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

by Jay McLean

  “Apparently.” She shrugs. “I wanted to check in on you. I tried calling.”

  “I know.” I’ve never had a girl in my room before—house rules—and the fact that it’s a girl who wants nothing to do with me pisses me off.

  She says, “Your dad gave me the code for the gate, told me where the spare key was.”

  I cross my arms, lean against the window while she stands in the doorway. “I have one question, Red.”

  She nods.

  “You think about Lachlan in your choice to leave?”

  Her features harden. “Lachlan will do just fine. He has all of you.” She jerks her head toward my hand. “How’s your hand?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Can I see it?” she asks, and there’s a desperation in her voice that cracks my facade, my need to hate her for leaving.

  I lift my hand between us. “It’s just bruised knuckles, small fracture, that’s it.”

  She moves toward me, slowly, carefully, as if I’ll pounce if she gets too close. Her hands are warm, soft when they meet mine. She lifts it higher, her eyes sad, her words sadder. “Does it hurt?” she asks, her thumb stroking over the stitches.

  I shrug, pull my hand away. I don’t want her touching me, because I don’t want to miss it when she’s gone. “Mary helps with the pain.”

  Her body goes still. Solid. And she makes a sound from deep in her throat. “Okay,” she whispers. “Well, I’ll let you get back to whatever…” She’s crying, and she has no right.

  “You can’t do that, Red,” I tell her, slumping down on my bed.

  She’s at the doorway again, slowly turning to me. “Do what?”

  “You can’t get mad because you think…” I sigh. “Mary’s marijuana.”

  “Like that Rick James song?”

  “Yes.” My mouth wants to smile. My emotions don’t allow it. I shut my eyes tight, let out a frustrated moan. “Aubrey… I thought we were… I don’t know… working toward something—you and me. I figured you just needed time, so I was giving you that, and then you tell me you’re leaving. Where the hell are you going to go?”

  “Home.” She leans against the door frame, facing me. “The other night, when you drove me there, I talked to my mom about everything, about how I was feeling here. I thought she’d be disappointed in me, but she was really supportive. She wants me to—”

  My bitter laugh interrupts her. I say, shaking my head, “I drove you there to get closer to you, and all it did was drive you away...”

  “Logan.”

  I lie down, eyes on the ceiling, because looking at her hurts too much. “So, what happens now? You go home, you forget about this life, you forget about Lachy, about me?”

  “If… if I stay here…”

  “You think I’m going to treat you the same way as your ex—that I’m going to cheat and drive you out of town or something?”

  “No,” she says, her voice breaking. “But that’s not to say I’m not terrified... And it’s not even about the cheating, Logan.”

  “Then what is it?” I’m angry and frustrated and confused and hopeful all at the same time. I sit up again. “Explain it to me, because I’m having a really hard time understanding it.”

  “It’s…” She pauses, regains her composure. “It’s about giving my all to someone who can’t do the same.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I’m practically shouting now. “I’ve given you more than I’ve given anyone, ever, and that might be hard to believe, but it’s true!”

  “Why won’t you hold hands, Logan?”

  My insides turn to stone, and my jaw clenches. “Fuck off with this shit, Aubrey.” I shake my head, rub my eyes. “No.”

  “Then there’s your answer.”

  I tap at my pockets, pockets that aren’t there. Mary, Mary, quite contrary.

  She adds, “Why do you smoke so much? It’s not recreational, is it?”

  “Stop, Aubrey,” I grind out. “I mean it.”

  She pushes me further. “What are you trying to forget, Logan?”

  I can’t stop shaking my head, can’t stop the thoughts flying through my mind. I am nine years old…

  “See? You ask me anything, and I’m an open book. You can’t even look at me when I ask—”

  “What do you want me to say?!”

  And then she pushes me over the edge. “The truth!”

