Page 172 of Snared Rider

“Where in the fuck are we?” he asks.

“London,” Jem tells him. “Pay attention.”

“This place is fucking creepy.”

Trust Weed to think it’s ‘creepy’. The architecture of the buildings on this road is far from that. It’s stunning. Rows of old Georgian townhouses line the street behind heavy black wrought iron railings. The white stone and heavy sash windows make it look like something out of a Dickens novel.

Most houses on the street span four storeys and are split into flats. Alistair and I had a duplex, meaning we lived on the third and fourth floor of number seven.

“Wait here,” Logan tells his brother and Weed. “And try not to get into fucking trouble.”

“You’re waiting here too,” I say. He opens his mouth to argue, but I stop him before he gets started. “I was with him for two years and those years were not all bad. Logan. I owe him a face-to-face explanation without an audience. I mean, I dumped him over the phone, love. I need to give him closure on us.”

He stares at me a beat then mutters, “Fuck.”

I roll onto my toes and kiss him. “I won’t be long.”

He reluctantly watches me go and I hate that I’m stopping him from doing what he feels he needs to do, which is be at my side. But I wasn’t lying when I said I owe Alistair an explanation. I’ve been on the other side. I’ve been dumped and not understood why. I don’t want to leave Alistair emotionally battered and bruised for years to come. I owe him the chance to talk without spectators.

Let’s face it, I didn’t exactly handle things well between us.

Alistair was a dick, but I should not have ended things over the phone (even in anger) and I definitely should not have jumped straight into bed with Logan (even if I love him).

To be honest, despite all my bravado, I am a little nervous about seeing my ex. The last time I spoke to Alistair it hadn’t been a fun conversation. I was a week out of the hospital following Wilson’s escapades at the colliery. I was tired, sore and not in the mood for a row, but Alistair was clearly seething. He couldn’t accept I walked away from him. No one would ever walk away from the amazing Alistair McCabe, right?

Yeah, I took a big old sledgehammer to his pride, and that is a dangerous thing to do to a man like Alistair.

Knowing this and knowing Alistair as I do means I want this done and I want it done quickly. I’m not sure what his reaction will be to seeing me with Logan just weeks after our relationship died a grim death. I don’t feel right about the fact I jumped straight into a relationship with another man, not at all, but sometimes life doesn’t go the way we expect. If someone told me six weeks ago I would end things with Alistair and move back to Kingsley to live with the man who broke my heart for close to a decade I would have laughed. Hysterically.

But things with Logan (despite being terrifying) are surprisingly good. It feels like it did before, only better. He’s attentive and supportive, and he’s bending over backwards to show me how great things can be.

And he’s succeeding.

Every day I fall in love with him a little more.

I move up the steps to the front door and push the doorbell for the flat. I have a key, but using it doesn’t feel right.

It takes a few moments before the lock turns and the door is pulled open.

Alistair glares at me through the gap in the door. Even though it’s only been a few weeks since I last saw him he looks different. Smaller.

Unlike Logan he’s blond and his hair is perfectly coiffed. I used to like this about him, but now all I see is how vain it makes him.

His gaze roves over my face and from his expression, I’m glad my bruises have faded to a yellow-green and not the stark purple they had been.

“You’re late.”

We’re exactly on time, but I don’t say this. Arguing with him is counterproductive.

“Can I come in?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer, but his gaze goes over his shoulder to where the van is parked. Logan, Jem and Weed are all leaning against the side of the vehicle. They look like they’re waiting for the chance to raise hell in their Lost Saxons kuttes and motorcycle boots.

“Jesus, get them in the van before the neighbours see them.”

Yeah, right. Like I can tell those lads to do anything. I wouldn’t anyway. I’m not embarrassed to have them here and if he is, tough shit.

“If you want them in the van, you tell them,” I snap.

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