by Jessica Ames
He stares down at me for a second, then says, “Then I’ll teach you.”
And at these words my body freezes. What the hell—? He’s going to teach me to fight? Dean Lawler, member of the Lost Saxons Motorcycle Club is offering to teach me self-defence? I don’t know what to say to that, so I just mutter out, “You’ll teach me?”
“If you want to learn to defend yourself, then yeah, I’ll teach you,” he repeats.
My eyebrows contract. “How do you know how to fight?” It’s a stupid question, given who he is, and I regret asking it immediately. It makes me sound naive and stupid—neither of which I am—but Dean doesn’t scoff at me or ridicule me. He just smiles.
“I grew up in a world full of men, darlin’. I know how to fight.”
And I don’t doubt it for a second. Dean looks like a guy who can take care of himself, and not just because of who he is but because he has this persona that tells me he doesn’t take crap off anyone. And that is a persona that was not developed through being cocksure, but from being confident of his own abilities.
“So, do you want me to teach you?”
I don’t know why but this statement makes me feel like we’re standing in the middle of a crossroads, and my answer will change everything. For that reason, I should decline his offer and find another instructor in town or maybe in Mountgerald, but I don’t because I want to spend time with him. And I know how crazy that is, but there is something about Dean that I’m drawn to… like a moth to a flame. I need to remember I’m not fireproof.
“Sure. I’d like that,” my words spill out before I can stop them.
“You free tonight?”
I nod.
“I’ll knock on for you around seven,” he tells me. “Don’t be late.”
And before I can say another word, he’s halfway back up the pavement towards Rabbit and his bike. I stand there, watching as he climbs onto his motorcycle, and pulls his helmet on with practised ease.
Rabbit gives me a shit-eating grin and waves before he backs his bike out of the space. When Dean’s eyes come to me, I see a smirk cross his lips before he walks his bike back too.
Both motorcycles let out a throaty growl as they start to move towards the car park exit. I watch them take off before I head back to my car. I climb in, tossing my gym bag on the front seat, and start it up. It splutters and dies. What the hell? I feel a little panicked because it started fine this morning.
I twist the key and this time the engine catches.
Jesus.
This thing is so temperamental—although it is probably me. My head is all over the place.
Because I’m preoccupied, crushing on a certain biker as if I’m fourteen years old and not a grown bloody woman.
I put my seatbelt on, put the car into gear and pull out of the space.
The drive home is not a long one, but it is made worse by the lunchtime rush of traffic that seems to be clogging up all the access roads in and out of town.
My house lies to the west and sits behind the park in one of the more affluent parts of town—not that Kingsley has a more affluent side. Between the high-rise flats, sit the old collieries that are as much a part of the landscape as the hills beyond the town. It’s a graveyard of metal and machinery, a statement of twentieth century industrialisation.
My house, luckily, is not close to any of the mines, most of which are to the north of the town and the east. Hazelwood, which was the last mine standing in Kingsley, and Middleview, which closed in the eighties and was turned into a museum, are the largest of the sites—or so June told me one day when she was giving me a brief history of Kingsley and its coaling days. When they shut down the collieries, most mining families found themselves sliding into intense deprivation. That hasn’t really changed.
The mining industry in Kingsley was replaced by service-led businesses, most of which pay minimum wage. It’s a world away from my home town, Bedford.
But there is something about Kingsley that is charming. Beneath the soot and the coal and the poverty is a sense of community that is rare to find these days.
I keep the old collieries in my rear-view mirror as I drive, and by the time I turn onto my street and approach my house they’re not even a blip on the horizon.
As I park up, I glance across to Dean’s and see his driveway is empty. No bike. I wonder where he and Rabbit had been heading.
Probably to the clubhouse to raise hell and cause mayhem…
I head into the house, locking the front door behind me, giving it a tug to make sure the lock caught. Then, wandering through the house, I dump my gym bag in front of the washing machine, strip out of my gym gear and hit the shower.
After I’m done, I quickly open up Simon’s social media page and scan over the latest posts. Tammy is absent from the images, which show only Simon and the baby. I’m not sure if that is a sign of something looming on the horizon or if I’m worrying about nothing, but I feel uneasy as I close the page down.
When seven o’clock rolls around, my heart is in my throat. I threw on some fresh workout gear and am sitting in the living room on the armchair, which has a clear view out of the window to the street.
Maybe he won’t come.
Maybe he will come.
Maybe I want him to come.
And just maybe that desire scares me silly.
At five to seven I hear the rumble of pipes and despite all my nerves and all my worries, I break into a smile. He came. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure he would. And I wasn’t sure how I would feel if he did, but my only emotion is relief. Then the butterflies attack my stomach and I feel a roll of nausea wash through me.
I don’t know why I’m nervous, but I am.
I wait anxiously as the headlight moves up the street, coming closer to the house. It’s bright, so bright it chases the shadows from the road. It’s a huge bike, impressive, much like the man himself.
I wait for Dean to park the bike outside his house and watch him kick down the stand. Then he climbs off and removes his helmet before he swaggers across the street, moving with the confidence of a man who is used to having the world get out of his way. I peer through the blinds from the chair, trying not to look obvious and hoping they hide me from his sight. When the doorbell jangles, I let out a long breath.