  I’m on my feet, in her face. “You want to hear the truth? I don’t hold hands because the last person I fucking held hands with was my mom! I was nine years old, and I couldn’t get to sleep one night. One random fucking night of all the nights! And I went to her room and climbed into her fucking hospital bed with her. She opened her eyes, smiled at me, pulled a fucking penny from behind my ear and told me she loved me.” I ignore the heat behind my eyes, my nose, my words. “And I held her hand while my dad slept on the couch in there, and I rested my head on her chest, and listened to her heart beat. I listened to her breathing! And then she stopped. Her breaths. Her pulse. It all fucking stopped! I knew she was dead, and I didn’t say shit. I didn’t wake my dad to tell him! I just lay there, holding a dead woman’s hand because I couldn’t let go! Because letting go meant that I would never be able to do it again! So, you want the fucking truth, Aubrey? There it is!”

  She’s crying, loud and uncontrollable, and she tries to reach for me—this girl that pushes and pushes and takes and takes.

  I slap her hand away. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

  “Logan, please,” she cries. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

  “No!” I tug at my hair, swallow the ache in my throat from screaming too loud. I drown beneath the surface, my thoughts bubbles of air, rising, higher, higher… until they burst. I point my finger at her, let my anger control me. “You fucking come in here and you demand shit from me! You have all these fucking expectations, and then you make me feel guilty for not exceeding them! You don’t even give me a chance! You never have! You just want want want, and you want it all right fucking now, and I’ve never once…” I take a breath. “Aubrey… I’ve never once wanted or needed anything from you. I’ve only ever wanted you!”

  “God, Logan. I can’t… I don’t…” She wipes at her eyes, her nose, all signs of her pity.

  “Get out, Aubrey! Just fucking leave!”

  Aubrey

  The front door slams behind me and I fall to my knees, my face in my hands. Sob after sob consumes me. My shoulders shake. And I can’t quiet my cries. I can’t forgive myself for what I’ve done. For what I’ve made him…

  I can’t take any of it back.

  I’m clingy.

  I’m needy.

  I’m so fucking pathetic it makes me sick.

  I brought a man to his knees.

  I pushed and I pushed and I pushed until there was nowhere for him to go but down.

  From his room, I hear the sound of bass pumping, music blasting—“These Arms of Mine” by Otis Redding—and I cry harder, louder. And then I smell it, weed. His Mary. The one who helps with his pain.

  Why couldn’t I be Mary?

  Why couldn’t I…

  I get to my feet, rush through the front door and up the stairs. His bedroom door’s closed, and I don’t bother knocking. He won’t hear it. His back is turned, the top half of his body outside the window. Dank smoke fills the air, fills my nostrils. “Logan,” I cry out, and he shakes his head, refuses to face me.

  “Close the fucking door!”

  I close the fucking door. “Logan! I’m sorry, okay? I’m so sorry!” I scream over the music.

  He turns, only halfway. “Why the fuck does it matter, Red?” he shouts. He brings the joint to his lips, inhales, exhales a ribbon of smoke.

  “It matters!” I yell, my back to the door.

  He shakes his head again, flicks the butt of his joint to the grass beneath him. Then he slides the window down, letting the glass rattle against the vibrations of the music. “It doesn’t matter, because soon you’ll b
e gone, and I’ll be nothing but the guy you once fucked in a town you once hated in a life you once wanted!”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Bullshit! When are you leaving?”

  “Ask me to stay!”

  “Don’t you dare put that on me, Red.” The music stops. Starts again. Same song. Repeat.

  “Ask me!”

  He shakes his head.

  My eyes drift shut, my entire body weighted by the moments that brought us here. Every instant. Every memory. Every single word we’ve spoken, every touch, every bit of joy, of laughter. Tears fill my closed lids, and I hold back another sob. “Okay,” I whisper, even though he won’t hear it. “Okay.” I turn around, reach for his doorknob.

  Turn.

  Pull.

  Logan

  It takes three steps to cross the room, slam my forearm against the door, and trap her body in with mine.

  Aubrey

  His breaths are as broken as we are, and each one of them lands on my neck, my shoulder, heated and fierce. Seconds pass, and we stay that way, his chest pressed to my back. He’s keeping me here but hasn’t yet said the word: stay. If he asked me to, I would. In a heartbeat. The music plays on, and I listen to the lyrics, let them control me. My tears don’t stop. Won’t stop. And my heart… my heart hurts in ways I never thought possible.

