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

by Jay McLean

  “Logan’s not a junkie,” Leo tells him.

  “But he said…”

  I slump down on the bed, my previous jubilant expression replaced with dejection. Leaning forward, I tug on the front of Lachlan’s shirt and pull him closer so we’re standing face-to-face. Brother-to-brother. I look to Leo, as if I’ll find the words I need written on his forehead. They’re not. I go back to the kid we still call our baby brother. “You shouldn’t listen to what everyone says, Lachy. This Mitchell guy—he sounds like a dick—” Leo’s throat clearing cuts me off, and I recover, say, “He doesn’t sound like someone who knows what they’re talking about. His name’s Snot Eater for a reason.”

  Lachy giggles. “But sometimes you do smell, and the smell is only ever in your room. It’s not what it smells like now though. This weed Mitchell was talking about—is it like the ones in the garden? Do you just pull them out and then… how do you smoke it? Like Dad smokes ribs on the grill sometimes?”

  I tug at my hair, my gaze back to Leo’s for support. He tells Lachy, “Logan needs to shower now. Good job with the Mayhem, bud. I couldn’t have done it without you.” He offers his fist for a bump, and Lachy returns it. “Go set up the table for breakfast, okay?”

  “Okay!”

  I watch the door our brother just ran through. Leo watches me. “Fuck,” I spit out.

  Leo sits on my desk chair. “It had to happen sometime. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  I pick up a dirty shirt off my floor and wipe the water and cocoa powder mixture off my face.

  Leo doesn’t skip a beat. “So, Aubrey…”

  “What about her?”

  “Her ex is a piece of work, huh?”

  “How do you…?”

  “Lucas told me.”

  I rub my face, get cocoa powder in my fucking eyes. “Luke has a big fucking mouth.”

  “You need to cut him some slack, Logan. He does what he thinks is right. Always has. Always will.” He starts to leave, but not before saying, “You need to shower, dude. Seriously. You smell like hipster farts and sweaty nut sacks.”

  I shower and head downstairs for breakfast. Everyone’s already in the kitchen working away on their assigned tasks. I see the pile of pots and pans in the sink, on the counter, and sigh out loud.

  Dad says, “Nice of you to join us.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” I grumble.

  Dad shakes his head.

  A minute later, I’m elbow-deep in grease and soap suds, scrubbing at the fucking pots. I don’t know how or why we use so many pots and pans for a forty-five-minute sit-down meal. We could just order from the diner, have someone pick it up. I’m grumpy, obviously, because I haven’t left the house for a week, have had almost zero interaction with the outside world, physical or technological. Pre-Aubrey, I thought I wanted this life: to be left alone. But then Aubrey came along, and now Aubrey is all I can think about. Aubrey is all I want.

  The letters, those few short words from her, they’re the only thing I had to look forward to. Yesterday, when I’d given Leo my reply to the letter Aubrey and I had been passing back and forth, Dad had intercepted. He read it, and without a word, stormed out of the house. A few seconds later, Leo and I heard his tires screeching.

  We have no idea where he went or what he did.

  I don’t know if Aubrey ever got my response.

  The doorbell rings, and I roll my eyes. Great. The only person who would show up during Sunday Family Breakfast is Aunt Leslee—my dad’s sister—the one with the stick up her ass. And that stick? It’s the reason Dad sends me to stay with her every time I mess up. I haven’t messed up in a while, at least not this bad, and I swear, if Dad’s about to make me stay with her—“Answer the door, Logan,” Dad says.

  I drop the pot I’d been washing and turn to him, my sudsy hands out in front of me, eyes wide like are you fucking serious right now?

  “Answer the damn door, Logan.”

  Without bothering to dry my hands, I stomp across the room, through the living room, cursing and mumbling under my breath the entire time. I’m a kid again. A brat. I should move out. Clearly, I’m being dramatic.

  It takes three tries to turn the doorknob because I’m a stubborn asshole and refused to dry my hands. Finally, I get the door open, ready to plaster on a fake smile for Aunt Leslee. But it’s not Aunt Leslee.

