Page 107 of Snared Rider

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Since it’s looking increasinglyunlikely I’ll be able to leave Kingsley today—probably for a while, even without the broken ribs—I decide my best course of action is to let work know I’m taking time off.

Jan is disappointed (translation: pissed off as all hell) I’m not coming back to work tomorrow. Mostly, she’s annoyed because she will have to cover my clients, which means she will have to get into the trenches with the troops. Since Jan does not like to be a team player and prefers to supervise everyone else in said trenches she’s not happy with me.

I apologise profusely. I also tell her I was in an accident, which is not a lie; I was and I’m still incredibly sore. The news that the doctor recommended time off (also not a lie) goes down like a lead balloon. There isn’t much she can say though because I have a two-week sick note from the hospital. I didn’t plan on using it, but now I have no choice. I’m stuck here for at least the next couple of days, possibly more.

After hanging up on Jan, I stare at my mobile, my leg jiggling. I’m in Dad’s room at the clubhouse, which is cleaner than a monk’s.

Honest to God, I’m convinced he never stays here. The sheets on the bed are fresh, there isn’t a hint of dust on the chest of drawers or bedside tables and there isn’t anything personal in the room at all.

I’ve seen hotel rooms with more personality.

I take a shower and clean every inch of me as best I can. The water skims over my bruised and grazed skin. It stings like you would not believe.

When I’m done, I wrap a towel around me and wander back into the bedroom. I take my time drying and then dressing.

Calling Jan had been easy; the thought of calling Alistair is giving me palpitations. I put it off a little longer, taking the time to towel dry my hair, but I can’t keep this up. I need to call him.

He’s not going to take this news well. He didn’t want me to come to Kingsley in the first place. He’s going to pitch a fit when I tell him I’m staying longer, oh, and that I don’t know how much longer.

With no choice (and nothing left to distract me any longer), I pull up his contact in my phone book and hit dial.

He picks up after two rings, which takes me by surprise.

“Sweetheart, I was just thinking about you,”he says, his voice chipper. I hate that I’m about to ruin his happy vibe. “Do you need me to pick you up from the train station?”

“I’m not coming home,” I blurt and then cringe. Oh my god why did I say that? I have a screw loose. There is clearly something very wrong with me. I try to mentally get in touch with my brain-to-mouth filter, hoping it will decide to work long enough to get me through this conversation.

Alistair goes quiet for a really long time before he says, “Excuse me?”

“I’m not coming home.”

“Do you want to explain why?”he pushes, sounding annoyed.

Great.

This is not going at all according to plan.

As with Jan, I spin out the same reason: the accident. I don’t tell him it was intentional and that Wilson is trying his best to kill Dean (and possibly me). I get the feeling telling him I came off a bike at high-speed because someone was trying to run us off the road is a good way to get yelled at, and I’m really not in the mood.

I also realise how insane it is that I can’t talk to my boyfriend about important life things. The fact I don’t consider him in the inner circle of people I trust does not bode well for the longevity of our relationship.

Worse still, I’m not sure if my reticence is because I know he will judge me and my family for what happened (and realistically, who wouldn’t; it is crazy), or if it’s simply because I don’t trust him with the information. The last thing the Club needs is the police involved, and Alistair is likely to call them because, in the real world, if someone tries to kill you, you call the police!

“I’m okay,” I assure him quickly, once I’ve finished explaining what happened, “but I’m badly bruised. I don’t think I’m up to travelling, at least not for a few days. So, I’ll rest up here and then head back once I can.”

I expect him to freak out, to show concern, to… well, have a reaction of some sort. If the shoe was on the other foot and he had just told me he’d spent time in the hospital, I would be hysterical.

But there is no breakdown, no upset, nothing. He merely huffs out a little breath that is laced with frustration.

“How long do you think you will be in Kingsley for this time?”

His question throws me. “I uh… I-I don’t know.”

“You’re going to miss the Gala,” is his pointed and bizarre response.

“I’m… what?”

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