by Jessica Ames
It’s light when I exit the house, the sun rising earlier as spring gets well underway. I’m glad; the winter can be beautiful, but I love the sun.
As I approach my car, I glance at Dean’s bike, which is still parked on the driveway opposite. His curtains upstairs are drawn, and the blinds downstairs are shuttered. I hesitate, not sure if I should drop him a quick text, but we’re trying to be normal with each other, so I type my message.
ME: Are you still in bed, lazy bugger?
I tug the driver’s door open and place my handbag on the passenger seat before I climb in myself. My phone pings as I’m pulling on my seatbelt.
DEAN: It’s not even eight am yet.
I grin as I toss my phone into my bag and put the key into the ignition. When I turn it the car splutters and then it dies.
What the heck?
I try again, but the same happens. It splutters and dies. My car is dead in the water, and I have twenty minutes to get to work.
Shit.
I twist the key—hoping against hope for a different result as I pump the accelerator pedal, praying that will do something. The engine roars in the silence of the cul-de-sac, splutters and cuts out.
Fuck, shit, bollocks!
Hands gripping the steering wheel, I try to calm my growing irritation. What the fuck is wrong with my car? I really do not have time for this crap this morning.
A knock on my window makes me squeal even as I spin in that direction.
Standing at the window is Dean.
I reach for the handle (that is how old this car is—no electric windows for me) and slowly, I wind it down, removing the only barrier between him and me.
He looks tired and I wonder if he was also kept awake by his own turmoiling thoughts. There are dark circles rimming under his eyes, and his hair is sticking up in all directions, as if he just climbed out of bed. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a plain light grey T-shirt that shows his tattooed arms perfectly, and while he has his boots on they are unlaced—as if he put them on in a hurry.
One arm goes to the top of the door while he leans down to the window.
“I can hear you destroying the ignition from the back bedroom.”
I slam a hand against the steering wheel.
“I don’t know what the hell is wrong with it. It was working fine yesterday.”
I leave out the fact it has been running like crap lately. For some reason, I think that revelation would annoy Dean.
As I climb out of the vehicle, he shifts back a little to give me space. He brushes past me and my brows knit together as he climbs into the seat I just vacated and tries to start up the engine.
“It could be the starter or the fuel injector.”
“The… what?”
“Fuel injector.” He climbs out and glances at the car. “Although I won’t know for sure until I get under the bonnet and take a look.”
“Dean, it’s fine, I can take it to a garage. You’ve already done enough.” And dealt with enough of my drama lately.
He lets out a breath that is definitely irritated. “It won’t take a second.”
“Really, it’s fine—”
“Liv.”
I drop my hands to my hips at his tone. “Do you even know about cars?”
“Well, I should hope I do; I’m a mechanic.” His interrupted confession makes my mouth snap shut. He’s a mechanic? How did I not know this? I figured he just rode around Kingsley on his bike all day—doing what? Giving self-defence lessons between raising hell? Causing chaos by stealing candy from babies?
I have no idea what he does outside of the Club because we’ve never really sat down and talked about it. But we talked a shit ton about me…
I am the worst.
“You kept that quiet. How come you never mentioned it?”
He shrugs. “It never came up.”
I arch a brow at him. “Do you like it?” I have no idea why I ask this, but I am genuinely interested in his answer.
“Cars and bikes are a lot easier than people to deal with.” Is that aimed at me? I duck my head feeling suddenly tense. “I’ll have a look. If it’s a loose wire or something, I might be able to get you back on the road so you can drive it.”
He leans his torso into the driver’s side and I hear the click of a lock disengaging at the front of the car. The strong muscles in his arms flex as he reaches under the bonnet, releases the catch and pulls it up. He disappears behind the metal so I move around the front to watch him work. His hands move across the components with an expertise that can’t be faked as he pokes and prods away at the ancient engine.
“Can you start her up?”
“Yeah; of course.”
I climb into the driver’s side and twist the key in the ignition. Again, it ticks over, splutters and dies.
“Do it again?” he yells.
I can’t see him because the bonnet is all I can see through the windscreen but I do as commanded.
Again, it roars to life and splutters to death.
He moves to the window and leans down, giving me a flash of the art on his arms again. “I’m pretty sure it’s the fuel pump. I need to take it apart and check what the issue is—whether you’re out of fuel or if the pressure’s tanked.”
This is not good news. I can only imagine how much repairs are going to cost.
“Can you get it going for now?” I’m going to be late otherwise, and Bob will throw a shit fit. My usually jovial boss has been like a bear with a sore head lately.
“Unlikely. I might be able to fix it here, with the right equipment, but if not, it’s going to need a tow.”
“Crap,” I mutter, throwing my hands in the air. “I’ll have to sort this later. Right now, I’m going to be late for work. I need to call a taxi.”
“I’ll drop you off.”
“You’ve done enough already.”
He turns to me. “Woman, would you quit arguing with me?”
I snap my mouth shut.