  Aubrey’s in tight, black jeans, ripped to shreds, and a granny cardigan different to the one she lost at the party. A bright red scarf wraps around her neck, the ends falling past her knees. I wait for my heart to settle before I even attempt to speak. “What—what are you doing here?”

  Behind me, Dad booms, “Are you going to let the girl in or keep her out on the porch steps? What the hell is wrong with you, boy?”

  Aubrey’s here.

  She’s here, and I don’t know why.

  During breakfast, my mind spins, questions upon questions upon more questions. I don’t ask any of them. I won’t in front of everyone. The meal is the same as it is every Sunday… only I don’t talk. Can’t talk. Because Red and Lachlan are acting as if nothing’s changed, and she’s asking all the right questions to all the right people. It’s as if she belongs here. As if this is her home.

  Does this mean she’s staying?

  Hope builds a home for itself somewhere deep inside me. But it’s not the type that warms me. It’s the type I dread: the wanting and needing and longing and disappointing.

  I’m mad at my dad for taking the letter with him.

  I’m mad at myself for getting caught.

  I’m mad at her for not standing up right here, right now, and giving me an answer either way.

  I face her sitting next to me, tap her leg with mine. She smiles, but it’s slight, and she continues her conversation with the twins. When breakfast is done, she asks what she can do to help. I lead her by her cardigan toward the sink, start on my assigned task.

  Dad hasn’t asked her to leave.

  I haven’t asked her to stay.

  “I wash, you dry?” I ask, and there’s no mistaking the hope mixed with dread in my voice.

  She takes a dish towel I offer and stands next to me at the kitchen sink, her arms brushing against mine every time I move. I wash the dishes as slow as humanly possible, just so I can be around her for a second longer.

  When the room empties, besides the twins and Dad—who’s reading the paper at the kitchen table—no doubt keeping an eye on us (or me, to be specific), I drop the rest of the dishes in the sink under the pretense of soaking them. It’s loud and gets everyone’s attention.

  “You’re so mopey,” Lincoln says.

  “I am not mopey,” I huff.

  “Yeah, you are,” Liam responds. “You have been all week.”

  “You guys try being grounded for a week with nothing to do!”

  “You’ve totally been mopey,” Lincoln repeats.

  And I groan. “I’ve been frustrated, not mopey.”

  Aubrey pouts up at me, her finger stroking my wrist. Those freckles move when she scrunches her nose, and God, I miss her. I don’t have a single picture of her, otherwise I would’ve spent the week staring it. Or masturbating to it. Either one. I’ll be sure to take a picture of her before she leaves… the house or the town, I don’t know. She asks, “You’ve been mopey?”

  “No.”

  Dad chuckles. “He’s been mopey, Miss Red.”

  “Fine,” I concede, hiding my smile. “I’ve been mopey.” I tug on her hair. “I’ve just missed you, is all.”

  Aubrey bites down on her lip as she fingers the bottom of my shirt, smiling up at me.

  I take her wrist, focus on her hand as I run my wet finger slowly across her palm. It’s so close. Almost too close. And, fuck, I’ve missed this. Missed touching her and talking to her and being this close to her. With my voice low and my pulse rising, I say, “We never… I mean… you haven’t said… are you…?”

  She doesn’t answer, and when I look up, her eyes are on mine.
She inhales a sharp breath, as if she’d forgotten to breathe. Her hand trembles in my touch, but she doesn’t pull away. She blinks slowly before saying, “I hear there’s a really good autumn festival around here.”

  Random. But okay… I guess. “Yeah, it’s a couple towns over.”

  She nods. Smiles. Wraps her entire hand around my fingers and squeezes once. “You should take me to it.”

  “It’s not for a few weeks,” one of the twins butts in.

  Aubrey’s grin widens. “That’s okay. I’ll be here.”

  She’ll be here, and now I’m smiling like an idiot. The kind of stupid smile that makes you giggle. Fuck, I’m pathetic. This girl has made me pathetic, and I don’t even care. “So, it’s a date?” I ask.

  And she nods, agrees, “It’s a date.”

  Then Dad releases a long, audible breath that fills the entire room. “Goddammit, you two. One movie. Then Aubrey leaves.”