  Logan’s hand lands on my hip, begging with the gesture for me to turn to him. To look at him. But I can’t, because I’m too afraid of what he’ll see there: that I’m lost either way. “Aubrey,” he whispers, and I don’t know what he wants. I don’t even know what I want. I turn to him, to tell him just that, but his blue-blue eyes are watching me. Waiting. And all words, all thoughts flee when he rests his forehead against mine. And then his lips… his lips press to me, so softly my breath catches. Logan likes to play, likes to tease, likes to go slow, but even during those moments, he’s never soft. Never gentle. His hands cup my face, and every touch, every kiss, every swipe of his tongue along my lips is a plea. He guides me to his bed, lowers me slowly with his hand on my back.

  “Aubrey,” he says again, his hands sliding up my sides, taking my sweater with them. Then my shirt. Then my pants. Until I’m laid out in front of him in nothing but my bra and panties, and he’s over me, kissing me, touching me, breathing me in. He lowers himself until he’s on the floor, on his knees, his eyes on mine. A moment passes, my heart hammering… What do you want, Logan Preston?

  His hard exhale warms my thighs, and then he’s groaning, his head tilting back. “Why does this have to be so hard?” he murmurs. “I’ve never wanted anything as badly as I want you. I just want to be with you, and I want that to be enough.”

  I struggle to breathe through the pain etched in his words.

  “I feel like you’re trying to make me into someone I’m not.”

  I sit up, cross my arms over my stomach. “God, Logan. No,” I whisper, reaching out to settle my hands on his shoulders. I wait for his eyes to meet mine before adding, “I don’t want you to be anyone but you. I’ve wanted the same version of you that you’ve always been, and I wanted that before you even saw me like this, and you know that.”

  His throat rolls with his swallow, and he exhales again, this time into the palm of my hand.

  I say, risking it all, “But I do want more of you. We hang out, and we make out a lot, and we have incredible sex, but I feel like I need to know that I’m more than just that to you… because you’ve become so much more than that to me, Lo. And I’m scared—”

  “Because of your past?” he cuts in.

  Nodding slowly, I answer, “And I know that’s not fair to you, and I’m so sorry that I’ve pushed you this far.”

  Otis Redding croons while Logan sighs. “I hate…”

  I look away, ashamed. “…Me?”

  “No. Jesus, Aubrey. I’m fucking crazy about you.”

  My eyes snap to his. “You are?”

  “You know I am. At least you should…” He licks his lips, tugs at his hair. “I hate that we keep ending up like this. Why can’t it just be easy?”

  “Because nothing good comes easily,” I mumble, placing my hand over his when it settles on my leg.

  “But we’re not just good, Red,” he says. “We’re so much better, so much more than just good.”

  I nod, because it’s true.

  “Red?” he says, and the plea in his voice has my stomach twisting. “I don’t know where we go from here.”

  “Me neither.”

  With a moan, he stands, then flops down on the bed next to me, his eyes on the ceiling, his hand behind his head. “Red?”

  “Yeah?”

  His hand circles my wrist. “Come here.” And then he’s pulling me down, down, down until I’m lying on top of him, my forearms resting on his bare chest. He cups my face in his rough, calloused hands, strokes my stray tears with his thumb.

  His smile breaks through my walls, my defenses. He moves the hair away from my eyes, tucks it behind my ear, then his thumb moves across my cheek, to my lips, strokes once. Twice. On the third time, I kiss it. Bite down on it. And then his mouth is on mine, soft and gentle. I let him set the pace, expecting him to go further, but he doesn’t. He kisses me with passion, with purpose. Every movement is slow, his lips, his tongue, his hands gliding up my sides, my back, through my hair. He’s all over me, around me, inside me, and not just physically. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispers.

  “Me too.”

