Page 18 of Snared Rider

Sounds from within the bowels of the house tell me Dad is up and moving around. This surprises me, given I didn’t hear him come in until well past four a.m. and it’s only ten a.m. now. Still, Dad has always been a late to bed, early riser. This is not a gift I inherited. I need a solid eight hours sleep or I’m like a bear with a sore head.

Last night, I left the clubhouse shortly after seeing Logan with blondie. There was a brief discussion (translation: argument) with Dad about me getting a taxi back on my own, which I did eventually win. This was mainly because no one in the room was sober enough to drive me home—myself included—and because I pitched a drunken fit.

Sneaking off like that meant I avoided seeing Captain Arsehole and his bimbo sidekick, although he didn’t come into the common room after I saw him anyway, so I guess he had other activities on his mind.

I pull the pillow over my head, refusing to let my mind go there, and resist the urge to scream into it. Having him here, in my space, is hard. Too hard. It would be so much easier if I never had to see him again, but even without him being a patched member, Logan is linked to the Club by other bonds—his family, for a start. He will always be an inescapable part of my life, but since he took his kutte those bonds are shackles between us. This was why I left. I was dispensable to the Club; Logan was not. His entire life was geared towards reaching eighteen and putting on that prospect patch.

So, I did the only thing I could; I applied for university and I ran away. Am I proud of that fact? No, but it was worth it to keep my sanity.

Truthfully, I didn’t think this visit would be so hard. It has, after all, been ten years since our tryst ended. Ten bloody years. It’s well past time to get over it and move on. I thought I had, that my two-year relationship with Alistair was a sign. I thought I wouldn’t care about being back here, but I do.

I have to survive this visit, then, when I’m back in London, I can deconstruct why I’m still pining over a man I haven’t been with since I was twenty. I’m not so sure I can survive though. I should have lied and said I could only get the weekend off. Dad would have been disappointed, but at least I would leave sound of mind. I’m not sure I can get through this many days and not run into Logan. I’m playing a game of hide and seek that I’m destined to lose.

Hiding.

This is what my life has become.

This is what my life has become no thanks to Logan fucking Harlow.

My phone beeps and I reach across to the bedside table to grab it. It’s another text from Alistair. It’s one of six he sent after I got home last night. I haven’t replied to a single one. Why? Because I can’t deal with his whining on top of everything else.

I should have calmly responded and explained all the reasons it was important that I see my family, and that him coming with me to support me was just as important. What I shouldn’t have done is lost my mind when he said he had no intention of dropping his plans to come to Kingsley (even though he expects me to drop my plans frequently). I should have stayed in control and rational.

This was not what happened. My nerves—which were already frayed at the possibility of seeing Logan—shattered, and I lost it.

I’m not proud of the fact I had a full-blown meltdown, and I mean a full-blown meltdown. I yelled and did everything short of throwing the furniture around, but I was sick to the back teeth of him. I was already in my own personal hell about visiting Kingsley without Alistair throwing a wobbler. I was also annoyed he thought he had the right to tell me I couldn’t do something (even though I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to do it either).

So, I did the mature thing: I walked out in the middle of our argument, silenced my phone and got straight on the train. Then I stewed over the whole thing all the way to Kingsley. I’m still ignoring him now because if I speak to him I’ll undoubtedly say something I’ll later regret.

And I will definitely say something because as I scroll through his messages I’m confronted with text after text of Alistair getting more and more enraged.

He’s pissed off I’ve left him high and dry for a dinner date on Tuesday night with his boss—like this is the main problem with what happened between us. I wish it was, but our problems run so much deeper than that.

Knowing I can’t hide in bed all day, as tempting as that would be, I force myself to throw back the covers and get up. After a shower, I pull on a pair of skinny jeans and a loose-fitting top that falls off one shoulder. Barefooted, I make my way downstairs to the kitchen.

My childhood home looks nothing like it did when I was little. Before it was old-fashioned and dated, but Dad renovated the whole place after I moved out. Now, it’s all sleek lines and masculine palettes. It looks more like an IKEA showroom.

The kitchen is at the back of the house and has a glass door onto the small laid to lawn garden. It’s a great space, and I understand why he likes it so much. But the main feature of the room is the cooker. Dad likes to cook, so he has a double-fronted range built into the chimney breast. There are cupboards lining all the walls where there is space and a centre island that has stools pushed underneath. The marble counters are slick and give the room a modern feel.

I find Dad sat at the breakfast bar, a coffee in hand, flicking through a newspaper. He’s dressed already in a white fitted t-shirt and jeans, his silver hair slicked back. His neatly trimmed beard is darker than his hair, which makes him appear younger. Even though it pains (and grosses) me to admit it, Dad is still a catch.

He glances up from reading as I enter.

“Morning.” His smile is warm, easy and given freely.

I run my fingers through my damp hair and groan. “Tell me you have coffee and painkillers. Lots of painkillers.”

He laughs. “Kettle’s not long boiled. Coffee and sugar are in the canisters on the counter. Milk’s in the fridge. Tablets are in the cabinet behind you.”

I move to the kettle, flicking the switch for it to boil and take a mug from the mug tree on the side. I fill it with enough water to take the pills before rummaging through the cupboard he indicated for medication. I find paracetamol and ibuprofen, so pop out two tablets from each blister pack. Then, I chug them back like the lifeline they are, hoping they kick in fast.

“You feeling rough this morning?” Dad’s voice holds a hint of humour.

“I could die right now and feel better.”

This time he gives me a full belly laugh, a sound I’ve missed. “Get some caffeine in you; it’ll help.”

This I doubt, but I don’t argue. I’m too ill to debate why drugs are not going to fix my raging hangover. I blame Adam and Jem for my fragile state. They were the ones supplying me with drink after drink. I never had an empty glass in front of me all night.

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