Safe Rider (A Lost Saxons Novel Book 2)

by Jessica Ames

  “Exactly,” I say. “If I get in your car I’ll ruin the upholstery.”

  “I don’t give two fucks about the upholstery.”

  I blink rapidly at his words and the vehemence behind them.

  “Dean—”

  “You keep walking in this, you’re going to catch a chill, Liv. So, let me worry about the upholstery, and just get in the car.”

  I open my mouth—to argue or agree, I’m not entirely sure which way I will go—but I don’t get a chance to do either because he cuts me off with a growl. Yes, an honest to God growl. It rumbles out of his throat as deeply as the roar of his motorcycle.

  “Liv, it’s pissing down. You’re soaked; I’m getting soaked arguing this with you. For fuck’s sake, just get in the car, will you?”

  I consider arguing still, but the look on his face suggests I would be more likely to win an argument with the rain. So I don’t say a word. I let out a breath and I move to the passenger side door. I pull it open and carefully climb inside. I feel terrible as I sink into the seat. He’s never getting the fabric dry. And God knows what it’s doing to the foam beneath.

  Instantly, and embarrassingly, my teeth begin to chatter, the enamel slamming together in the quiet of the car. My skin prickles and I’m sure goosebumps are raising underneath my clothes. I can’t control the shivers that rack my body as the warmth of the vehicle mixes with my cold, clinging sodden garments.

  Dean’s tattooed hand fiddles with the dials on the dash. Suddenly, I’m hit with a blast of hot air that seems to seep into every inch of me. And it is divine.

  “You’ll be warm in a moment,” he says as if speaking the words is the only thing he needs to do to make something happen. “Put your seatbelt on.”

  Seatbelt. Right.

  I lean behind me and tug the seatbelt free, fastening it in the catch at my right hip.

  He checks over his shoulder and guides the car into a gap in the traffic. It’s rush hour so the roads are busy and the weather is making them even more congested than usual. Dean navigates with the ease of a driver who has many years’ experience.

  “Do you want to tell me why you decided to take a stroll in a frigging downpour, rather than calling me for a lift?”

  “It wasn’t raining when I left,” I say somewhat defensively.

  “Well, it’s sure as shit raining now.” He leans forward to peer through the windscreen.

  “I can see it’s raining; I’m fucking soaked.” Crossing my arms over my chest in an attempt to maintain heat, I mutter, “Where’s your bike?”

  I’ve never seen a car on his driveway—just the motorcycle.

  “At the garage.” He casts another glance in my direction. “I watched the weather report this morning. They did mention it might rain a bit.”

  “A bit? It’s like a bloody monsoon out there.” That earns me a tug of his lips and I match it. I like making him smile.

  “Yeah, it’s a little damp out there.”

  This time I laugh. “So, you don’t ride when the weather’s bad?”

  “I only don’t ride when it’s monsooning.”

  I can’t help but grin at that. “Yeah, I guess that is sensible, really. Is it harder to ride in the rain?”

  Thick droplets hammer against the vehicle, bouncing off the bodywork, making it difficult to see. I have no idea how he’s moving with such confidence. I would have pulled over and waited for the downpour to slow down a little.

  “The roads can be more hazardous, but it’s mainly cage drivers that are the problem.”

  His words confuse me. I glance at him, studying him in profile. His beard looks darker in the dusk, although the headlights of other cars keep casting light in our direction, illuminating the scruff covering his jaw—a scruff I know is brown, flecked with copper, just as I know his eyes are a blue so light they look grey.

  “Cage drivers?”

  “Yeah—cages. Cars,” he clarifies.

  “Why do you call cars ‘cages’?”

  One shoulder shrugs and my eyes move to his right hand, which is leaning lazily on the steering wheel, his elbow on the window jam (the window of course now closed). Each time we move under a streetlight, his tattoos are illuminated in an orange glow, muting the vibrancy of them.

