by Megyn Ward
Seeing my computer sitting on the coffee table I think about what Conner told me—which is essentially nothing. He didn’t even confirm that Logan knew Jenny Wainwright—not really.
I’m not the one you should be asking.
That was the answer he gave me when I asked him what happened to Jenny Wainwright, meaning I should be asking Logan. And then, instead of giving me the opportunity to follow his suggestion, Conner sent me home like a bratty child being sent to bed without her dinner. I can’t even do another deep dive on my computer because even though I have no idea what a million hours of clown porn looks like, I have the distinct feeling I want to keep it that way. Besides, it wouldn't do me any good. I don’t know much about computers but I know enough to know that looking for information about Logan on the internet would prove fruitless. I only found what I found because Conner wanted me to.
Telling myself to give up for the night, take a shower and go to bed—that I have work in the morning and will have to Uber myself back to Gilroy’s early enough to pick up my car before heading into the office, I toss my keys on top of my now useless laptop and head for the bathroom.
An hour later, I’m showered and dressed for bed, sitting on the side of it and setting my alarm when I see it. A crumpled piece of paper torn from a yellow legal pad. The letter from Logan’s father that I took from him the day we met at the hospital. I expect myself to pick it up and read it again, Like I have so many times. To feel the same driving need I’ve felt since that day. The one pushing me to understand. Driving me to solve the puzzle of Logan Bright.
I don’t.
I don’t feel it at all.
What I feel is ashamed.
Ashamed that I’ve turned his life upside down to serve my own selfish needs. Ashamed that I’ve ignored his obvious discomfort in favor of satisfying my own childish curiosity.
Finally, after staring at the letter for what seems like forever, I pick it up and stand. It’s just after midnight. Gilroy’s doesn’t close for another few hours. I’ll use the key one last time. Leave it and the letter from his father on his counter and leave.
Just let it go.
Let Logan go.
Ten minutes later, I’m letting myself into his apartment. He left the kitchen light on. A box of cereal, open on the counter. An unrinsed bowl in the sink. I imagine him leaning against it, bowl in his hand, eating quickly before work. Trying to get out of here before I push my way in again. Meddle with and disrupt his life. Demanding answers to questions I have no right to ask.
Aiming myself away from the evidence of Logan’s fast getaway, I find myself in the living room. Lowering myself onto the couch, even though I tell myself not to. That I should leave. That I owe him that much. That Logan deserves his privacy. That he’s earned it.
But he also deserves an apology. To hear me tell him how sorry I am. That I never meant to hurt him or cause him discomfort. That his secrets are safe with me and that he doesn’t have to worry. That after tonight, he’ll never have to speak to me again.
I never intended to be here when Logan came home and falling asleep wasn’t part of the plan, but when I open my eyes, it’s to find that the kitchen light has been turned off and the shape of him, sitting in the chair farthest away from where I’m slumped over on his sofa. He’s wearing what I imagine he wears to bed, a pair of dark, loose shorts, and nothing else—something dark tangled with the shadows that play across his bare chest.
A tattoo.
Logan has a tattoo.
I’m wide awake in an instant but I don’t sit up. I don’t move. I stay where I am, curled up on his couch because even though it’s dark, I have the feeling Logan is watching me. That he knows I’m awake. That he’s waiting for me to start sputtering excuses and justifications for why I’ve invaded his personal space for the second time today. When I don’t say anything, he sighs.
“You’re in my apartment,” he says quietly, a slight lilt to his tone, like I might not know where I am. “Again.”
“I know.” I nod, my cheek rubbing against the arm of the couch. “I’m sorry—” I struggle to sit up now, reasons and excuses crowding into my mouth, each pushing to be let out first. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay,” he tells me, even though his tone says something else entirely. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“You are?” I say it carefully, like maybe I don’t understand what he’s saying
“Yeah.” He breaths it, relief and disbelief wrapped together in one word. It says that however he feels about finding me on his couch, that feeling scares the shit out of him. “I am…” I watch as the Logan-shaped shadow reaches up to run a hand over its unruly hair. “I saw you leave the bar with Went and I…” At a loss, he trails off and drops his hand. “And then, when I got home, his car was parked in my spot and I know he did that shit on purpose, so I figured—”
“Went?” Sitting up now, I shake my head in confusion. “You thought I left Gilroy’s with Went?”
“You did leave with him.” His tone flattens. Lowers into something that might prove dangerous if pushed too far. “You did—I saw you.”
