Forbidden Rider: A Lost Saxons Novel #5 Page 4

  Charlie drives around a couple of times until he finds a space near the main entrance.

  “I’ll grab a parking ticket,” he says and disappears before I can offer any money towards the payment.

  When he returns, I ask if he wants cash towards it, but he waves this off, looking almost affronted, and tells me to follow him.

  I leave my bags in the boot of the car, taking only my handbag. I packed clothes for a few days, enough in case I need to stay to sort out my brother’s affairs, should the worst happen. I’m surprised by the cold detachment I have thinking this, but I shouldn’t be. I hardly know him and it’s not like we’re close. In all honesty, I don’t think I would be here right now if it wasn’t for Cami giving me a shove out the door. She said that if things are as serious as Weed suggested on the phone and if Josh does die, I would regret not saying goodbye. So, I’m here for my own selfish reasons. I’m here for my own peace of mind, nothing more.

  Truthfully, I’m not sure why I’m here at all. We haven’t spoken in years. I don’t owe him anything.

  But he’s hurt and he could die…

  I tamp that thought down before it grows legs and decides to walk around my brain further.

  Charlie leads me into the hospital, which is nowhere near as dingy inside as it is out. It’s clean, fresher and actually fairly pleasant—although it’s obvious it needed updating a decade ago. It’s a contrast to the modern hospitals in Manchester. Not that I’m an expert on these. I’ve only ever been inside one last year when Cami fell off her Louis Vuitton shoes and twisted her ankle. She didn’t have to sit in Accident and Emergency, though. Private health care meant she got X-rayed in twenty minutes at a high-class medical facility, so I’m not sure my experience of hospitals is exactly normal.

  I keep close to Charlie as we navigate the hospital corridors, noticing the looks that come his way. People stare at his leather vest with a mix of trepidation and wonder. Some are wholly disinterested, which makes me think the Lost Saxons must be a regular sight around town.

  He leads us over to the lift and pushes the button, stepping back to wait for it to come. My heart feels like it’s dancing in my chest as we make the trip to the third floor—the Intensive Care Unit. I have no idea what reception I will get from my brother when he wakes up, if he wakes up. I’m terrified of meeting his club members and I’m starting to think coming was a colossal mistake.

  When the lift doors open on the correct floor and I’m greeted with two hulking leather vested men waiting in the corridor, the option to run is taken out of my hands.

  All eyes come to me and Charlie.

  I swallow hard, resisting the urge to step back. Not that there is anywhere to go. The lift carriage is barely six-foot squared. Charlie steps out first, his movement one of confidence, and I fixate on the word Prospect arced across his back. His vest is different from the men he walks towards. They have the words ‘Lost Saxons’ and ‘Kingsley’ arced on the top and bottom of their vests, and a grotesque insignia between the text. It takes me a moment to absorb the two crossed swords dripping blood onto a skull wearing a helmet. It has a T-cross piece over the skeletal nose and the eye sockets are red, burning coals. The MC badge sits in the middle of the two, to the right of the insignia, and the one percent logo.

  I should let the doors shut, hit the button for the ground floor, and call Cami to collect me. I should not have allowed a criminal to drive me nearly fifty miles up the country to visit my ex-convict half-brother.

  It’s only fear of offending these men that pushes my feet to move.

  I try not to grimace as I trail after Charlie. I also try not to cling to the back of his vest. I’m a grown woman, not a child. I don’t need protecting.

  Although, as we get closer to the men, I rethink this stance. They are huge. I’m tall. I stand at five-foot-nine without heels on, and I’m wearing a four-inch heel on my calf-length boots. That puts me near to the same height as the men, yet I still feel small next to them.

  I want to step back, but I hold my ground as one of the men steps towards me. He’s nearly the same height as me, although he would be taller than me if I was barefoot.

  “Piper.”

  It’s not a question. I’m assuming I’m the only person Charlie was sent to pick up today, but I answer anyway. “Yes.”

  “I’m Weed. This is Slade. We spoke on the phone.”

