my hands. It smells of Dean and the earthy smell of the outdoors. I barely resist the urge to put it to my nose and sniff in deeply, because that would be weird, and would probably cause some awkwardness between me and Dean.
Instead, I fold it like it’s precious cargo and place it just inside the porch, then I move back to the ladder and put my foot on the bottom rung to steady it for him. This puts me at almost eye-level with his bum, which, I might add, looks stunning in his jeans.
“Your landlord should do this shit,” he tells me as he tosses a pile of leaves into the compost bin. My attention snaps from staring at his tight, round globes to look up at him.
“I’m sure he has better things to do than clear some dead leaves from the guttering.”
Dean’s grunt tells me I’m wrong, but he doesn’t expand this or offer more.
“Do you mow and weed as well?” I’m joking but his eyes come to me and his expression is serious.
“Do you have a mower?”
I blink. “Dean, I was kidding.”
“If you need it doing—”
“I don’t,” I interrupt before he can get going. “It’s February. The soil is like cement and the grass is fine.”
He sighs. For a moment he works in silence, then he says, “I’m guessing the fuzz haven’t found the bloke who attacked you yet.”
I can’t stop the shiver that runs through me at the thought of Monroe. He’s still out there doing God knows what. I would certainly feel better if he was safely behind bars.
“No. Not yet. Although the police say they’re still looking, so hopefully they’ll find him soon.” I’m not holding my breath. Kingsley’s police force does not have the best reputation when it comes to solving crime. There are a few good eggs—Nate James, Holly’s childhood friend and a Detective Sergeant on the force, is one of the few that springs to mind.
Dean shakes his head as he drops another pile of leaves into the compost bin. The ladder wobbles and I have to put all my weight on the bottom step to keep it steady.
“It’s fucking wrong that he can attack you like that in broad daylight and he’s still out there, breathing free air.”
“Yeah,” I agree, “but I’m sure there are bigger fish to fry in Kingsley than him.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth I want to take them back. Oh God, I hope he doesn’t think I’m talking about him and his club. “I mean, there’s, like, murderers and, uh, rapists.”
I stop talking, which is definitely a blessing. But to my surprise, he doesn’t look annoyed; he’s amused.
“I seem to recall you thinking I was both when we first met.”
At that, I roll my eyes.
“Correction, Dean, you said that, not me. I didn’t say anything.” Because he didn’t give me the opportunity.
He fires a grin at me that has my heart pounding. I duck my head, pretending to readjust my position on the bottom step of the ladder as the back of my neck heats.
“Yeah, well you were looking at me like I was going to club you over the head and drag you back to my cave.”
I peer over my shoulder, across the street at his nineteen-thirties style semi-detached house. There’s no porch on the front, like my house, but he does have a carport that provides a covered area between the garage and the backdoor—and somewhere to park his bike out of the elements. It’s clean and clearly well-kept.
“I’m not sure your house can be called a cave…” I trail off.
The silence spans between us, although it’s not awkward. It’s hard to be awkward with someone who has stood between you and your demons.
“I guess I owe you a hell of a thank you for what you did. Stepping between me and Monroe like that… well, I don’t think a lot of people would have done it.”
He shrugs. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“I am, thanks to you.”
“Well, hopefully they find that crazy fucker fast.”
I hope this too, but I’m not sure the police in this town can find their way out of a paper bag. “How long have you been riding?”
He glances down at me.
“Since I can remember. From the moment I was old enough to get on a bike, I was on one.”
“Why motorcycles?”
“Why not?”
Hmm. Not the response I was expecting but a fair point nevertheless.
“Well, what is it you like about them?”
“The freedom. On a bike, there’s nothing between me and the open road, you know?”
I don’t really know at all, but I make a noise of agreement anyway.
“But riding,” Dean says, “it’s in my blood. My dad did it, my grandfather… One day, if I have boys, I’m sure they’ll do it too.”
“Girls don’t ride?” My feminist side twitches.
He grins. “They do. Beth rides.”
Beth… who the heck is Beth?
“Beth is your girlfriend?” I have
no idea why in the hell I ask this, but the words are out before I can stop them.
“Fuck no! Beth’s pretty much the closest thing I have to a sister. We grew up together, were inseparable... At least, we were until she fucked off to London to shack up with some button-up dickhead.”
I have no idea what any of his words mean but the grin is no longer on his face and he looks annoyed now. I’m not happy that I caused that look.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He shifts his shoulders. “She’s old enough to make her own fucking decisions about life,” is all he says, but I can tell the Beth thing is a sore point, so I move the conversation on.
“Do you have any siblings—blood relatives, I mean?”
“Not blood, but all members of the Club are my brothers and their families are my family.”
That admission is a strangely comforting one. The idea that you can be that close to that many people is alien to me. My family never gave two shits about me.
“That must make Christmas expensive.”
He laughs and it’s a beautiful sound. It softens him completely and I vow to make him laugh as often as I can. “Yeah, I start buying presents in January.”
The thought of this leather and denim-clad man buying presents and wrapping them, complete with bows and ribbons, makes me giggle.
“It must be fun having all those people around though.” I have a big family, but I was never close to my siblings—even before I got with Simon. When I reached out for help, told them what was happening, they all thought I was an attention seeker. Not one of them believed me when I told them about Simon. Then again, half the time I didn’t know what to believe myself. Simon is good at manipulation. He would convince me things hadn’t happened that had. He made me doubt everything—even myself. Truthfully, that was worse than the physical abuse because I never knew what was real. I know Simon had a hand in eventually getting me sacked from my PR job, although I have no idea how he manoeuvred it. I hated losing that job, it was the last bit of sanity I had left, and it just provided him with more fodder to tell me how worthless I was. I came to realise during the months I spent in therapy just how sick in the head Simon is.