“Yes.” Despite the way he says it, I’m not afraid of him. Not the way he’s obviously afraid of himself. “I left with Went—because Conner told him to take me home after—” Not ready to talk about Jenny and what happened to her, I skirt the subject. “Went brought me home, walked me to my door and then went to see Silver. Knowing him, he probably fell asleep on her couch,” I tell him. “He hasn’t seen her or the baby since they came home from the hospital and…”
“He was worried about her.”
“He’s her brother.” I give him a shrug. “He’s always worried about her,” I tell him, trying to reassure him that whatever Went’s fears are, they have nothing to do with him. “You’ve been worried about her too—that’s why you moved in here, isn’t it?” Suddenly nervous, I rub my palms on the legs of my pajama pants. “Because you were worried about her being alone with the kids while Tobias is away on business.”
He makes that noise in the back of his throat—the one he makes when someone says something he disagrees with. “He’s worried about you too.” The Logan-shaped shadow takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “And that has everything to do with me.” When I don’t argue with him or ask him what he’s talking about, Logan laughs quietly and nods. “He told you that he saw us together, didn’t he? Warned you to stay away from me. Told you that there’s something off about me. Wrong with me.”
Instead of lying to him, I offer him a shrug. “Went doesn’t know you.”
“Right …” He laughs again. Shakes his head like I’m a lost soul, in need of guidance. “And you do.”
“Yeah, I do.” For some reason, hearing him say it that way makes me angry. “I know you better than anyone,” I tell him and despite the fact that we’ve only known each other for a short time, I believe it. Instead of arguing my point, I prove it. “When you thought I left with Went to—” I stop abruptly when I catch the tight flex of his jawline, flashing in the watery light of the moon. “You were jealous. You saw me leave with him and were jealous.”
“It’s not a good thing, Jane.” He reaches up to rub a rough hand over his face, loosening the clench of his jaw. “Me, feeling that way is… it’s not good.”
I push myself to the edge of the couch, leaning into his space as far as I can. “I’m not afraid of you,” I tell him. “I know almost everything there is to know about you, Logan and I’m not afraid.”
“Is that what you came here to tell me?” His tone goes flat again but this time there’s nothing dangerous about the sound of it. He sounds tired. Maybe even resigned. “That I don’t scare you. That there’s nothing wrong with me?”
I shake my head and sigh. “No.”
“You want to ask me about Jenny,” he says in that same flat tone. “You want to know what happened to her. If I—”
“I don’t know what happened to that girl,” I tell him, cutt
ing him off with a single, hard shake of my head. We’re past pretending I don’t know what or who he’s talking about. “But whatever it was, I know you didn’t hurt her.”
He makes that sound in the back of his throat again. “Because you know me, right?”
“Yes—because I know you, Logan.” I can feel my face flush and I’m suddenly glad it’s dark. “I didn’t come here to pry. I didn’t come here to ask questions or snoop or made a nuisance of myself.” Reaching into my pocket, I dig out the letter and the key. Showing him both, I set them on the coffee table between us. “I came to give you these and to tell you I’m sorry.” I’d fallen asleep working it out in my head. What I needed to say. What I think he needs to hear. “What happened this afternoon—that was my fault,” I say in a rush, pushing forward even when his long frame stiffens in the chair he’s sitting in and he starts to shake his head in obvious disagreement. “I keep pushing you. I keep invading your space and your privacy and you were right before, I don’t think about the consequences. I don’t think about how my actions are going to hurt other people—you didn’t hurt me, Logan.” My voice is shaking now. My fingers are knotted together in my lap, palms and knees pressed together. “I hurt you and you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who should be sorry. I am sorry.”
When the last of it tumbles out of my mouth and I go quiet, I expect him to say something. Argue with me. Agree with me. Accept my apology. Tell me to get the hell out of his apartment and to never bother him again—something. I expect something. When several seconds worth of nothing slips by between us, I figure silence is the only answer I’m going to get. “Do you want me to leave now?” I ask, fully prepared to stand up and walk out the door if that’s what Logan wants me to do.
“Do you want to leave?” He says it like it just occurred to him that I might not want to be here. Like he’s worried he might be keeping me here somehow.
“No.” I whisper it, shaking my head slowly. “But I don’t want to stay here if you want me to go.”
He doesn’t answer me. Doesn’t say a word. The silence between us stretches out so far and thin, it has me untangling my fingers to plant my hands on the tops of my thighs to push myself up to leave.
“You haven’t hurt me either,” he says suddenly, like my moving triggered a response. “You’ve forced me to face some… uncomfortable truths about myself but you’ve never hurt me, Jane.”
“Like what?” I know I shouldn’t ask, that I’m letting my curiosity run away with me again but I have to know. “What truths?”