  We get under the covers, on our sides, face-to-face. We’re still dressed in our underwear, just like the first night, but the way his eyes bore into mine, the way his hand settles on my hip, the way he continues to kiss me… I’ve never felt more naked in my life, more exposed. He pulls away, just his lips, but brings the rest of me closer. “You give good cuggles.”

  I throw a leg over his, press my face to his chest. “Cuggles?”

  “It’s how Lachy used to say cuddles. We all use it. Sometimes I forget that’s not the real word.”

  “I used to call a vagina a jawatna.”

  He laughs, full force, rolling to his back and covering his eyes with his arm.

  I move with him, lean up on my elbow to look down at him. “So… yesterday was intense.”

  He removes his arm so he can see me and mumbles, “Understatement.”

  “But Lucy”—I’m smiling—“telling people to go home and finger their buttholes…” And now I’m laughing.

  Logan shakes his head against the blue of his pillow. “Lucy’s… she’s so inappropriate sometimes, and I used to think it was because she lived in a house full of boys, but now I think we got a lot of our traits from her.” He curls his arm around my neck, pulls me down until my head’s on his chest.

  “Are we going to get in trouble… me being in your bed and all?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. I mean, Dad gave you the code, the key… he has to assume something’s going to happen. Which is weird, because it’s a house rule, no girls go up those stairs. Definitely not in the bedrooms.”

  I lie on my back, look around his room. “Your room’s so different to what I expected.”

  “Yeah?” he asks. “What did you expect?”

  I take another look around. The walls are bare. There’s a desk. A computer. A bunch of parts that look like they once belonged in stereos, and his bed. A few clothes on the floor, on his desk chair. “I don’t know. I guess I expected posters of girls in thongs and bikinis, bongs everywhere, cum stains on the wall.”

  He laughs under his breath. “Oh, no doubt there are cum stains on the wall. Probably the ceiling, too. Shit. I jerked-off so much when I was a teenager.”

  I giggle into his chest.

  He adds, “I even taught myself to be ambidextrous because I kept getting hand cramps.”

  I’m practically howling now.

  “I’m serious, Red. You get one of those white lights in here, it’ll be just like a Jackson Pollock painting.”

  “Oh, my God.�
�� I press my face into his arm. “Is it weird that I like how gross you are?”

  “Ah, fudge nugget,” he says, and I laugh harder. He covers his eyes with his forearm. “Now I’m picturing you naked on my bed, getting yourself off.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Why not?” he asks, his disappointment clear.

  “What if someone comes home and sees that? Me, spreadeagle on your bed, fingers deep in my pussy.”

  “Jesus shit, Red. You keep talking like that, I’m going to add another stain to the ceiling.”

  “Sorry.”

  He sighs. “Besides, no one’s going to come home. Kids are at school. Everyone else is at work. Dad might, just to check in on me, make sure I haven’t left the house. But you’d hear him come up those stairs.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  He nods. “When we were kids, before the twins were born, Mom would let us know when Dad was going to be home, and all five of us would hide somewhere up here. Most of the time we’d just get under the covers in their bedroom. I was, like, three at the time, so I think I was still under the impression that if I couldn’t see him, then he couldn’t see me, you know?”

  I nod, settle my head on his chest again.

  Stroking my hair, he adds, “I remember all of us giggling, and Lucy telling me to be quiet, and the front door would open, and then Dad would be on the stairs, stomping his way up, and Mom would say…”

  I look up at him when he stops, but he’s too focused on the ceiling, on the memory, his smile lazy and carefree.

  “She’d always whisper, ‘Fee-fi-fo-fum,’ like Dad was a giant, you know? And it always made me laugh. Always. And Dad—he’d pretend not to be able to find us. He’d go through all the rooms, and open all the doors. Sometimes, he’d even come into the room and get so close, and Luke—he’d have to cover my mouth with his hand to keep me silent. And then Dad would say, ‘Welp. Can’t find them. I must be too tired. I’m going to sleep.’ And then he’d—” Logan laughs once. “He’d get under the covers and act all surprised that we were there.” His breathing slows. “God, it was so stupid. I don’t know how I remember that.”