“Go change your shoes, and I’ll go get the spare helmet.”
“Okay.”
I head back into my house to grab my boots. They’re still in the hallway by the front door, where I kicked them off as soon as I got back from the clubhouse last night. I pull my ballet flats off and stuff them into my handbag, then slide my feet into my boots.
By the time I get back outside Dean is waiting by the bike. He watches me approach, his eyes soft as he holds out the spare helmet, which I take from him.
I meet his gaze and say, “I owe you one for this.”
He gives me a grin that makes my body sit up and take notice as he says, “I can’t wait to collect.”
I swallow hard even as my breath clogs my throat. Holy fuck.
“Dean—”
He gently rubs a hand over my shoulder. “Relax, Liv. I’m just having fun. Now, are you getting on, or what?”
“I’m getting on.”
Chapter Seventeen
“You’re late.”
This is not something I need affirming; I’m already aware I’m late. Dean rode here in record timing, but we wasted a good ten minutes trying to get the car to start. This means I rolled into the building at twenty to nine, rather than half eight. Bob seems to be taking this tardiness as a personal affront.
“I’m sorry, Bob,” I pant out between ragged breaths as I toss my handbag under my desk and reach for the power button on my PC at the same time. The computer starts up with a groan. “My car wouldn’t start and I had to wait for a lift. It won’t happen again.”
His usual grin is pulled into a thin line that makes me worry for his health. This level of stress for a man who is by default usually laid back cannot be a good thing, not at all. Right now, Bob looks like he might explode. His pudgy face is turning a funny shade of crimson.
“That doesn’t explain why you’re late.”
Okay…
“And I already apologised. I’m not sure what else I can say, really, other than I’m really, really sorr
y.”
What the hell is his problem?
He growls, “I need the paperwork for the Carter account before ten am.”
And with that he turns on his heel, strides back into his office and slams the door hard enough to rattle the windows.
Crap.
I wince and sink into my computer chair, swivelling towards the PC and put my head down. I type in my password and wait for everything to load. This will probably take ten years, because the computer system in the office is ancient. Everything runs so slowly.
While I’m waiting, I dig my phone out of my bag and check it. There’s a text from Dean.
DEAN: Have a good day, sweetheart. Text me if you need a lift home.
Suddenly, I don’t care if my boss is pissed at me and just yelled at me in front of the whole office. I don’t care about anything but that text.
ME: Thanks for the lift. I wish my boss appreciated it as much as I did.
DEAN: What’s your boss got to do with anything?
ME: He’s pissed off I was late. Ten minutes is apparently a calamity. Never mind the fact I’ve never been late before.
A message doesn’t ping right back. In fact, there’s not even three dots to indicate he’s typing. I turn my attention to the computer and load my emails up. I start cycling through the new email responses and replying to what I can and filing what I can’t to deal with when Bob is in a better mood. I’m half way through informing a supplier we will accept their new contract when my mobile screen lights up, telling me I have a message.
DEAN: He giving you shit?
ME: He’s just grumping because I wasn’t here at eight-thirty to make his coffee. He’ll calm down.
I’m not sure if that is true, but I say it anyway. Dean responds more or less right away.
DEAN: Don’t let him give you shit.
ME: I won’t. And thank you again for the lift.
DEAN: Anytime, darlin’.
I shove my phone back into my bag and grab a folder from the in tray on my desk to start work. Sarah cranes her neck, suddenly appearing over the top of my cubicle wall.
“I didn’t know you were with a biker. You don’t seem the type.”
Great. Clearly everyone saw my grand entrance with Dean. Then again, we would have been difficult to miss. Dean’s Harley is not exactly quiet.
“I’m not,” I tell her, not looking up as I spread the paperwork out. “And what do you mean ‘the type’?”
Judgemental cow. I hate that the gossip mill is clearly going crazy; I don’t need that on top of everything else.
“You were on the back of his bike, Olivia. We all saw you pull up.”
“My car broke down; he gave me a lift. That’s all.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Oh, come on. People don’t get lifts off Saxons without there being something in it.”
Her attitude annoys me, and I snap my gaze to her. “What exactly are you asking?”
“Are you shagging Dean Lawler?”
What the fuck?
I grit my teeth. “Don’t you have work to do?”
She scowls at me.
“I know you’re not a local, sweetie, but let me clue you in: you’re on the back of Dean Lawler’s bike. Even if you’re not shagging him people are going to think you are. It’s usually a ride for a ride with those boys.”
I watch as she sinks back into her seat, disappearing behind the partition wall. What the hell is she talking about?
A ride for a ride…
What kind of shitty saying is that anyway?
My phone pings and I glance down at the screen, expecting it to be Dean. It’s not. It’s a message alert for my social media account—one I haven’t used since I left Bedford—other than to check in with Simon.
I consider ignoring the alert, but curiosity has me opening the message app.
TAMMY: Olivia, you don’t know me but my name is Tammy. I’m with Simon. I know this is crazy and out of the blue, but I’m worried about some of his… well, his behaviour. Would it be possible to talk? Thanks. Tammy.