  He looks nothing like I imagined a man named Weed would look. He has short hair, spiked slightly at the tips in a way that suggests he’s put a little hair gel in it to make it stay that way. The five o’clock shadow covering his jaw is more there out of a lack of desire to shave than by design and gives him a rugged look. He doesn’t strike me as a man who usually wears a beard, considering his hairstyle. Like Charlie, he is tattooed, but Weed could easily pass for a male model—if he took the worn leather vest off.

  As his eyes rove over my face, a hint of unrestrained lust in them, I resist the urge to squirm under his scrutiny. He likes what he sees, and I’m not sure what I think of this. I don’t want him to like me. I don’t want him to like me at all, even if the man is attractive—they all are, even Slade, if you’re into older men.

  I’m about to open my mouth and ask Weed what the heck he’s staring at when he says, rather oddly, “You look like him.”

  I draw my brow together at this bizarre statement. “Like who?”

  “Wade.”

  For some reason, this kicks me in the gut, and I don’t know why. It shouldn’t. Of course I look like Josh—or Wade, as they all call him. We share half a gene pool. It would be weird if we didn’t have at least some shared attributes, but hearing Weed say this shreds what control of my emotions I have left. It reminds me of what I left behind, of the fact that Josh and I are not close, of the time we’ve missed. So when I speak, my words are biting.

  “It’s not unusual for siblings to look alike.”

  If I expect my tone to upset him, I’m clearly on the wrong track.

  Weed grins stupidly at me. “The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree, eh?”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Meaning?”

  “You’re just alike. Peas in a fucking pod.”

  I deflate a little at his words. We’re alike. Josh and I are alike. Strange that we would be, given we hardly know each other, but for some reason it comforts me that we are.

  “How is he doing?”

  This sobers him, and Weed scrubs a hand down his face. “They repaired his spleen and fixed up the damage to his front and his back. The docs did some other shit in surgery that went right over my head.” His mouth pulls tight into a line and I can see the worry in his face. He cares about Josh, that much is clear.

  “Is he awake?”

  “No. He’s been out of it since the surgery. The docs said it’s the mix of the meds and the trauma. I don’t know. Seems like a long time to be out of it to me, but what do I know?”

  It does to me, too. From what Weed told me on the telephone earlier, he’s already been unconscious for hours.

  I rub absently at my arms, needing a second to collect myself.

  Taking a steadying breath, I try to calm my thrumming heart. I have no idea why I’m so worried. It’s not like I’m close to my half-brother, but my body feels electrified with tension and disorder. No matter our past, I don’t wish bad things for Josh. I still, deep down, love my brother. Regret that we never sorted our problems weighs heavily on my shoulders and I hate that neither of us managed to be the grown up. I want this to change. If he pulls through, it has to change. I’m all the family he has… well, blood family. Clearly, he has Club family now.

  He’s all the family I have, too. My mother doesn’t care about me. She’s more interested in keeping my stepfather happy. The only person I have in my life is Cami. If it wasn’t for her, I would have gone crazy over the years.

  “Is he going to pull through?” I find myself asking Weed. “And please don’t lie to me.” My voice is a hint accusatory
, and I’m not sure why. It’s not as if it’s this man’s fault.

  Except, it is. It’s his and his entire leather-wearing brigade of criminal idiots’ fault that my brother is lying in Intensive Care with a hole in his abdomen and back. If Josh wasn’t in a stupid motorcycle club, he would not be close to death.

  Weed shrugs helplessly, and I see the ripple of anxiety roll through him. “I don’t know. The docs here won’t tell us shit.”

  “You give me five minutes and I’ll get the information we need,” the salt and pepper haired man—Slade—growls.

  I don’t like him already. He has a permanently etched grimace on his face that makes him seem mean. My eyes slide to the word ‘Vice President’ on the breast of his leather vest and I wonder who put him in charge of anything.

  “Yeah, you going to start threatening nurses, Slade?” Weed’s voice is light, but there’s a bite of irritation in his words. I get the impression Slade might be something of a problem in their ranks.

