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“I’m sixteen, I left Belfast six months ago after runnin’ away from my abusive foster family. I didn’t want ta be taken advantage of any longer,” I admit as his words slowly sink in, and I realise that the man they just shot could have sold me ta some very feckin’ dangerous people. Much worse than the woman who fostered me.
“Well, ye’re comin’ back ta Belfast with us,” my saviour tells me.
“I can’t go back.”
“Aye, ye feckin’ can, and there’s no debatin’ it,” the handsome one says.
“I don’t even know yer names,” I bite out as I finally tug free from my captor’s hold.
“I’m Rebel,” the handsome one tells me, but from the tone of his voice, he’s not happy about havin’ ta speak ta me.
“My name’s Racer,” the one who saved me says. “We’re from the Royal Bastards MC.”
Ignorin’ Rebel, I turn ta Racer and ask, “So why are ye down here, then?”
“We’re on a job. Now, ye’re goin’ta get on the back of my bike, and we’re takin’ ye back ta Belfast. There are some girls who live at the clubhouse, and they’ll take care of ye. Show ye the ropes and such.”
“Ye’re not takin’ me ta the police?”
Rebel pipes up, “We should. Ye’re underage, and ye shouldn’t be doin’ this shite,” he sneers. “But we know what it’s like not ta have a choice in how ta survive. So I’m trustin’ there won’t be any fightin’ this decision from yer side.”
I ponder this for a moment. Goin’ back to Belfast would be nice. And not havin’ ta work the streets would be really good. So I make a decision and nod.
“She’ll ride with me,” Rebel says to Racer, and for a moment, they lock eyes and it’s as if there’s an electric current chargin’ between them.
“Aye,” Racer finally says with a chuckle. “No bother, mate.” He walks off, leavin’ me with the grumpy, very feckin’ gorgeous, Rebel.
“Ever been on a bike before?” he questions as he steps up in front of me.
He’s tall. So feckin’ tall, and so drop dead feckin’ gorgeous. But to him, I’m probably just another helpless girl.
“No.”
“Then ye best hold on ta me. And put this on.” He hands me a helmet that I know is goin’ta make a mess of my hair.
“I have ta get some things from my flat first. I can’t leave without them,” I tell him.
When I think of the meagre belongings waitin’ on me, I want ta cry. They’re the only things I own in this world, so I’m not goin’ta let two scary strangers stop me from gettin’ them.
“Aye, tell me where it is, and I’ll take ye,” Rebel says as he walks towards the bikes, and I have no other choice but ta follow him.
Straddling the bike, I slide forward and wrap my arms around Rebel’s waist as instructed. And when the engine rumbles to life, I can’t help but squirm against him.
“And quit that, I need to focus on the road,” he grumbles as he and Racer pull out of the lot, leavin’ the other two bikers behind. I can only assume they’re stayin’ ta clean’ up the mess.
It’s Racer, Rebel, and me as we make our way to the flat where I’ve been stayin’ with two other girls from the pub. I’m thankful they’ve both been good ta me. There are some horror stories about livin’ with other people, but somehow, my luck has held out.
Until now.
I don’t know if I can trust these bikers, but somethin’ tells me I’m not goin’ta be hurt. They saved me, and I’m goin’ta have ta trust my instincts on this one. Even if I did stupidly get into a car with an evil bastard before.
Both men ignore me as I pack what little I have, but the moment we’re back at the bikes, Rebel looks at me with those penetrative eyes and says, “Ye’re goin’ta start fresh. Anythin’ ye knew from yer past is gone. Understood?”
I’m not sure what he means, but I nod. I’ve tried so many times to put the past behind me. And even though the nightmares still run rife through my sleep, I’ve managed to survive this long.
“Good. Let’s go,” Racer says.
And those are the three words that set me off on another brand new adventure. I can’t tell what’s goin’ta happen, but it can’t be worse than what I have been through already.
FOUR
REBEL
The Past
Twenty-three Years Old
It’s been a week since the shinin’ star came into our lives, and even though the women seem to have accepted her, I still don’t trust her. She may be sweet and innocent, and we may have saved her, but I don’t know her. And I don’t care ta try.
That’s a lie.
Feckin’ arsehole feelin’s seem ta bubble up each time she walks in the feckin’ room. She’s a feckin’ teenager. She’s too young fer me, and I ain’t goin’ta be doin’ that shite. I don’t care what the law says about her bein’ legal at sixteen, I have my own set of morals.