  “In my room?” I ask, standing taller, excitement filling me.

  “Living room, Logan.”

  “Den?” I counter.

  “Or she could go home now?”

  “Living room it is.”

  Dad stands, rolls up his newspaper, and smacks me over the head with it. “No blankets. Hands where I can see them at all times. I’m not immune to the rumors about you, kid.”

  Aubrey giggles.

  When the room has emptied and we’re still taking our sweet time with the dishes, Aubrey bumps my leg with her hip, says under her breath, “You’re such a little whore, Logan Preston. But you’re my little whore now.”

  36

  Aubrey

  Every.

  Second.

  D r a g s.

  During the second week of No Logan, I reached out to my mom, told her what all went down. I also told her I was staying. “For Logan?” she asked.

  “For me,” I responded.

  “Be careful, Aubrey,” she said. Again. And when I asked her why she kept saying that, she made an excuse to get off the phone. But now it’s Friday afternoon and she’s here, in town, visiting like she promised. I show her around the shop, not that there’s much to look at, and she seems impressed. “I don’t know how you did all this,” she murmurs, and I roll my eyes.

  “Seriously, Mom? You deployed four times, put your life on the line. This—” I say, pointing around us. “This is nothing.”

  “I could never do this. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  “Well… thank you,” I answer sheepishly.

  “So, you said you had an office?”

  “Uh huh,” I nod, start leading her toward it. I pass the counter, and am halfway down the hallway when the bell chimes. “One minute,” I call over my shoulder. Then to my mom: “It’s just on your leahhhh!” I squeal when arms wrap around my waist, lifting me off the floor. I’d go on an attack, but I know who it is. I’d recognize these arms anywhere, know his scent from a mile away. My smile hurts my cheeks, and I’m giggling, smiling some more. As soon as I’m on my feet, I’m turning to him, my hands going to his face, and those blue-blue eyes I’ve missed so much land on my mine. I kiss him. I kiss him as if he’s the only air left in the world, and I melt under his embrace, sigh with contentment, and then pout when he pulls away. He tugs on a strand of my hair. “Worst week of my life, Red.”

  “I thought you weren’t getting out until Monday!”

  “I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Oh, I’m surprised!” I can’t stop kissing him. His lips. His cheeks. His nose. His entire face. “I’ve missed you so much!”

  “I know. Prison blows.”

  Behind me, a throat clears, “You were in prison?!”

  “Oh, shit,” Logan rushes out. “You didn’t tell me…”

  I turn in his arms but keep him close. “Not prison prison,” I tell my mom. “He was grounded, because of the whole Carter thing. I told you all this.”

  “Right.” Mom nods, moves toward us.

  Against my back, Logan is a brick wall. Rigid. Still.

  “I’m Melissa,” Mom says, hand out for a shake.

  Logan puffs out a breath that hits the top of my head, then he moves around me, eyes me with a cheeky grin. He looks down at her hand, then at her eyes, then at me. He clears his throat, plasters on a megawatt smile that usually has me dropping my panties. “I’m more of a hugger,” he tells her. My mom’s eyes widen when Logan wraps her in his strong embrace, and then she, too, is laughing, just like I was.

  I pull him away when it lasts a second too long and go back to hugging him. “Come back. I’m needy,” I say, and he chuckles.

  “So, you were grounded, huh?” Mom asks.

  Logan nods. “No leaving the house. No visitors. No phone. No Internet. Which normally wouldn’t have been so bad, but not being able to see your daughter was The Worst.”

  My arms are around his torso, his arm around my shoulders. We’re still in the tight space of the hallway, and Mom looks between us, a frown pulling at her lips. “Maybe I should leave early then.”

  “No! Why?”

  “Well, I’m sure he has plans for you guys. A date or something.”

  “Or something,” Logan murmurs under his breath, and I elbow his side.

  “You should stay,” I tell her. “We were going to have dinner together.”

  “Yeah, but Logan—”

  “It’s fine, ma’am. I can see her tomorrow,” Logan cuts in.

  “Or later tonight?” I plead, looking up at him.