  “And have Clara on my arse later?” He blows out a huff.

  “You’re not scared of Clar, are you?”

  Now, he just sounds amused.

  “You’d be smart to be. She knows all the pain points in the body. And she can kill you without leaving any evidence.”

  This statement makes my eyes flare.

  Kill without leaving evidence…

  These people are insane. Their stupid banter is also grating on my nerves. I don’t need or want to hear this. I just want to know if their idiotic bike club has killed my brother.

  “As thrilling as this is,” I interrupt, “can someone please tell me if my brother is going to die?” My voice is small, but steeled. I may as well have dropped a nuclear bomb in the middle of the corridor. The silence that follows is deafening. Weed rubs the back of his neck, wincing.

  Slade glares at me.

  Sorry for ruining your happy glow, Mr Grumpy Pants.

  “Darlin’, we’re not making light of the situation,” Weed says, finally breaking through the tension. “Wade’s a brother. We’re worried, too, but—”

  “Crying into our tea isn’t really our style, princess,” Slade interrupts, then he addresses Weed. “I’m going back to the waiting room. Clara might be able to speak to one of these prick doctors again, get some answers. I’m getting fed up of professional courtesy not counting up here.”

  I feel tears hot behind my eyes at the fire in his words. Not that I don’t deserve them; I wasn’t exactly polite.

  Weed watches him go before he turns back to me and gives me a smile.

  “Ignore him. He’s like that with everyone.”

  His attempt at making me feel better does break through some of my hardness, and my voice is less abrasive when I ask, “Professional courtesy?”

  “Clara, his old lady, works in the Accident and Emergency department downstairs. Usually, that’s a help when we’re in the hospital. These ICU docs aren’t telling her squat, though.”

  I fiddle absently with the strap of my handbag as I consider him, trying to order my thoughts. Maybe I need to dial back the bitch in public, at least with these men. I’m not sure if I’m safe. Weed seems okay, but Slade… I’m not so certain he wouldn’t dump my body in the nearest woodland if I annoy him. I have to remember they are not friendly; they’re criminal outlaws, and I am an outsider. Being obnoxious and throwing my weight around is a good way to end up in trouble.

  I try to bury all my anger and put forward my best front—the one I reserve for galas and photo shoots when I’m with my stepfather. I’ve spent my life faking it and being nice to people I despise. This situation is no different.

  And if I want to see my brother, I’ll need to show these people I’m not a threat to him, which I’m not, but dissing their way of life is not likely to make them warm to me.

  “Is Josh going to be all right?”

  “I don’t know,” Weed admits, and while I admire his honesty, I almost wish he’d lied. “I hope so. Luckily, he was shot in the hospital grounds, so he got help fast.”

  He considers this to be luck?

  I close my eyes. As soon as Josh wakes up, I’m making it my mission to get him away from this bloody Club, even if it’s the last thing I do. These people are completely certifiable.

  Weed mistakes my gesture for concern.

  “Hey, you don’t have to worry about anything, okay? We’ll take care of him, and we’ll take care of you, too, Piper. There’s a waiting room full of brothers and old ladies who’ll do whatever you need—no matter what it is. Just ask, okay?”

  I open my eyes, trying to keep my anger from boiling over at his sympathy for me. If they’d taken care of him in the first place, he wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed right now, his insides stitched together, would he?

  “I’ll go and see if I can rouse a doctor,” I murmur, plastering a fake smile in place. “Find out how he’s doing.”

  I turn on my heel and walk away from him before I say something I regret, but in the back of my mind, the resentment is simmering. They did this to him. This stupid club. And if he ever wakes up, I'm going to make Josh see just how dangerous they are.

  Honestly, I can’t believe he walked away from me for this bunch of cavemen. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed with a hole in him, fighting for his life.

  I’m so focused on my seething anger that I don’t notice the looming body step out from the door—a small single bathroom, I realise belatedly—ahead of me until he collides with me. I go back a step, nearly losing my balance and I’m only stopped from falling by strong hands gripping me.

