He hadn’t missed that, and now he searched my face.
“They bring trouble with them,” he said. “Always have.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. Irritated. I’d been too bold.
“You don’t need to worry about it,” he added.
My chest tightened. “Funny. You’ve always said if something doesn’t add up, that’s when you worry.”
Silence stretched between us. Thick. Weighted.
“Who was he?” he asked suddenly.
My heart stuttered. “Who?”
“The one you’re thinking about.” His gaze didn’t leave my face now. “You don’t ask about clubs unless someone made you look twice.”
I swallowed. “Just… a patient. Someone who caught my eye.”
That should’ve been the end of it.
“Be careful, Soph,” he said quietly. “Men like that don’t just reappear for nothing.”
The air left my lungs. Reappear. Men like that. Notpeople. Notbikers. Notpatients. Men like that.
“I haven’t even described him to you,” I said. “You don’t know what sort of man he is.”
“Did he have a cut? A patch on the back? Top and bottom rockers?” He stared at me. I nodded. “Then I know enough.”
*****
The road behind the industrial estate was riddled with potholes, and I swerved as many as I could. The Mercedes crunched and lurched sideways as the tarmac crumbled away, and there was no way of missing that one.
“Fuck,” I breathed, scrunching my eyes shut for a moment and questioning why I’d decided this was a good idea.
It wasn’t. I’d known that the moment it had formed in my mind as I sat watching my mum stare at me blankly for the last hour. And maybe that was what this idea had been. Some way back to the past.
I’d never seen their clubhouse all those years ago. Ryan had never taken me there. I’d never seen any of his bike clubmembers other than that friend he’d had, and his name I couldn’t remember.
Further down the road, the tarmac smoothed and trees lined either side like skeletal sentries in the dark, dull orange streetlights casting their shadows on the ground, twisted and angry. The pub came into view, and I slowed the car to a crawl. The sign was lit in a warm glow, soft, contradicting the men inside. I knew bike clubs. My dad had talked about them all the time when I was young. About what they were doing and how dangerous they were. I’d been frightened the day Ryan had told me he was hanging around with an MC.
The car park to the side was packed. Cars. Bikes. A big purple pick-up truck. Some sort of function. Maybe a party. Light seeped out through the windows, but just around the edges, escaping as if whatever was going on inside was intense. Dangerous.
Dangerous. That’s what my father had always told me.
They don’t look dangerous because they’re angry,he’d said once, voice low, deliberate.They look dangerous because they’re organised.
And every bike in the car park was organised. Front ends facing outwards, back wheels pulled up almost to the side wall of the pub. Helmets hung on handlebars. The line went on and on. I’d need to get closer to see how many there were. But easily fifteen from this angle.
I sat there with my foot resting on the brake, engine ticking softly beneath me, watching silhouettes move behind the glass. Music flared and died. A door opened briefly, spilling noise and light, then sealed again.
Anyone can throw a punch. Clubs plan.
My fingers tightened on the steering wheel. I hadn’t even realised I’d done it.
They don’t drag you in, he’d warned.They let you step closer on your own.