  “Or,” Mom says, “maybe… I mean, maybe all three of us could go out for dinner. You could show me around town, Logan?”

  Logan is a statue. A monument. “Sure.”

  “You don’t have to,” I tell him.

  “Why not?” Mom says. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Yeah,” Logan agrees. “It’ll be fun.”

  Logan

  “Dad! Dad! Dad!” I’m rushing through the house, opening every door to every room. “Dad! Dad! Dad!” My heart’s racing and I need him and he has no life besides us so he should be here. I run back outside, down the porch steps and toward the garage. “Dad! Dad! Dad!”

  The door to the garage apartment opens and Lucas is there, his eyes narrowed. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “Where’s the fire?”

  “Fuck off. Where’s Dad?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “Dad! Dad! Dad!”

  “Will you settle the fuck down! What the hell’s going on?”

  I stop at the bottom of the stairs leading to his apartment and settle my hands on my hips, try to catch my breath. “I have to take Aubrey and her mom on a date, and I have no idea what to do or where to go. Have you seen Dad?”

  Lucas chuckles. “You’re screwed.”

  “No shit, Luke! This isn’t funny.” I look around again. “Dad!”

  “Calm down, Logan!”

  “I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to wear. And what the hell is wrong with my stomach right now?” I loosen my collar. “What’s happening to me!?”

  Lucas sighs. “You’re nervous. That’s all.”

  “But why?”

  “Because you care, Logan.” He opens his door. “Come on.”

  I sit in his living room with a bowl of cornflakes, because cereal calms me down, okay? It has ever since I can remember, and somehow Luke remembers that, too, because he’s the one who got it for me. He’s sitting on the coffee table opposite me, and fuck, why did I let him take control of this? I tap my empty pockets. He sighs, knowing what I’m looking for. “So, you want to impress her mom, right?”

  I nod. “I guess.”

  “So, food wise, have you thought—”

  “I have no idea what I’m doing, Luke. You had it good. Brian already knew you before you started screwing Lane.”

  “Don’t talk about her like that.”

  I drink the leftover milk in the bowl and set it on the table next to him.
Then I slump back on the couch, let my head fall back. I rub my hands across my face. “I need a smoke.”

  “No, you don’t. You just need to take a breath, okay? Aubrey—she obviously likes you for you—”

  “Yeah, but her mom, Luke.”

  “So, go fancy. You can afford it right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go to that French place.”

  “I can’t even read the menu there.”

  “So, fake it?”

  “It’s suit and tie.”

  “So?”

  “So? I don’t own a suit and tie! I have, like, the tux from Lucy’s wedding, and that doesn’t fit anymore. And whenever we see Mom, I always wear something of yours.”

  He shrugs. “So, wear something of mine.”

  It takes a half hour for me to make his room look like a bomb exploded. Clothes, shoes, fucking socks.

  I’m in a white tank and slacks, and I can’t decide on a shirt and tie, because I look like an asshole in every one.

  I look like Lucas.

  “Just pick one, bro,” he says through a yawn.

  I notice his bed for the first time. The covers are disheveled on one side, as if he’d been sleeping. As if I’d woken him. “Did I ruin your nap time, you little bitch?”

  “Yep,” he says, stretching. “I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep.”

  “Ew. Lane’s like a sister, dude. I don’t want to imagine that shit.”

  “I wish,” he mumbles. “She’s been having nightmares again. She wakes up sweating and completely out of it.”

  My stomach drops, because Laney is like a sister, and I care for her in that way. “Did—did something trigger it?” I ask. Personally, I don’t have triggers, but I hear it’s a thing. Plus, my first therapist asked the same question every time I mentioned nightmares. I never told her what the nightmares were about.

  Luke says, “That fucker’s lawyer reached out to her. Cooper wants to see her.”

  “No fucking way you’re letting that happen, right?”

  “It’s not really up to me.”

  I lean against the door of his wardrobe, while I watch him cross the room to sit on the edge of the bed. His hair is a mess, his eyes are tired, his shoulders are slumped. He looks like Dad after spending half the night up waiting for me.