Here goes nothing.
Chapter Nine
I head to the front door, and my entire body tingles as I catch sight of Dean through the glass of the storm porch windows. When I tug the door open I see he’s wearing exactly what he was wearing earlier—jeans, leather jacket and Club vest—not training gear. Hope and disappointment vie for attention as I take this in. Maybe he has changed his mind and has come over to tell me.
“Hey, darlin’,” he says, his voice rough and deep. It sends a shiver through me that I don’t want to think about, that I can’t think about.
“Do you want to come in?” I hold my breath as I wait for his answer.
“No, we need to get going.”
My heart swells at this—he still wants to do our lesson. I grab my keys off the side table in the hallway, giving him my back and letting my excitement play over my face for a second. I bury it when I turn to him, slipping my keys into my jacket pocket with my phone, pulling the zip up. When I finally risk a glance at Dean he’s frowning at my feet. I follow his gaze down.
“What?”
“You got any boots?”
I blink at him before returning my gaze down to my feet. I’m wearing a cute pair of running shoes—at least I thought they were cute. They go perfectly with my outfit—not that I’m bothered about fashion but I can’t workout in boots.
“Boots aren’t really appropriate footwear for kicking ass and taking names,” I tell him.
He laughs. “Kicking ass and taking names?” He sounds cute when he says it, his northern accent strong and making the ‘ass’ sound strange.
“Yeah, pal. That’s what we’re doing here, isn’t it? You’re teaching me to put down bad guys.”
There is so much there to digest, but I start with the first point, the one flashing a great big neon sign in my head.
Why in the hell are we riding the bike? He never mentioned going out on the bike. This smacks me with a mix of emotions, first and foremost holy crap. I can’t get on the back of a motorcycle, can I? Simon liked fast cars and driving them that way, but he never brought a motorcycle home. I have no idea how to ride on one.
“We’re going on the bike?” I finger the zip of my hooded jacket as I watch for his response.
“Unless you want to walk to the clubhouse.”
To the… what?
I tip my head down, as if I’m looking at my shoes again, but I squeeze my eyes shut for a brief second. It’s not long enough to regain my composure, but it’s long enough to calm my nerves slightly.
“I thought we were going to your house.”
He gives me a look that suggests he thinks I’m batshit crazy, and maybe I am. I have a biker on my doorstep, offering me self-defence classes.
Yep, that definitely screams crazy, but maybe crazy is what I need.
Since I left Simon I’ve played it safe, but I left him to live my life, not shy away from new experiences… although, I wish I’d waited for something less nail-biting to be adventurous with.
Dean is the guy mothers warn their daughters to stay away from, and here I am, contemplating climbing onto his motorcycle to go to his criminal lair, so he can teach me to fight dirty.
Yeah, I’m definitely cracked.
But Nate said he wasn’t a bad guy, that he hadn’t been in trouble with the police before. If that’s true then what do I have to worry about? Dean’s already proved he has a good heart and until he does otherwise I want to trust him, to give him the benefit of the doubt. Besides, he’s only giving me self-defence classes. It’s not like he’s moving into the spare bedroom.
“Why in the fuck would we go to my house when there’s a whole gym set up at the clubhouse?”
For some reason that surprises me right out of my stupor.
“The Club has a gym?” I’m not sure why it shocks me. Killing and maiming must have some downtime, right? Besides, they have to learn those skills somewhere…
I push that out of my head because Dean doesn’t deserve that thought. He has done nothing but be kind to me. I have to learn to trust people again, although this is probably not the best starting point, but I can’t let my past with Simon dictate my future.
“Yeah, we converted one of the smaller buildings out the back of the main clubhouse. There’s some equipment out there, enough for me to show you some moves.”
I arch my brow at him. “Do you have moves in you?”
He grins this time, a hint of dimple lost beneath the scruff of beard covering his face.
“Darlin’, you go and put some boots on and I’ll show you the moves I’ve got.”
This statement makes heat rush into my body, particularly my face and I duck my head as I mutter, “All right, I’m going.”
I rush up the stairs to my bedroom. And I rush because half way up them I remember I’ve left an almost-stranger on my doorstep—an almost stranger I am planning on riding to his clubhouse with. Yep, I have definitely lost my mind. But the rush of adrenaline and elation is heady and for the first time in… well, ever, I feel the tendrils of excitement flare in my belly.
I head straight for my wardrobe, find a pair of calf-length boots in the back of it and then drop to the edge of the bed. Quickly, I toe my trainers off and slip my boots on. Then I grab my running shoes off the floor and head back down the stairs.
Dean, to my surprise, remained on the doorstep. He didn’t come inside the porch, let alone the house. I don’t know why, but it warms me that he respected my boundaries—even the unspoken ones.
His eyes lift as I descend the steps.
“Well, I’m not sure I’m making much of a fashion statement in leggings and boots, but will it do?”
His tongue dips out and wets his bottom lip and I track the movement before bringing my gaze back to his face. Oh boy. That was hot as hell and I really should not be finding anything about him hot at all.
