Flawed Rider: A Lost Saxons Novel #6 Read online

  Flawed Rider

  A Lost Saxons Novel #6

  Jessica Ames

  Copyright © 2020 by Jessica Ames

  www.jessicaamesauthor.com

  Flawed Rider is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.

  Editing by Charisse Sayers

  Proofreading by Gem’s Precise Proofreads

  Cover design by Desire Premade Covers by Jessica Ames

  Beta readers: Lynne Garlick, Allisyn Pendleton, Clara Martinez Turco

  Cover image copyright © 2020

  Please note this book contains material aimed at an adult audience, including sex, violence and bad language.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for use only, then you should return it to the seller and please purchase your own copy.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under Copyright Act 1911 and the Copyright Act 1988, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior express, written consent of the author.

  This book is covered under the United Kingdom’s Copyright Laws. For more information visit: www.gov.uk/copyright/overview.

  To Uncle Ed, who buys my books even though he doesn’t read them.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

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  Also by Jessica Ames

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Christmas Day…

  The last place I expect to be on Christmas Day is a police station. Walking through the front doors takes more effort than I imagined, but I don’t burst into flames, nor am I immediately surrounded by armed officers, so I move towards the main desk with more confidence.

  The Old Bill are not our friends. Kingsley plod have made it their duty to get in our business over the years and fuck up our shit.

  Since I’m hardly a choirboy, I’ve been in my share of police stations and cells over the years, probably more than I care to admit, but willingly walking through the front door feels like the worst kind of betrayal.

  With a heavy breath, I straighten my kutte and give my best swagger, ignoring the eyes boring into my back. I’m used to being watched. People are either fascinated by my Club or scared of it. They fear what they don’t understand, and most people don’t understand a community of bikers living outside the law.

  Fuck them, and fuck anyone who thinks what we’re doing is wrong.

  I love my brothers and their old ladies. They’re the only family I’ve ever known. They’re the only people who ever gave a single shit about me. For that reason, I’d die on my sword for any of them.

  As I close in on the desk, I’m twitchy as hell and the giant target on my back seems to be growing with every step. I should have brought a brother with me, but I thought I could handle this shit alone.

  I was wrong.

  Despite this, I’m the king of confidence as I lean on the front desk. When the Desk Sergeant—a middle-aged woman with black hair streaked with grey—glances up at me over the rim of her glasses, I give her one of my patented shit-eating grins.

  She takes my kutte in with a sweeping glance before saying, “Are you lost?”

  “Why? Are you volunteering to find me, darlin’?” I wiggle my eyebrows, which earns me a deep glare from Mrs Iron Knickers.

  Christ.

  I’m getting nowhere fast here…

  Letting out a breath, I say, “I’m here for Jesse Allen.”

  Her glasses are perched precariously on the end of her nose, and she makes a good show of glaring at me over the top of them, like a stern headmistress.

  “Is he one of yours?” The way she says this, the derogatory tone she uses, has my teeth gritting.

  “He’s a sixteen-year-old kid,” I counter.

  Since you have to be eighteen to take the prospect’s kutte, there’s no way in hell he’s a member, but even if he was, she doesn’t have the right to judge.

  “You don’t convert them that young?” she asks, a bite to her words.

  I push down what I really want to say to her and plaster a smile on my face. “Christ, where the fuck is your Christmas cheer?”

  She doesn’t respond, just continues to stare at me. I want to slap that look off her fucking face, but considering my location, it’s probably not the best idea. Besides, Derek will beat my arse if I get arrested, and when he’s done, Slade and Logan will take over.

  “Jesse Allen,” I repeat. “Where is he? And chop, chop. This is cutting into valuable drinking time.”

  She sniffs loudly and snootily, pushing her glasses up her nose with a bony finger.

  “Take a seat. I’ll see what they’re doing with him.”

  Muttering a curse under my breath at the old battleaxe, I head to the nearest available chair and sink into it. My leg bounces, and I clasp my hands between my spread knees, watching the knuckles whiten before I force my fingers to relax.

  This is not my idea of a good time, but what the hell was I supposed to do? The kid called and sounded desperate. I can’t leave him to rot, not on Christmas Day. I’m not that much of a bastard.

  My mind rolls over what Jesse told me on the phone. He punched his dad for hitting his sister. Fuck me.

  Not that I wouldn’t have done the same if I was him, but I wouldn’t have got caught.

  I don’t know Jesse that well, despite the fact I see him five days a week. Dean took on a couple of kids to help out at the garage just before Beth came home. Jesse is the younger of the two at sixteen and in the seven or eight months he’s been with us, he’s been a complete pain in the arse. He doesn’t listen, he’s slow, quick to anger and makes a shite cup of coffee. He’s one step from failing his apprenticeship, and now I understand why.