I stare at the message. I know exactly who Tammy is. She’s the woman Simon got with after I left. He now has a son with her. And I suspect she’s the only reason Simon didn’t come looking for me—that and his pride.
Before I can even formulate a reply, Bob barks, “Livvy!” at the top of his voice.
I peer over the top of the partition to see him sitting at his desk, his expression annoyed.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
I roll my chair back and head over to his office door, trying to force a smile. “You yelled?” I ask from the doorway. He glances up, his face crimson.
“All these files are wrong.”
My stomach drops. Did I fuck up? I’m usually very attentive, but it has been a stressful few days; it’s possible I messed up.
Heart jiggling in my chest, I come around the side of his desk to see what he’s talking about. I glance down at the files and try to decipher what the hell I’m seeing as he flicks through the paperwork at lightning speed.
“Uh, let me check them.”
I take the top folder and flick through—and immediately see the problem. Half the documentation we need for each client is either missing or not filled in right. By the looks of it they were put together a couple of days ago by Diane, one of the other admins who I job share with. She’s older, been here for years, and lazy as hell. Me and Fiona carry her.
“Give me ten minutes and I’ll have the right forms.”
He glares at me. “How about you get it right the first time, Olivia? I need those bloody forms now, if you think you can manage.”
His words tear through me and I stand rooted to the floor at the hostility behind them. Anger flares through me and I want to say something, but I don’t. Why? Because I need my job and I can’t risk getting sacked because Bob is in a mood. Gritting my teeth, I snatch the folders from the pile and all but storm out of his office.
I slide the files on my desk as I sit, but I don’t open them. Instead, my attention goes back to my phone and Tammy. I shouldn’t respond; I know I shouldn’t, but what if she’s in trouble? It’s this overriding thought that has my fingers flicking over the screen.
ME: What do you want to know?
It takes a couple of minutes for a response to come back and my heart is in my throat the whole time.
TAMMY: Why did you leave?
I hesitate. That is a hell of a question. Fortunately, the answer is an easy one, but I’m not sure what to say to her. Why is she asking? Is she on a fishing expedition for Simon and used a reason to contact me that she knew I would respond to? I frown over the message, and then decide no matter what happens I need to tell her—even if it puts me in danger because there is a baby in that house. A baby that Simon could hurt. If she’s worried about his behaviour then there is every chance he’s slipping back into old habits, and that means she needs to take action. Now.
I take a shaky breath and I break my self-imposed exile from my old life to reply.
ME: Simon was abusive. I had to leave.
She doesn’t respond—not that I’m surprised by this but I do kick myself for being so abrupt. Maybe I should have sugar-coated it a little more.
Fuck.
My day doesn’t get any better either. Sarah’s words reverberate around my brain all afternoon—a ride for a ride. I can imagine exactly what that means and it’s not good.
Dean offered me a lift home this morning, but I don’t want to listen to any more gossiping from my co-workers, so like an idiot I decide to walk back.
I should have got the bus because within ten minutes the heavens open and Kingsley is hit with what can only be described as a monsoon.
I’m drenched.
I’m so wet my sweater is clinging to me like a second-skin, my hair is plastered to my head and I’m pretty sure I have water in my shoes. I dread to think how the small amount of mascara I wear for work is holding up. No doubt
I look like a panda—a very soggy, very sad looking panda. My winter coat, which is thick and usually very good at keeping out the elements, has done nothing to keep me dry, or warm for that matter. I’m also deeply regretting buying a coat without a hood. Then again, a hood probably would not have helped. This rain is not normal. It’s like ice-rain, and every drop feels like shards of glass splintering against my skin. I’m a shivering, shaking mess. The air, which is already chilled, became even colder as the ice rain hammered down.
My attention is suddenly diverted from my trip into self-pity by a car moving slowly up beside the pavement, the headlights bright, even against the backdrop of the rest of the traffic.
A familiar voice suddenly yells, “Liv!”
I turn towards the car, which is now creeping alongside the curb line and I see Dean. He’s driving a black car that looks newish. He looks different behind the wheel of a car and not straddling a motorcycle. And it is not a good different. The bike is a part of him; the car is a means to an end.
“I thought it was you,” he says.
How he recognised me in the dark, half-drowned I don’t know, and I don’t ask. He’s wound the window down and is leaning a forearm against it. He takes in my appearance with a frown and I pull my coat further around my body, as if it can protect me from his gaze.
“Hop in.”
Hop in? I don’t move because I’m dripping like a faucet.
“Dean, thank you for the offer; it’s very kind of you, but I’ll walk. It’s not far now.”
He looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind, and I probably have because it’s at least another ten minutes before I’m home.
“Darlin’, you’re drenched.”
I am, but I don’t appreciate the obvious response. I’m well aware I am soaked to the bone. I’m also aware of the fact his car is nice and that I’m dripping wet.