Page 32 of Snared Rider
“He couldn’t get the time off work.”
Grandad shakes his head, flicking ash into the ashtray. “Seems to me that boy has nothing but excuses.”
Considering I wasn’t thrilled by the prospect of coming here myself I’m not sure I can judge Alistair too harshly. Still, I get the feeling this visit might be going differently if he were here. I wouldn’t feel so stressed about running into Logan.
Truthfully, if he knew about mine and Logan’s history I doubt I would be here on my own.
“He has a demanding job and a career he’s trying to build to make a good life for us. Things will settle down once he has his feet under the table at work and he’ll have time to visit then.”
If I’m still talking to him by then.
Grandad narrows his eyes and I wonder if my face betrays my thoughts. This is until he says, “So, how long are you gracing us with your presence for this time?”
Give me strength…
“I’ll be here until Sunday.”
He grunts, and I have no idea if that is a noise of approval or disapproval; I suspect the latter.
“You’ll come visit me again before you leave?”
After the delights of this visit?
My smile is thin. “Of course.”
Grandad spends the rest of our visit moaning about everything from the increasing price of cigarettes to the latest ‘crotch rockets’ popping up. In a town run by bikers, it’s not surprising the younger generation have more than a passing interest in motorcycles—many try to get into the Club but the lads are selective about who they take on. Grandad is offended by the fact they’re riding around on crap, tiny bikes and not quality Harleys. My counterargument that Harleys cost a lot more than these so-called ‘crotch rockets’ is met with indifference. He refuses to see that as an argument. He sees the whole thing as besmirching the biker world, particularly, and I’m quoting verbatim here, when they’re ridden by “high-pitched adolescent pansy bitches”. I have enough sense not to argue further.
He also asks me to hook up his oxygen tank. By the time I set it up, his breathing is so laboured I want to call an ambulance, but he assures me this is normal for him and tells me (again, verbatim) to “stop flapping like an old washerwoman”.
I stop flapping.
Instead, I make him a brew and a sandwich and sit with him until he finishes eating and his breathing returns to normal. Then I leave.
Seeing him like this physically hurts. Grandad was always such a vibrant, larger than life character. This disease is stripping that from him. I hate that it is.
As I walk to the car, keys in hand, handbag slung over my shoulder, my phone rings. I dig in my bag and pull it out. Then, I groan as I see the caller’s name flash across my mobile phone screen.
It’s Alistair.
Christ almighty.
He’s the last person I want to deal with right now. I’d take Logan over Alistair in this present moment, which is saying a lot.
I hit the central locking fob, opening the car before I swipe across the screen to take the phone call.
“Hey,” I mutter, pulling the door open and climbing into the driver’s seat.
“Hey?” he whines at me. “You’ve been ignoring me for days and that’s all you have to say? Hey?”
He’s seriously giving me attitude after his behaviour?
“Considering how nasty you were to me before I left you’re lucky I answered at all.”
“I may have overreacted, but darling, you can’t just take off for ten days without talking it over with me.”
“I can’t?” I bristle. “I was under the impression I’m an adult, Alistair, and can do whatever I want. You’re my boyfriend, not my father or my keeper. And I did talk it over with you; hell, I invited you to come with me! You were the one who said no, which, by the way, is starting to be noticed by my family.”
“I told you; work is crazy at the moment. I can’t just drop everything to travel halfway across the country for a biker convention.”