Page 17 of Snared Rider

Chapter Five

I wakethe morning after my welcome home party with my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth, my head pounding and images of Logan with that woman seared on the inside of my eyeballs. I don’t know why it bothers me; it’s not like I expected him to pine over me for the rest of his life (although the bastard should have). And I’ve moved on, so why wouldn’t he?

Am I jealous?

Yeah, I guess I am.

Seeing him with someone else hits me harder than I expected it would. Don’t get me wrong, I know the man hasn’t lived like a monk in the past decade but knowing this and seeing this is a different kettle of fish. I hadn’t mentally been prepared to deal with him being with someone else, even after all this time.

But that is not what rattled me. What shocked and shook me is that I care so much he was with someone else. Truth be told, I was devastated. Okay, I was also completely bladdered when I saw him and blondie, so it could have been the booze exacerbating my feelings, and I would believe that—except in the stark light of day I still feel it.

And that is not good news. Why in the seven hells do I care that Logan is shagging some random woman? I don’t. I shouldn’t. I have Alistair; I don’t need Logan nor do I want him.

Except…

Except, I still love Logan. Even after all this time, even after he crushed me, there is still a part of me buried under all the hurt, all the pain, that loves him.

Crazy? Yes.

But I can’t switch it off. Logan was my first love—my first everything—and that scores a person deeply. The pathetic thing is that if he snapped his fingers and asked me to come back to him I probably would.

Like I said: I’m weak.

No, I refuse to go there. Logan and I are done and have been done for years. He walked away, not me, and I’m not going back there. Not even if hell freezes over. Not even if we were the last two people on the planet and the survival of the human race depended upon us being together.

I’m not sure I want to dissect why him having another woman on the back of his bike bothers me so much, but I can’t stop replaying that scene in my head. The back of a motorcycle is a sacred spot. Patched brothers don’t let just anyone sit there. It means something; it means she means something to him.

And that hurts.

It shouldn’t, but it does.

Inwardly, I curse my own stupidity.

Get a grip, Beth!

Logan doesn’t give two shits about me, and that feeling is more than mutual—most of the time. I’m living with another man and have been for just over two years. It’s unreasonable to expect Logan would stay single forever when I have not.

But it still hurts. That spot on the back of his motorcycle should have been mine, not hers. I should have been the one with my legs wrapped around his hips, my tongue darting into his mouth. Instead, I was the creepy voyeur watching from across the compound.

I hate he still has the power to stir any reaction in me because it shouldn’t be possible. It’s been years; I need to get over him and move on.

London wasn’t far enough; I should have moved to Alaska or Bermuda or the Moon.

The urge to smash my fists into the mattress beneath me and yell in frustration is overwhelming, so I lie still, taking deep, calming breaths to avoid trashing Dad’s house.

Not that I need to do much to trash it. The room I’m staying in is a nightmare’s nightmare. The spare room—once my room—is more junk than bedroom these days. I had to fight my way to the futon I’m sleeping on (although it is comfortable so it was worth it). I dread to think when Dad last sorted out in here. There are boxes of old toys and rubbish from my younger days that should have gone in the bin years ago. There are also stacks of photo albums, some small kitchen appliances and a whole host of Harley-Davidson memorabilia spanning back to the early eighties.

Despite my neat gene, which was definitely not inherited from Dad, the mess in this room is the least of my concerns. I have much bigger fish to fry. Fish named Logan bloody Harlow.

For a moment, I lie staring at the faded white ceiling overhead, trying to empty all the negative thoughts from my head. It doesn’t work, not even a little but it makes me feel better that I at least tried. Hating a person is exhausting, and I do hate Logan.

I also love him, which makes hating him tricky.

How I can feel so many conflicting emotions for one person blows my mind. It would be easier if I could just despise him and leave it at that, but the line between love and hate is thin and I’ve been straddling it for years.

I let out a low, frustrated breath. I wish I could stay in bed for the entire week. It would be the best way to avoid Logan and his blonde friend. However, this will not go unnoticed by the nosey bastards in my life, and more questions is the last thing I need.

What I do need is a game plan and I have a good one: subterfuge and avoidance. I just need to stay out of his way for the remainder of my visit. That shouldn’t be too difficult, right?

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