  “We’ve just always called them that. I guess because on the bike there’s freedom, you know? The open road stretched before you and the power of the bike beneath you is a powerful drug. In a car it’s different. There’s no freedom, there’s no power. You’re caged.”

  In a weird kind of way what he says makes sense. It’s also kind of poetic. I rub my cold hands together, trying to warm them and say, “Well, I’m lucky you were driving by in a cage.”

  “Yeah, darlin’; you were.”

  Dean guides the car into the mouth of our cul-de-sac and parks up on his driveway. The carport, despite the name, is not wide enough to fit the car under so he has to park in front of it.

  He cranks the handbrake up once the car is stationary and turns to me.

  “Here you go.”

  “Thank you for the lift.”

  “Anytime.”

  I glance through the windscreen at the rain, which is bouncing off the glass.

  “You ready?” I ask him and he nods.

  I get out of the car and I start in the direction of my house but the rain is bouncing off the pavement. I shriek and rush back towards Dean’s old carport. Dean follows, shaking the wet off his leather jacket and kutte.

  “Fuck,” he mutters, “and you walked home in this?”

  I shrug, shivering a little against the chill. “I didn’t know the weather was going to do this.” It brings a whole new dimension to spring showers.

  “Come inside, I’ll get you coffee, warm you up. Maybe by then the rain will have gone off.”

  I should say no. I should run the twenty yards across the road to my house, but I don’t because I don’t want to go home. I want to be with him. So I nod.

  Dean grabs my hand and pulls me over to his back door which is, thankfully, under the carport. He quickly unlocks the door and steps aside.

  “Come on.”

  I enter the house first, shivering. The central heating must be on because there’s an encompassing warmth when I step into the kitchen.

  He moves over to the kettle and flicks the switch. “Sit. I’ll grab some towels.”

  I watch him go, but I don’t slide onto the stool at the breakfast bar. Instead, I round the counter and find two clean mugs. I’m half way through spooning in the coffee when Dean reappears, dry clothes on, a towel slung around his neck. In his hand, he’s clutching a freshly folded towel and what looks like a pair of jogging bottoms and a tee.

  “Here,” he says and I take the stack of things from him. “Go and get dry.”

  “I can wait and change when I go home.”

  “You’ll freeze. Just put the dry clothes on, Liv.”

  Knowing arguing with him is pointless, I say, “Thanks. I… uh… I made us coffee.”

  He glances at the cups. “Thanks, darlin’. Now, go get changed.”

  “Has anyone ever told you you’re super bossy?”

  He flicks his brow up even as his mouth twitches. “Just you. Now, go. Change.”

  I head towards the hallway and into the downstairs toilet. Stripping out of my soaking clothes is not as easy as it should be. Everything clings to me. I dry off using the towel and put on the clothes Dean gave me. They’re big on me but not so big they drown me. I hope he realises he’s never getting this tee back.

  Gathering my clothes together, I head back into the kitchen, and find Dean sitting at the breakfast bar, sipping his drink. He slips off the stool when I re-enter and opens the washing machine door.

  “Chuck everything in. We can get it clean and dry before you head home.”

  “You can just stick it in a bag and I’ll do it when I get back.”

  “Just give it here.”

  I sigh and move to him, shoving my clothes in
the machine. He closes the door and switches the thing on. Then he moves over to the breakfast bar and reclaims his seat. I follow him, but remain standing as I towel dry my dripping hair.

  “So, why didn’t you call me for a lift?”

  I shrug. “I didn’t want to put you out; you’ve already been so good to me, Dean.”

  “So you get soaked rather than calling me because I’ve been good to you?” He shakes his head. “What kind of logic is that?”

  “I don’t know. My logic! And for the record it wasn’t raining when I left, but considering the shit storm my day has been I should have expected it.”

  “Why was your day a shit storm?”

  I wrap the towel around my neck to catch any more drips and grab my coffee. The mug is so warm against my cold hands. Bliss.

  “Because my boss was in the worst mood and one of the other admins I job share with fucked up some of the paperwork, but I’m the one who got yelled at about it.”