  His old man sounds like a piece of work.

  His old man sounds a little too like my own.

  I try not to let my thoughts take a walk down memory lane, but they’re skipping along that path of their own fucking accord.

  I spent my first ten years of my life dodging fists. Mum did her best to protect me, but she was in the firing line more than I was. My arsehole father would beat her so badly sometimes, she could barely move for days. I hated that cunt. I hated him even more when he finally went too far and succeeded with what I feared. I can still remember seeing her battered, lifeless body lying on the kitchen floor, blood everywhere from the frenzied knife attack my father had gone on. Dad went to jail and I went into the foster care system.

&nbs
p; Then, I spent the next four years avoiding strangers in whichever home I was fostered in. I didn’t stay in the system long. By the age of fourteen, I was bedding down on friends’ sofas or sleeping rough. It was better to be out there on my own than trapped with people worse than my father.

  Maybe I was unlucky, but that bad luck followed me my entire life—until I found the Club.

  I remind myself I’m not that scared kid anymore and I haven’t been for a long time. I wish I’d found the MC at eighteen, before my life spiralled out of control, but I’m grateful for them now. These men, my brothers, are the only family I need. I know they see me for me, not who I was in the past.

  That thought grounds me and lets me focus on the here and now.

  “Mr Williams?”

  I glance up from my clasped hands at my name and see the Club’s brief standing to the side of my chair.

  Peter Rawlinson is an older man with a thatch of salt and pepper hair and a hint of a gut. He’s small, with narrow eyes and a permanent grimace etched on his face. I suspect the Club gives him a good deal of trouble, but I know Derek pays through the nose to have Rawlinson’s firm on speed dial, and for good reason. He’s a hell of a solicitor. He’s got more than a few of us out of a bind in the past.

  Pushing to my feet, I tower over him as I come to my full height. I’m shorter than a lot of the boys at six-foot, but Rawlinson can’t be more than five-six. Facing me would make a lesser man shrink back, but Rawlinson doesn’t seem fazed. He’s dealt with the Lost Saxons for years. He’s used to cleaning up our shit and he does it with straight talk. I respect the guy for that.

  “Weed,” I remind him. I hate my real name. It’s a name linked to my past, a past I’d rather erase.

  “Mr Weed.”

  “It’s just Weed, Rawlinson. Fuck me. You don’t have to be all business.”

  He stares at me for a moment, before letting out an irate sounding huff that grates on my already frayed nerves.

  “What problem are you having that was so urgent I had to leave my family on Christmas Day?”

  My mouth curls down at his words, my irritation moving to critical. “You’re getting paid a fuck ton every month to be up our arses whenever we ask it! Quit your fucking bitching.”

  For the first time, his façade breaks and he looks a little uncertain at my outburst.

  Good, remember who I am and who I belong to, fucker.

  Rawlinson, to give him credit, quickly collects himself and plasters on a smile as fake as a stripper’s tits. “Of course. You know I’m at the Club’s beck and call. Whatever you need. Would you like to fill me in on what’s going on?”

  I rub at the back of my neck as I reclaim my seat. Rawlinson takes the chair opposite me stiffly.

  “A kid who we’re apprenticing at the Moor Street Garage called me and told me he’d been arrested for slugging his old man in the chops after the father hit his sister.”

  “Okay, so we’re looking at some kind of assault charge. You said a kid—do you mean he is a child or is that just an endearment we’re using for prospective members these days?”

  “He’s sixteen. He’s not a member.”

  “He should have a guardian with him, but since the attack was against his father, I suspect he’s not interested in playing that role. Let me speak to the Desk Sergeant. If they’ve interviewed him without a brief or guardian present, we’ll have him out of here in a jiffy.”

  He pushes up from the chair and heads over to the desk. His suit, I notice, fits him perfectly. Clearly, he’s doing well off the Club’s money, since it looks tailored.

  Fucker.

  That money comes out of the cut each brother gets from our business dealings—legitimate and otherwise. He better earn it today.

  Rawlinson’s charm with Iron Knickers is obviously more effective than mine, because the door next to the desk clanks as the automatic lock disengages and Rawlinson steps through it, into the depths of the police station.

  My knee jiggles faster and I chew on my thumbnail as the minutes tick by. I don’t know why I care. I shouldn’t. This kid has been nothing but a pain in the arse since he first arrived, but knowing more of his story now, I understand it.

  I was him.

  I grew up in hell.

  How long has this shit been going on?

