Page 47 of Snared Rider

“You’re in a hotel?”

“Yeah.”

His voice sounds tight when he grinds out, “Where?”

“Logan—”

“Where?” he repeats.

I reel off the address of the hotel, albeit grudgingly.

It’s at this point everything goes spectacularly to shit because Logan loses his mind. “Put this joker on the fucking phone!”

Confused, I ask, “Who, Ryan?”

“You got more than one joker there?” His tone suggests he’s done playing. This is not good news because an angry Logan is not a fun Logan.

“No.”

“Put him on, Beth. Now.”

“I can’t.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because he’s not here,” I blurt. “After the fight he left.”

He doesn’t speak for so long I think the call has dropped. When he finally starts talking his voice is level but I can hear the bite of anger.

“Let me get this straight: you told your dad you were staying at a friend’s house. Instead, you went to London with some fuckhead called Ryan to watch a concert. You have a blazing row with said fuckhead, who decides the best way to deal with that is to walk out, leaving you in some shit fucking hotel on your own without any money?”

“Logan, please calm down.”

“What’s this guy’s last name?”

“I’m not telling you that.” And I’m not. Ryan is a dick, but I don’t want Logan to batter him on my behalf. Then again, I don’t know why I would expect anything different; Logan’s been fighting my battles for as long as I can remember.

“It doesn’t matter,” he mutters, seemingly to himself, “I’ll figure it out.”

His tone makes my heart stutter. “Don’t do anything rash, Logan.”

“I’m not going to do anything rash. What I’m going to do is hunt him down and beat the living snot out of him for leaving you on your own, miles from home without any way of getting back.”

He also left me without my phone, but I don’t say this. Logan may explode if I tell him my mobile is in Ryan’s car, which is probably half way back home by now.

“I’m not a kid, Logan. Quit treating me like one.” I’m nineteen, but everyone acts like I’m nine.

“You see, you say that, babe, but you’re calling me at eleven o’clock on a Saturday night asking me to rescue you. Not the behaviour of an adult, is it?”

While this is true, I don’t need him pointing this shit out to me. I’m already embarrassed enough.

“I’m not asking you to rescue me, I just need cash. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

“I couldn’t give two shits about the money, Beth.” He lets out a frustrated breath. “It’s going to take me about four, four and a half hours to get to you. In the meantime, you lock that door and you don’t come out until I’m there. I’ll text you when I’m parking up.”

There is so much to digest here but I start with the first hurdle. “I don’t have my phone.”

I can practically hear the despair in his voice. “Where the fuck is your phone?”

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