  “He yelled at you?”

  I snap my gaze from the coffee mug to his face, taking note of his tight jaw and knitted brow.

  “Oh, it was nothing,” I tell him, because right now Dean looks like he’s thinking about ripping Bob’s head off.

  “You’re not there to be yelled at.”

  “I know. And Bob is usually laid back. He was just stressed. We all act badly sometimes when we’re under pressure.”

  His snort tells me exactly what he thinks of that assessment.

  “Anyway,” I continue, “how was your day?”

  “Busy.”

  I stare at him. That’s all he’s giving me?

  “Just busy?” And at the barely veiled sarcasm in my words, he grins.

  “I was at the garage doing paperwork most of the morning. I hate paperwork. I’d rather be under a bonnet.”

  “Well, hire someone to do it.”

  “That costs.”

  “But if it frees you up to do other stuff—like repair cars—isn’t that more efficient?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “What kind of paperwork is it?”

  “Accounts, invoices, putting in orders with suppliers—all basic shit, but it takes time.”

  “I can do it for you.”

  I have no idea what possesses me to say this, but it feels right to help him. I want to help him.

  “You can do it for me?”

  “Yeah, until you can find someone, I can help out.”

  “Darlin’, you already work two jobs. You don’t need to add a third. I may look into hiring someone though. Maybe just a few days a week.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  His lips quirk. “I’m glad it meets your approval. Do you want to stay for dinner? We can order in.”

  I do want that. More than anything, but is it a good idea?

  We’re just hanging out, not putting labels on things… that’s what Dean said, right?

  I take a deep breath and try to let go of all the concerns battling in my mind. “Well, that depends on what you’re thinking of ordering.”

  “Whatever makes you stay.”

  I flush at his words. “Dean…”

  He snags my wrist and rubs his thumb back and forth. “It’s just dinner, Liv.”

  He’s right; it is just dinner. And I need to stop overthinking everything.

  “Chinese,” I tell him softly. “Chinese will make me stay.”

  “Then Chinese it is.”

  Our night is easy, fun even. We eat, we chat. Dean tells me more about his life growing up with his grandmother and I decide immediately that I love the woman; I want to meet her. Dorothy Lawler sounds like a riot.

  As the evening starts to wind down, I realise I don’t want to leave, but I have to.

  “I should get home. I have lots to do in the morning and it’s getting late.”

  He stands, offering me his hands. I take them and let him pull me to my feet.

  “I’ll walk you home.”

  “It’s less than a hundred yards, Dean. I think I’ll manage.”

  “I’m still walking you.”

  “Fine! You’re not only bossy, you’re also stubborn.”

  He loads my now clean and dry clothes into a bag, which he keeps hold of and I slip my feet into my nearly dry ballet flats. Then together we walk across the street. It’s dark, the only light from the outside lights on the houses lining the road and the streetlight further up the cul-de-sac.

  My stomach flutters as we approach my door. He pauses behind me as I search in my bag for my keys. Finding them, I unlock the door and push it open into the dark house before fumbling for the light switch.

  “Thank you, Dean.” I laugh softly. “I seem to spend all my time thanking you.”

  He shrugs. “You don’t need to thank me.”

  I don’t know what the hell possesses me but I roll onto my toes and I press a kiss to the side of his face. I brush my lips half over his beard, half over the soft skin of his cheek.

  What are you doing?

  Abort!

  I pull back and feel heat rise in my face. I expect to see disapproval from Dean but I don’t. His eyes are heavy as they take me in.

  “Night, Dean,” I say, my words husky.

  He seems no less affected when he responds, “Goodnight, darlin’.”

  I close the door behind me reluctantly and sag against it, muttering to myself, “What the hell are you doing, Liv?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It’s the following day, and a rare day off for me. I spent the morning tidying my house and studiously trying to forget that I kissed Dean last night. Okay, it was only on the cheek, but I still put my lips to his face and kissed him.

  God, what was I thinking?

