Logan - a Preston Brothers Novel: A More Than Series Spin-Off, Page 2

  She’s begging and panting, and I switch on the light. My name? It’s never been screamed as loud as it is at that moment, neither from pleasure nor fear. The fuckers are separated now, hustling to find their clothes, and I feel everything at the same time as I feel nothing.

  Nothing but the strangled air filling my lungs and then closing my airways.

  Just like my feelings, I see the same way: everything and then nothing. Nothing but red-hot rage laced with fury and deceit. I turn swiftly, and head out of the room before I do something pathetic. Joy races after me, panting my name like she panted for a release only seconds ago. And I don’t know why I’m so mad. It’s not like I loved the girl, but—

  But—

  But nothing.

  I’m pissed because I thought she was mine, and who the fuck knows how long this has been going on? I don’t want to know, but apparently, she wants to tell me, because she’s grasping my arm while I sprint down the stairs, apologies flying out of her mouth faster than I can catch them. “It just happened!” she screams, and the music stops, and my ears fill with silent judgment from everyone here.

  I turn to her, watch her too-thick mascara streak down her cheeks along with her liquid regret.

  She’s wearing his shirt to cover her shame, but those heels… those heels are still on, and I want to say so many things.

  Instead, I reach into my pocket, pull Mary out and bring her to my lips. From next to me, Denny sets her ablaze, and I wait for the repercussions of Joy’s mistakes and my choices to hit me right in my lungs, right in my mind, where all my old memories fog the new ones.

  And then I leave.

  Because I should’ve known better.

  Joy wasn’t and will never be mine to have.

  2

  Logan

  My strides are long, my inhales longer. The cool air outside hits my lungs, and I whisper, “Please please please please.” I don’t beg for release like Joy did; I beg for hope—hope that Mary will do her job. Make me forget. My truck seems so far away, too far, and I can hear footsteps behind me, and please please please please don’t let the footsteps bring me Joy.

  I don’t want joy.

  Don’t need it.

  “Logan!”

  “Fuck off!”

  “Just wait!” It takes a moment for me to register that it’s not Joy. It’s worse: Aubrey. “Are you okay?”

  I stop immediately, turn on my heels. “I’m fine.” I’m standing on the sidewalk, and she’s nothing but a silhouette moving toward me. Stopping a few feet away, she cranes her neck, looks up at me, and I hope she doesn’t mistake the redness of my smoke eyes for tears, for weakness.

  Her eyelids open, close, in rapid succession, once, twice. “Are you sure you’re okay? I saw… I mean, I didn’t see it, just the end of it, and I just—” Her breaths are short huffs, and she must have run after me.

  Sweet.

  Stupid.

  “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  I take another drag, stare her down. She’s small. I never realized how small she was. Maybe we’ve never stood this close to each other for this long, or maybe her offensive words heighten her physique, either way… she’s small, like a damn mosquito that just keeps buzzing in my ear, stinging me without my knowledge, the reminder of its damage lasting days.

  Minuscule.

  Pesky.

  I ask, “Shouldn’t you be in there consoling your friend?”

  “Why?” she asks incredulously. “She fucked up. She deserves to cry.”

  My head tilts to the side while my gaze stays on hers. She steps closer again, and I see her eyes for what seems like the first time.

  Green like olives.

  Freckles on her upturned nose.

  “You look like a leprechaun.”

  “You smell like a venereal disease.”

  “You want to get out of here?”

  “Yeah.”

  Aubrey sits in my truck with her legs crossed, hidden beneath her giant skirt, inhaling loudly through her nostrils, sucking all the air out of the cab. Suffocating. She doesn’t speak. She just sits; big eyes and ratty, red hair she refuses to do anything with. She’s a version of Emma Stone from Easy A, back when she was cute, not sexy. I regret asking her to come with me, and I don’t know why she agreed to it. But it’s awkward, and she’s awkward, and I break the silence with the only thing I can think to say, “Are you hungry?” I offer her food even though I don’t want her here.

