Page 138 of Snared Rider

Chapter Thirty-Three

“Doyou remember anything unusual about this morning?”

I glance at my hands, trying to frame a response to Detective Chief Inspector Alexander Morgan of the Kingsley Police Force. He’s been questioning me for the past ten minutes. In fact, he’s been asking me repeatedly what happened in the dining room, but he doesn’t seem to like my responses. Truthfully, I’ve no idea what the hell I can tell him over and above what I’ve already said. I saw nothing and even if I had seen Simon Wilson at the window peppering bullets at us, I wouldn’t say. I know the rules. In the biker world, loose lips might not sink ships, but they will bring a host of trouble to your door. So, I keep quiet and stick to the story Logan told me to.

After the police swarmed into the clubhouse, one of the officers radioed for an ambulance. By that point I was so on edge I refused to leave Logan’s side. I came with him to the hospital, although DCI Morgan had not been keen on that idea. However, since I was not under arrest (and was shaking like a leaf after my adrenaline fled) the paramedics insisted I was checked out by a doctor. The fact I’m already battered and bruised only aided my cause further.

Unsurprisingly, since I was not hurt in the shootout, the doctor deemed I was fine (physically at least; mentally is another matter), so I went to sit with Logan in Kingsley’s A&E—my new home-away-from-home. It was then DCI Morgan appeared and asked to talk to me in a private room, which is where he has been interrogating me.

“As I said,” I reiterate through gritted teeth, “Logan and I woke up early, came down to the kitchen and made breakfast. We were in the dining room finishing up when the shooting started. Logan threw me to the ground and covered me with his body. I didn’t see anything after that.”

I should tell DCI Morgan everything. I should tell him that Simon Wilson is trying to kill Dean (and possibly me), I should tell him he ran us off the road a few days ago, I should tell him that I’m terrified someone will die. I probably shouldn’t tell him I hope like hell that someone is Wilson, even though I do. I already hate the man for beating his wife and targeting Dean for helping her. Now, he’s shot at the Club and hurt Logan. My hate for him has grown tenfold.

But I don’t say a word, because as much as I hate to admit it Clara was right; the Club is better placed than the police to dole out the retribution Wilson deserves.

DCI Morgan’s expression is unreadable as he considers me. He’s a strange man, one I can’t get a read on. His tie is loose, not pushed to the top of his shirt, which implies he’s someone who cares little about his appearance but I notice his navy suit is well-made. I’m reasonably sure it’s tailored, not bought off the rack because of the fit.

This is at odds with his shoes, which are scuffed and look cheap. This makes me think the suit was a necessity rather than an aesthetic choice.

His brown hair is also not styled, but it looks like it was cut recently because while it’s messy it’s not wild.

The man is a walking contradiction, and this puts me on edge.

He’s also unrelenting with his questions, which tells me he’s a man who takes his job seriously. I understand this, but he could cut a girl a break, especially a girl who has seen her life flash before her eyes twice in as many weeks.

“What’s your relationship with Logan Harlow, Miss Goddard?”

“None of your business.” I try to keep my voice level, but even I can hear the obstinance in my tone.

Morgan’s hand goes to his forehead, rubbing back and forth even as his eyes scrunch a little at the corners.

“Miss Goddard, please just answer the question.”

I consider telling him to bugger off, but Logan told me to seem cooperative, so I rein my temper in and shrug.

“I’ve known him all my life.” What we are right now is too complicated to put into words anyway. How can I tell the police officer who Logan is to me when I don’t understand this myself?

“You woke up with him,” is his pointed response. “Are you sexually involved?”

Oh. Dear. God!

My back stiffens and my eyes flare. “Excuse me?”

“Are you fucking him.” His crass clarification is completely unnecessary.

“None of your business.”

DCI Morgan puts his pad down on the arm of the chair he’s sat on with a huff. “I don’t care if you’re sleeping with the entire clubhouse; I just want to know how you fit into this.”

Since I’m not sleeping with the entire clubhouse (and would never do that), his words offend me. I sneer at him, trying to stop my eyes from twitching, and fist my hands together in my lap.

“Are you always so rude to the victims of crimes? Or just the ones you don’t deem important?”

He mirrors my expression, but his teeth grind back and forth. I have no idea how the Club has pissed him off, but his shoulder is weighed down by the giant chip he’s carrying on it.

“Are you together?” He side-steps my questions, which makes my fists clench tighter.

“We got together yesterday.”

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