  An ugly feeling spreads through me as I realise just how much I have failed the teen. I should have known. I should have done more.

  Is Jesse hurt?

  What about the sister who was slugged?

  He’s never mentioned her before. Then again, he barely talks to anyone—least of all me.

  Have we really been blind to the shit this kid has going on?

  Honestly, I just thought he didn’t want to work, that he was lazy. Now, I’m seeing another side to this story, and it’s not one I like.

  Despite Rawlinson’s words, it takes a little longer than ‘a jiffy’ for him to reappear, and he does so alone. I push up instantly and it takes every hint of patience I possess to stop from crossing the room to him and demanding to know where the fuck Jesse is.

  As he walks towards me, my body tingles with anxiety.

  Could the smooth-talking slime-bag not get Jesse released?

  “What’s going on?” I demand, as soon as he’s in earshot.

  “Relax.” He holds up a hand. “They’re just processing the boy out of here. He’ll be out in a moment.”

  Thank fuck…

  “I’ll relax when we’re all out of here,” I grumble. “I hate being around this much pork.”

  Rawlinson glares at me like I’m a misbehaving child. I probably should tone it down, but I’m moving from twitchy to downright jumpy the longer we’re here.

  This long in a police station is not good for my mental wellbeing.

  “What’s the deal then?”

  “It’s all sorted. That’s all you need to know.”

  I let out a huff of air and drop my voice low. “Remember who the fuck you work for.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. I’ve never forgotten that.”

  It takes another ten minutes before the doors to the custody suite open and Jesse appears with an officer behind him. It feels like a decade. I’m so ready to blow this joint and get back to the sanctity of the clubhouse.

  I scan the kid as he’s steered to the main desk, so the plod with him can speak to the Desk Sergeant.

  He looks whole, although his face is a little puffy, swelling already on one side. His father’s handiwork? It makes my teeth clench.

  Jesse peers at me through a hank of floppy, dark hair that drips into his eyes and I see the relief there. Fuck me. I’ve never been anyone’s saviour, but right now he’s looking at me like I just saved his life. Beneath that, I can see he’s haunted. It’s what hours staring at four blank walls, wondering if your life is over, will do to you.

  I give him a ‘come here’ gesture and he digs his fists into his pockets and ducks his head, trudging over to me.

  “You doing okay?” I ask him, my eyes roaming over his face. Other than the damage to his eye and cheek, he looks in one piece physically. Mentally might be another matter. He’s got this dead look that makes my stomach twist.

  “Yeah,” he mutters then adds, “Thanks for coming.”

  “Don’t mention it, kid.”

  Rawlinson waves to us both and heads for the doors. “Try to stay out of trouble over the rest of the holidays.”

  “You know me, Rawlinson. I’m a regular Boy Scout.”

  This earns me a snort. “No more shenanigans, Weed.”

  I wave him off with a nonchalant hand, then I turn to Jesse. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  A flash of panic crosses his face and he shakes his head. “I ain’t going home.”

  “I’m not saying you are.”

  No way in hell can he go back to that environment. Although it’s not like I can take him to the clubhouse. I don’t think the brothers would appreciate a teenager hanging around. Slade wo
uld probably string me up by my balls.

  “I need to get my sister,” he says, sounding a little sullen.

  The sister… right.

  I stare at him a beat. “Where is she?”

  “Hospital, I guess. I saw the paramedics putting her in an ambulance while I was being put in the police car.”

  “Ok, let’s go there then.”

  “Weed, you don’t have to run me around. I just needed an adult to get me out of here, but you don’t have to pretend you care.”

  His words cut through me. Have I really been that much of a dick to the kid? “Jesse, I do care.”

  He scoffs at my words. “Come off it. You hate me.”

  “I really don’t hate you.”

  His eyes roll. “You moan at me all the time.”

  “Yeah, because you don’t do the shit you’re told to do.” I let the smile die. “If I’d known you were dealing with this—”

  His head snaps up and he forcefully pushes his dark hair from his eyes. “I don’t need your pity.”

  This kid…

  I cross my arms over my chest and stare at him. “Good, because I’m not giving it, but there’s no shame in asking for help when you’re in a situation you can’t deal with. This… it’s bigger than you.”

  He scuffs the toe of his beat-up shoes against the floor, his head dipped. “Yeah, I guess.”

  I grab the back of his neck and squeeze. It’s meant to be a reassuring gesture, but it feels more paternal, which is laughable. Considering the stock I came from, I’ll never be a good father figure.

  Even so, the teen needs reassurance and I’m the only one here to give it, so I say, “I’m glad you called me.”