  I told him I wasn’t ready for more, and I meant that. At least I thought I did…

  I’m also doing my best not to worry about the message from Tammy. She hasn’t responded to me and that concerns me. I don’t want to get involved with her or Simon and talking to her puts me back into that firing line, but what if he’s hurting her? What if he’s hurting that little baby?

  Since she messaged me I’ve been checking Simon’s page more than usual. I haven’t seen anything that raises red flags; for the most part Tammy looks happy, but looks can be deceiving.

  I know this first-hand.

  I know what Simon is capable of.

  Which is why I’m concerned this could be a ploy to get me back into Simon’s orbit.

  Paranoid?

  Maybe, but it’s not the first time Simon’s done something crazy.

  My thoughts splinter as I hear a bike rumble. Without considering my actions, I leap off the sofa and move to the window. Yes, I’ve become the world’s worst curtain twitcher.

  I see a motorcycle, the spring sun catching the chrome. I recognise the green paint and pearl accents immediately. It’s Dean’s bike, but it’s not Dean riding it.

  I can tell by his stature. He’s not as broad, nor as tall and when his helmet is removed light brown hair is revealed. The rider pulls up on Dean’s driveway behind the car—or cage—Dean picked me up in last night and cuts the engine. When he pulls off his helmet I recognise him. It’s Weed—the guy who came over when Dean was sick.

  Dean’s front door opens and then he steps out. God. He looks edible this morning. He’s wearing jeans and a fitted dark shirt. Weed hands him the keys to the bike and they stand chatting for a moment. Then Dean points towards my house.

  Fuck.

  I dart away from the window and cringe. Please don’t let him have seen me gawking like a nosey frigging neighbour. When I risk peeking again I see him and Weed making their way up the path. My path. Towards my door.

  Shit, fuck, bollocks.

  I push away from the wall just as the doorbell goes. Nervous excitement rolls through me at the thought of seeing Dean, but I’m also wondering what the hell he’s doing on my doorstep with Weed.

  I rush to the door and when I pull it open Dean is leaning aga
inst the side of the porch, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He glances up at me and gives me a lopsided smile that makes my heart stutter.

  “Hey, Dean.”

  “Liv,” is his response. He doesn’t offer more, including an explanation as to why he’s on my doorstep.

  “Uh, do you want to come in for coffee?”

  His hand goes to his beard, rubbing over his chin as his mouth twitches. And I don’t think about how much I like that.

  “Thanks for the invite, darlin’, but no. I brought this lummox over to look at your car.”

  I glance past him to Weed who gives me a wicked grin. “Hey, sunshine.”

  Dean smacks him in the flank and Weed makes an ‘oof’ sound.

  “Am I going to have to separate you two?” I cross my arms over my chest as I eyeball them both. Weed just grins while Dean hangs his head, biting his bottom lip as if trying to stop from laughing. “You didn’t have to come down here to fix it, Weed. I can get it to the garage.”

  “When?” Dean’s voice brings my attention to him.

  “When, what?”

  “When can you get it to the garage?”

  “Uh…

  “Are you working tomorrow?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “So you need your car.”

  I do need my car, but that’s not the issue here. “Dean, this isn’t your problem.”

  “You getting drenched, walking home soaked is my problem. So I’m going to fix your car. If I can’t fix it, Weed’s going to arrange a tow. I need your keys.”

  “Dean—”

  He holds his hand out and makes a ‘come hither’ motion. “Keys,” he repeats.

  Almost on autopilot, I move up the hallway to the table and grab my keys. I hand them to him, my fingers brushing his. He doesn’t move, just glances up at me. Then he says, “You look beautiful today.”

  And without another word he turns and wanders back down the drive towards the car.

  Weed raises his brow at me and grins, pushing off the other side of the porch, then follows after Dean. Am I supposed to go with them? Do I wait inside? Unsure what the heck I’m supposed to do in this situation, I do the only thing I can. I head to the kitchen to put the kettle on.