“Yeah, Liv. It’ll do fine. Come on.”
He waits while I lock up the house and then together we head over to his bike. He holds out a hand for my trainers, which I give to him and he secures them in the bag at the back.
“You ridden before?” he asks, as he hands me a second smaller helmet. It’s white to his black one and has a red stripe on it.
“I’m a motorcycle virgin,” I tell him, glancing at the bike, which looks a hell of a lot bigger this close up.
“Well, I’m happy to be your first ride.”
I flush at his double-edged words and swallow hard at the look he’s giving me. There’s desire there—I can see it just beneath the surface—and I both love that it is there but fear its presence.
Then I mentally kick my own arse.
This isn’t some romantic gesture, I remind myself. Dean Lawler is not a white knight on a steel horse. He’s a tornado wrapped up in a hurricane, and he’s teaching me to fight.
I don’t address his statement because that seems like a can of worms neither of us need to open right now. Instead, I ask, “Uh… so how do I…” I gesture at the bike, ducking my head slightly so he doesn’t see the heat working through my cheeks.
“It’s easy. I’ll show you how to get on in a second but let’s go over some ground-rules about the ride itself. Firstly, don’t do anything fucking crazy because we’ll both end up in the road, picking tarmac out of our teeth. Secondly, when I lean, you lean, don’t fight against it, even though your instinct will be to right yourself. The bike will lean pretty far over but I promise, I’m always in control, darlin’—you just have to trust me.”
Trust.
It’s such a small word for such a big thing. It’s something I’m slowly working on rebuilding but it’s not something that comes easily. Simon eroded all the trust I had. I didn’t think that could be repaired, until Georgia. My faith in her gave me freedom, and my trust in Dean could give me something equally good, but it has to be earned first, and that takes time.
Small steps.
“Okay,” I agree. “What else?”
“Be careful not to touch the pipes; they’ll get hot. Make sure you hold on. Tight. And Liv?”
“Yeah?”
“Try to have fun.”
I grin as a tendril of excitement flutters through me. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he mutters back mirroring my own expression. “Let me help you with your helmet.”
He moves closer, and I tip my head back to look up at him as he gently pushes it on to my head. His hands scrape across my cheek as he reaches for the straps to secure it and I can’t help but hold my breath until the catch snicks together. I barely breathe as he works but my heart is racing.
“There you go,” he murmurs so softly I wouldn’t hear his words if I wasn’t so close to him.
But I don’t miss the flicker of his eyes over my face and the softness in his gaze. Only when he straightens do I finally remember to draw in air, but it seems to catch in my throat.
“So… how do I get on this thing?”
“Well, I get on first. Then you need to put that foot on the pillion.” He directs me, pointing at the small foothold on the back of the bike. “Use my shoulders if you need to, but kick your other leg over and sit.”
“Right,” I fire back, suddenly grinning. This might be the single most reckless thing I’ve ever done in my life and I’m elated by it. I’ve always played it safe, boring. I’ve never done anything this crazy before and my excitement is intoxicating.
“You need a moment to get your shit together, Liv?” Dean grins.
I shake my head. “Absolutely not. Let’s do this.”
“Attagirl.” And
that one word makes my stomach flutter. I have no idea why either, but it does. My emotions are all over the place. I shift back and forth on the balls of my feet as I wait for him to pull on the other helmet that was attached to the back of the bike and climb on. He does it with enviable ease that I’m sure I’m not going to match.
Fingers clutching the handle bars, he glances over his shoulder at me. “Remember what I said?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. Then to myself, I mutter, “Here goes nothing…”
I place a foot on the pillion, as he told me, and using his shoulders, I kick my other leg over the back of the motorcycle. It shifts slightly at the change in weight, but it seems solid beneath me.
As I sit, my thighs spread around his back, his own thighs pressed against mine, I suddenly realise how intimate this position is. My chest is against his back and things that shouldn’t be are pressed right up close and personal.
Oh, boy.
“You comfortable?” he asks over his shoulder.
My pussy is right up against his arse… comfortable is not the word I would use, but still I say, “Uh, yeah.”
I’m glad he can’t see my face.
“You need me to stop or get my attention while we’re riding, tap my shoulder twice.”
“Okay. Uh, Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“What do I hold on to?”
“My shoulders, my waist, or there’s a hand grip at the back of the seat.”
That one seems like the safest bet, so I fumble blindly behind me and find it.
“You ready?”
No.
“Yeah.”
He starts the engine and the bike rumbles to life. It growls and vibrates beneath me.
Whoa.
Adrenaline rushes my body as he glances over his shoulder a second then hits the throttle. The bike zooms forward and the movement makes me feel unbalanced. The urge to put my feet on the ground is overwhelming but I force them to stay on the pillions. But as the bike picks up speed, my hands leave the back bar, coming instinctively to wrap around Dean’s waist. This pulls me closer to his back, but I feel steadier like this—even if it does mean I’m practically hugging him. Beneath my hands wrapped around his stomach, his muscles bunch and I realise he’s laughing—probably at me.