  “I’m starving,” she answers, and I swerve the car around, head back into town and toward the gas station.

  She says, her nose scrunched, “I wouldn’t trust anything they have to offer.”

  “You have little faith, Red.”

  In the store, she watches me fill two Styrofoam bowls of ramen noodles with the water from the coffee vending machine. I tell her to get anything she wants, on me.

  “Anything?”

  I’m trying to be chivalrous. She takes it as a dare. There’s a gleam in her eye, and I nod, accept the challenge.

  Bring it, Red.

  I wait for her by the counter, and through the security mirror by the front door, I see her with a basket, perusing the aisles as if she has all the fucking time in the world. It takes five minutes for her to finally join me, her basket filled with Pringles and other random snacks. She’s buying food and drinks and nothing else, and I roll my eyes at her. “That all you got?”

  She dumps the basket on the counter and spins the rack of sunglasses next to her. Bright red, star-shaped lenses sit on the bridge of her nose when she says, “I feel like Marilyn Monroe.” And then she giggles.

  Breathy.

  Husky.

  Only slightly attractive.

  I tell her she looks like an idiot.

  She ignores my comment, turns to the guy behind the counter. “And condoms. Two twelve packs. And lube, too.” She backhands my chest. “This one has a hard time getting me wet.”

  I shake my head, but I won’t let her win. “You better give me three extra bottles of lube,” I tell the guy. “You ever see the Grand Canyon, bud?”

  The guy watches our exchange, bored, as if he sees this amount of stupidity every night. “Not in person.”

  “That’s what her vagina’s like: a dry, giant, gaping hole of emptiness.”

  “So… four bottles of lube?”

  I nod. “Thanks.”

  “And this,” she says, pulling a magazine from somewhere in her giant skirt: Shemale Playboy. “It’s the only thing that gets him hard.”

  We sit on the bed of my truck, our legs hanging off the edge while I spread out our food between us. She’s still wearing those stupid glasses, her face directed at the empty parking lot in front of us. Her legs kick back and forth when she says, “You know, with any other guy, this might be perceived as romantic.”

  But I’m not any other guy to her. She knows me, or at least her preconceived notion of me. She hates me. I hate her. And I remember that when I hand the bowl to her, shove a forkful of noodles in my mouth and say, “Romance is dead, Red. Lower your expectations.”

  “Stop calling me Red.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s creepy as hell that you have a pet name for me. I don’t like it.”

  “Whatever you say, Red.”

  She shivers, runs her hands along her bare arms. Her nails aren’t painted, but her fingers are covered with rings, all sizes, styles, and colors.

  I ask, “Where’s your ugly sweater?”

  “I must’ve left it at the party.”

  “You want to go back and find it?”

  “Nah. I’m sure it’ll find its way back to me.”

  “That’s because no one wants to claim such a horrid thing.”

  “Asshole,” she murmurs, rubbing her arms again. She looks so small, so compact. I’d break her in half if we ever…

  I blame the thought on the weed I’ve smoked, but maybe…

  Just maybe.

&nbs
p; She asks, “Is this what you plan on doing for the rest of the night?”

  “Pretty much. Why? You disappointed?”

  “I just thought you’d be out breaking shit.”

  “I’m not a violent person.”

  “No?”

  “Nope.”

  And then it’s quiet again, and I’m not a big fan of quiet, never was. I’m not a big fan of chatter, either, which is why I choose to spend most of my time with earphones on, music no doubt killing my eardrums. But, I don’t have earphones tonight, not expecting to need them. I could leave her sitting in the back of my truck while I go into the cab, listen to music. She’ll probably follow, and maybe that won’t be so bad, but I don’t like being in the confines of that small space with just her, no buffer between us. She’s a girl, which means she’ll want to talk about things I don’t want to deal with: feelings and shit. So instead, I break the silence and say, “When did you move here?”

