Page 73 of Snared Rider

Chapter Nineteen

Clara comes through for me.Within an hour a man (who I assume is Rabbit from Mackenzie’s description) enters the TV room where I escaped back to after talking with Clara. As Kenzie said he has large front teeth that give him a cunicular appearance, but he’s cute in a goofy, awkward way.

And he is awkward. He’s skinny, with narrow shoulders and a hint of muscle on his bicep. He also has scruffy, dark hair and there’s a shadow of downy whiskers on his chin, as if he’s trying—and failing—to grow a beard.

He hands me a plastic bag with a self-assured smile I wouldn’t expect to see on someone so young; he must be about nineteen or twenty (definitely at least eighteen to have earned his prospect kutte).

Inside the bag is a brand-new phone that probably costs about three hundred pounds more than the handset I originally had. It is so far beyond what I need but I know better than to argue, so I take it with murmured thanks. He also hands me my rucksack so he must have been to Dad’s. This is good news. Now, I have my own clothes and my laptop. I can at least work to pass the time. Clara was right when she said I would get cabin fever with no means of communicating with the outside world. It’s been only a few hours and already I’m feeling cut off.

“Thanks for this,” I tell him as I place both bags at the side of the sofa.

“Don’t mention it,” he says with a grin as he scans me. “Although if you did want to mention it I can think of plenty of ways you can thank me.”

I roll my eyes at him. “Rabbit, is it?” He nods, confirming my suspicions. “Well, honey, let me tell you now: whatever you’re thinking isn’t happening. You’re way too young for me.” And he is. I’m a good decade older than him. “And even if you weren’t, I have a boyfriend.”

A boyfriend I’ve ignored since the moment I left London. The fact he deserved ignoring doesn’t make it any better.

“Ah, well, you can’t blame a bloke for trying,” he says, still grinning, all teeth.

“No, I can’t but really you’d have better luck elsewhere.” I nod towards the bags. “Thanks again.”

“You need anything else, babe, you let me know.”

I watch him go with a frown.

Babe?

It’s like these Lost Saxons boys come out fully formed flirts.

I settle back onto the sofa, pull the blanket around my legs and unpack my new phone. It takes some fiddling to get my old SIM card free from my damaged handset. It’s crushed at one end, the touchscreen a spiderweb of cracks. When I finally get the SIM tray open I’m astounded the card isn’t mangled too.

It takes a couple of minutes to get the new phone set up, but it thankfully boots without a problem.

And then the alerts start coming through. This includes a ruck of text messages from Alistair and an alert telling me I’ve missed six calls from him since this morning.

I flick through the texts, which seem to be rambling messages ordering me to call him and getting progressively more pissed off I haven’t. It’s not like I wanted to come here either. I didn’t want to get on that train. I didn’t want to travel hundreds of miles to Kingsley. I didn’t want to do any of it.

I came here under duress and landed myself in the centre of a shitstorm. I don’t need the added grief from Alistair on top of everything else.

However, as much as I’d like to ignore this entire situation, I also know I need to talk to my boyfriend, to reassure him that although things aren’t okay between us at the moment, we’ll discuss this when I’m back in London.

And there is a lot we need to talk about, including making more effort to see my family and him supporting that. That, however, is not a conversation for over the phone.

I dial his number and close my eyes.

It rings once before it connects.

“Beth? Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling and texting you all day. Not to mention most of yesterday.”

His anger, while probably not unwarranted given my avoidance tactics (something I am a master at thanks to Logan), annoys me. Given the way we left things, he’s lucky I’m speaking to him at all. And I still haven’t forgiven him for that ‘biker convention’ remark when we last spoke on the phone.

“Are you just going to moan at me? Because if you are I’m hanging up. I have a headache and I really cannot deal with this right now.”

My uncharacteristic irritation gives him pause.

“Beth, I understand you’re upset—”

“I’m not upset.” This is not entirely true, neither is it a lie. To be honest, I don’t know what I am. I let out a low breath. “Look, we have a lot to discuss, but over the phone isn’t the place to do it. I’m here for another few days and then I’m home. We can talk then, okay?”

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