Page 115 of Snared Rider

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“What’re you doing down there?”

I squint and drag my gaze from the bottle to peer up at the looming figure of Logan. And boy does he have looming down to a fine art. He also does gorgeous pretty well because right now he looks edible, even with the purple mottled bruising to his face (courtesy of Dean). I shouldn’t want him, but Lord, there is only so much willpower a girl can have when greeted with pure perfection.

And he is perfect.

That dark hair that curls behind his ears and at the nape of his neck, those chocolate brown eyes that are so dark from a distance they look black, plump lips, a strong jaw, and a five o’clock shadow that’s moving firmly into beard territory these days.

Fuck me.

It’s an addition I wholeheartedly approve of. Not all men can pull off facial hair and still look good, but Logan can.

But he’s not typically handsome. He has this rugged, wild, almost feral look about him that exudes danger. The white scarred line running through his eyebrow adds to this but doesn’t detract from his looks.

It’s been years since I last had him, but thirty-year-old me still wants him as much as twenty-year-old me. And that makes me the most pathetic person on the planet.

“What’s it look like I’m doing?” I slur. Yep. Slur. “I’m relaxing.” I gesture at him using the bottle I’m clutching like a lifeline. “You were the one who suggested it.”

I surpassed merry a while ago and am now firmly moving into shitfaced territory, no thanks to the bottle of Gin I’ve been making my way steadily through. When the going gets tough I drink. I am my mother’s daughter, after all. Gina can drink like a sailor, a gift I most certainly did not inherit from her. I’m a lightweight.

I imagine I paint a sorry picture. I’m in the common room, sitting in the bar, and by that I mean sitting in the bar. I’m in the part where whoever is serving walks around. I chose here because I can’t be seen from the main floor—at least I didn’t think I could—and because once I started drinking I couldn’t get up. This means I’m on the floor, back against one of the fridges, legs thrown out haphazardly in front of me. There is tile beneath my bum, and bottles and glasses around my head. It is definitely a low point in my life.

“Drowning yourself in booze is relaxing?”

“Yep,” I say, popping the ‘p’.

He stares at me and folds his arms over his chest. I don’t miss the way his muscles bunch as he moves.

Holy mother of Zeus.

“Why’re you getting trollied?”

I arch a brow at him. “Where’d you like me to start?” I release the bottle and count off on my fingers. “I got rammed off the back of a bike and nearly killed,” another finger comes up to join the first, “I’m probably going to lose my job because I can’t leave this stinking place for fear of being killed,” a third finger comes up to join the other two, “Alistair, it turns out, is a complete and utter wanker,” a fourth finger comes up, “Dean, my best friend and brother from another mother, hates my guts,” a fifth, “And you’re everywhere I go.” I stare at my hand, all four fingers and my thumb extended. “I’ve run out of fingers on that hand, but there are definitely more reasons, including the fact my ribs are on fire—and did I mention you’re everywhere I go? I think I’ve got plenty of good reasons to get drunk.”

Logan lets out a low breath and moves around the end of the bar. This is not good. Before the bar was between us and there was distance. Now, he’s coming around to my side. I can’t have him in my space. I can’t think when he’s with me. This is not my choice because before I can do anything he’s lowering himself onto the floor next to me, his back against the fridge. He’s close, so close I can feel the heat off his body.

“There’s a lot to digest there, love,” he says, his voice soft.

It grates on my last standing nerve.

“What did I say about calling me names?” I mutter, which earns a grin. A sexy as sin grin. I avert my gaze. It’s not right to be thinking about him like this when I’ve only just broken up with Alistair. It doesn’t matter that I’ve loved Logan most of my life. It doesn’t matter that he was and is the only man I’ll ever love. There is a timeframe for grieving the end of a relationship and it’s longer than…

How long have I been here?

I squint at my watch, but my vision is too hazy to see the hands.

“What’re you doing?”

“Trying to see the time,” I say without looking up.

“It’s after three.”

“In the morning?” The shock in my voice is real, because holy fuck how long have I been sitting here chugging down this petrol fluid?

“In the afternoon.”

The relief is short-lived. I’ve been here for a few hours, but at least I’m not into double figures. This means I definitely need more time to mourn the death of Alistair and me.

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