  “Right after graduation. An hour after that diploma was in my hand, I was on a bus on my way here.”

  “Oh yeah?” I ask, unable to hide my surprise. “What are you running from?”

  She removes the sunglasses and faces me. “Nothing.”

  “Okay, so… where are you running from?”

  “Raleigh.”

  My eyebrows rise. “And you moved to this shithole of a town? You’re definitely running from something,” I say, shaking my head. “There’s no other explanation.”

  “You know why I like it here?” she asks, changing the subject.

  “Why?”

  She points to the sky. “The stars are better here.”

  “Bullshit, you moved here for the stars.”

  “No, it’s just something I’ve noticed.”

  “You spend a lot of time looking up at the stars?”

  She shrugs, places her empty bowl next to her, and turns back to me. “I came here, alone, with a single suitcase and moved into a house I’d never even seen in person. I know no one here, I am no one here, so yeah, I spend a lot of time looking up at the stars. I didn’t realize the sky was so vast. Back home, there was too much light, too much going on, the stars didn’t look like they do here… so bright and powerful. And that’s just from Main Street and my backyard. I’d love to find somewhere around here that has nothing for miles and just stand under the starlit sky and…” She stops there, her eyes widening. “I’m totally rambling.”

  I inhale deeply, coming back to the present. Because I’d been lost, drowning in her words, in her voice. What the fuck? I blow out a heavy breath, try to see the world through her eyes. Then I allow my gaze to settle on hers.

  One second.

  Two.

  “You want to see the stars, Red?”

  “Why?” she says, a slight smile breaking through. “You want to show me the stars?”

  3

  Logan

  Aubrey wants to see the stars, and the pain or longing or whatever it is I heard in her voice makes me want to give her what she wants, and so I take her to a place I swore I’d never take any girl.

  During the drive, she sits completely still, stoic. It isn’t until we get to the property fence and I hop out to open the gate that she starts to come to. Once back in the truck, I watch her from the corner of my eye while I drive down the narrow path. She seems to be taking in everything all at once. The trees first, then the open expanse of green grass hidden beneath a sheet of dusk lighting, followed by the ripples in the lake. She sits higher when the water comes into view, her eyes widening, her lips parting just slightly.

  For a moment, I want to trade places with her just so I can experience this view for the first time. “It’s beautiful,” she whispers, and I nod, agreeing. It’s one of the few things in this world with true beauty left in it. I stop by my “shack,” an old shipping container I converted to a semi-livable space containing a mattress, a fridge, a few pallets, and—since Lachlan went snooping in my room a few months ago and found my stash—a safe that holds all my weed.

  “You live here?” she asks.

  “Not here.” I point in the general direction of my house. “The main house is over there somewhere.”

  “So… what? This is like, your sex den?”

  “My sex den?” I repeat through a chuckle.

  “Is this where you take girls to fuck? It’s kind of skeazy.”

  “It’s not a sex den.” I shake my head as I step out of the car, listen to her following me. “And no. No one knows it even exists, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone.”

  She marks a cross over her heart with her index finger, then walks around a little, taking in the space around us. Besides the shack, I have an old truck with no engine and a couple of four wheelers. Her already red hair seems to glow beneath the setting sun, like embers set ablaze. She gravitates toward the four-wheelers, her fingers strumming against the handle bars. “Are these yours?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve never been on one before.”

  “Big city girl.”

  She smiles. “Small country boy.” Then she clings on to the sides of her long skirt and lifts, lifts, lifts. Black, leather combat boots, pale legs, thick thighs made for gripping.

  Fuck.

  She straddles the four-wheeler, her skirt bunching around her hips but still hiding her most intimate parts. “Vroom vroom,” she growls, and I find myself laughing. Not at her. But with her. Her shoulders lift as she grins over at me. Then she bites down on her bottom lip as if to stop herself, as if that reaction directed at me was a mistake. An error. An uncontrollable emotion. Her eyes are no longer green but almost a mirror image of the setting sun.