  “Easy, sweetheart.”

  I jolt at the deeply masculine voice, my head shifting back to meet the gaze of the man it belongs to, the man currently gripping my elbows with a steady hold. His hands are warm, slightly rough against my skin, and his fingers almost caress as they touch me.

  A shiver runs through me, not a wholly unpleasant one, and my breath seems to lodge in my throat as I try and fail to draw air.

  I’ve never had such a visceral reaction to touching someone before, but it’s like a jolt of energy just got pushed into my body and is firing around all my synapses.

  I swallow hard as I take him in. He has a jaw that seems to be chiselled from granite and his dark brown eyes are easy to get lost in. They hide behind a curtain of dark blond hair. He fixes me with a grin that makes me squirm and heat rush between my legs.

  “Sorry,” I blurt, trying to step back, but he doesn’t let me go immediately.

  When he does release me, there’s a reluctance on both our parts to step away—at least until my eyes lock on the worn leather vest sitting on his back.

  He’s a Lost Saxons member, and according to the label on his breast, he’s their Treasurer, whatever this entails.

  He has tattoos peeking out from under the neckline of the short-sleeved shirt he’s wearing beneath the cut-off vest. They snake down his arms, stopping just shy of his wrists, which are adorned with leather bands and there’s a silver chain around his neck. He looks like he’s stepped out of time, should have an axe, a horned helmet and be called Björn or Ragnar. He’s a stunning looking man, and I can’t deny my entire body sits up and takes notice.

  But seeing that vest on his back, I force those feelings back down. He’s one of them.

  My jaw tightens of its own volition, even as his mouth tips up into a cheeky smile.

  “No need to apologise, angel,” he says, and even though I want to be immune to his gruff, deep voice, my body reacts. It resonates through me from my toes upwards, settling in my belly.

  I shouldn’t be affected by this grinning biker who looks like he stepped out of Valhalla, but I am.

  “I’m more than happy to catch you anytime you’re falling.”

  I narrow my eyes at him, even as I swallow hard, trying to regain my equilibrium. I’m not sure why I’m off kilter, but I feel off balance with him. I have to keep in mind, no matter how attractive he is, he’s t
he reason Josh is here. It’s this thought that makes my next words less than charming.

  “Does that line usually work?”

  He fixes me with a beaming smile. It’s disarming. “I don’t know, you’re the first woman I’ve tried it on.” When he leans closer to peer at me, my heart stutters. “Did it?”

  “No.” I swallow again, and this time I struggle to get past the lump in my throat. I need to regain control here. I’m not a hormonal teenager; I’m a twenty-five-year-old woman with a usually iron-clad restraint.

  “You know,” he says, his eyes twinkling, “people usually exchange names when they run into each other, say sorry, have a little conversation, words. It’s polite.”

  The arrogance…

  Is he serious?

  It’s this that finally breaks through the fog of lusty feelings.

  “Well, I’m not polite.”

  “I’m getting that.” He doesn’t seem deterred by my blatant disregard or rudeness. “I’ll do the introductions then. I’m Jem. I’m thirty-one, a Libra, I don’t like long walks in the rain, or Piña coladas, but I do love pizza and craft beer.”

  I wish I could ignore him, but he’s determined, I’ll give him that. I consider telling him to shove his introductions where the sun doesn’t shine, but since I’m stranded in Kingsley and surrounded by him and his leather-clad friends, I decide this is one occasion I should probably be cautious.

  I let out a huff and say, “I have no idea why you told me any of that, but I’m Piper.”

  His grin fades. “Wade’s sister. Shit.” His hand goes to the back of his neck, and I watch the muscles in his forearms when he rubs at his nape, the thick veins contracting among the ink work. “I didn’t realise. You are Wade’s sister, right? Luck hasn’t had me run into another Piper.”

  “I am Josh’s sister. And you are in a hospital. It’s probably not the best place to try to pick up random women anyway.” He looks a little sheepish. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go and find out how my brother is getting on.”