  I kick off my truck. “You want to go for a ride, Red?”

  “Why? You want to take me for a ride, Lo?”

  “Lo?”

  “You keep calling me Red, so I’m going to call you Lo.”

  “Lo, huh?” I cross my arms.

  She nods.

  I say, “If we go for a ride, you’re going to get dirty.”

  “I don’t mind getting dirty.”

  Now I’m the one trying to hide my reaction. “Are you flirting with me, Red?”

  “Fuck off. I find you repulsive, Lo.”

  I hand her the only helmet I have. She asks if I’m good without one. I don’t tell her that I could ride this property with my eyes closed. Instead, I help her with the helmet, clip it beneath her chin. “Hold on tight, okay?”

  Nodding, she shifts back a few inches to make room for me. Her hands settle on my hips, soft, warm, delicate.

  I repeat, over my shoulder, “I said hold on tight.”

  She wraps her arms around me, squeezes so hard she forces an exhale from deep in my gut.

  “Not that tight. Jesus.”

  “Did you miss the part about me never doing this before?!”

  Sighing, I pull her arms in front of me and settle her hands on my shoulders. “Like that. Don’t let go.”

  Her screams are deafening but not in a way that makes me want to cower and flip her off the damn thing. It’s exciting, almost satisfying, and the laughter that follows has the same effect. Mud catches on the wheels, flicks all around us, and she lets out a squeal, her cheek pressing firmer against my back. “Do you want me to stop?” I yell.

  “No way!” She grips my shoulders harder. “Go faster!”

  I slow down instead, and when we come to a stop, I shift around so I can see her face. “You want to see some tricks?”

  Her eyes widen as she bounces on the seat. “Why? Are you going to show me some tricks?”

  I grin from ear to ear, her excitement causing my own. Then I reach up, wipe the mud off her cheek.

  She flicks my hand away, her nose scrunched. “Quit flirting with me.”

  There’s something to be said about showing a girl a good time. And I don’t just mean in the back of my truck. Though there’s that, too. But seriously, listening to Aubrey laugh and squeal between comments of more, faster, harder—it�
�s comparable to sex. It may even be better. Or maybe I’m too fucking lit to think straight. Because when her arms are around me, gripping tight, dependent on me to keep her safe… It’s…

  An unexpected pleasure.

  A high without the drug.

  “Do you want to get wet?” I shout, revving the engine just a tad.

  Even over the sounds of the motor, the vibrations of it beneath me, I can hear her slow giggle build to an all-out laugh. “I told you to quit flirting with me!”

  “You got a filthy mind, Red.” And without waiting for a response, I do a full one-eighty, and head for the lake. We don’t get far in the water before she’s squealing again, her small breasts pressed against my back. She’s laughing, and she sounds like my little brother—back when I used to take him for rides on this thing—before he got old enough to learn how to ride himself. The sun’s almost set now, and I have no idea how long we’ve been here.

  After a while, it becomes too dark to keep riding, and so I reluctantly take us back to my truck. I kill the engine, hop off first, and then watch as she removes the helmet. There’s dirt all over her shoes, her calves, her thighs. Even on the skirt that’s bunched higher on her hips. Her combat boots hit the ground with a thump when she jumps off the four-wheeler, shaking her hair out. She looks like she’s auditioning for a shampoo commercial or a really bad beginning to a horrible porno. “Thanks for the ride,” she says, handing me back the helmet. I clutch it to my side, busy my hands, because even though she’s upright, her skirt’s drenched, and it hasn’t moved from its position. I take in her legs again: smooth and—“Pervert!”

  I chuckle, not bothering to deny it. “Your clothes are ruined.”

  “That’s why they invented washing machines.”

  I reach out, finger a strand of her hair. “You got dirt caked all over you.”

  Her grin breaks through, and I can tell that it’s real. Genuine. “And that, my stupid non-friend…” she starts, stepping closer, “…is why they invented lakes.”