“That I don’t want you to leave me alone. That I never wanted you to leave me alone. That I liked kissing you this afternoon. I liked touching you. Hearing you say my name while I made you come… that I more than liked it, I—” He swallows hard and shakes his head in the dark. “I know I said I was sorry but I’m not. I’m not sorry it happened and I want—”
“Yes.” I finally stand but not to leave. Not to run away. Not to let him go like I intended. When I stand it’s to skirt the coffee table between us, bringing us closer. “Whatever you want, the answer is yes.”
His head tilts back, following my progress. I get the feeling he’s frowning up at me. That he’s worried. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him, shaking my head. Like this afternoon, I have no idea what I’m saying yes to but it doesn’t matter. As long as it means I can stay, I don’t care what happens next. “I want to stay—whatever happens next, I trust you.”
Thirty-Eight
Logan
When I found Jane asleep on my couch, I resolved to leave her there. Erected an invisible wall around her and vowed not to climb it.
I ignored her. Went into the kitchen and rinsed my bowl. Put it in the fancy dishwasher I still haven’t figured out how to run. Put the box of cereal I left out on the counter away in a cabinet that’s bare, except for another unopened box, just like it. Forced myself down the hall to the bedroom where I stripped off the jeans and T-shirt I wore for work and frog marched myself into the shower. The entire time telling myself to stay away from her. She’ll wake up and leave on her own. Don’t go near her.
Don’t you fucking dare.
After my shower I pulled on a pair of loose basketball shorts and did a half-assed job of making my bed before climbing into it, all the while listening for the quiet shuffle of Jane’s feet, carrying her toward the door. The quiet click of it closing behind her, telling me she’s gone. That I can breathe again.
That’s what I know.
What I don’t know is how I got here.
How I let myself get out of bed.
How long I’ve been sitting in this fucking chair, waiting for her to wake up. To open her eyes and realize what a terrible mistake she’s made.
That she’s alone in the dark with me.
That she’s not safe.
When she finally opened her eyes, she didn’t jump up and make a run for it. Didn’t ask me how long I’ve been sitting here, half naked, creeping out on her while she slept on my couch. Didn’t start peppering me with questions about Jenny. What happened to her.
Instead of doing any of those things, Jane apologized.
She fucking apologized.
And then she made the biggest mistake of all.
Said the one thing she should’ve have.
I trust you.
My brain shut off after that. Every sound, reasonable argument for why being alone with Jane and why every dirty thing I want to do to her in the dark is a spectacularly bad idea, simply evaporates. They float away, leaving nothing but need. A need so powerful, I can’t control it. Can’t fight it. Can’t do anything but reach for her when she’s finally close enough to touch.
Hands wrapped around the back of her thighs, I pull her closer. Feel something inside me fracture when her hands land lightly on my shoulders. Feel that fracture begin to grow and shift when her fingertips slide across the nape of my neck.
Shit.
Making one last ditch effort to ground myself, I lean forward to press the top of my head against her stomach. Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly, trying to beat back the blinding need on the verge of consuming me. “Jane…” Her name leaves my mouth on a growl, so low and tight in my throat it barely makes a sound. “We should talk.” Eyes squeezed shut, I shake my head, trying to clear it when I feel her fingers side into my hair. “I should—”
“Do you want me go?”
My hands tighten their grip on her in response and I shake my head again. It’s the same questions she asked me earlier but I never really answered. “No.” It comes out sounding wrong. Too hard. Too demanding. Like if she tried to leave, I’d stop her. Like if I could figure out a way to keep her with me forever, I’d do it—no matter what it takes.
No matter what it makes me.
And just like that, the thing that’s been cracking and fracturing inside me since the moment I met her, snaps completely. The wall I’ve built between us crumbles to dust.
Moving my hands, I hook my thumbs into the waistband of her yoga pants. Easing them over the swell of her hips and down her legs, I lift my head to find her looking down at me, moonlight and shadow playing across her face, making her expression impossible to read. “I don’t want you to leave…” I lean in to press my lips against the soft patch of skin below her belly button. Trail the tip of my tongue along the waistband of her panties. Finding the edge of them with my fingertips, I pull them down. Keep pulling until they’re around her ankles and her bare pussy is inches from my mouth. “I want to make you come again,” I tell her, my voice rough and uneven as I smooth a palm down the back of her thigh while she steps out of her clothes, giving them a small, impatient kick when she’s finally free that makes me smile. Gripping my hand around the back of her thigh, I lift her leg slowly, her breath sucking in on a small gasp when she realizes what’s about to happen.
“Logan—”
“Do you still trust me, Jane?”
I whisper, turning to press my lips against the inside of her thigh while I hook her leg over my shoulder.
“Yes,” This time when she says it, the sound of it pushed out of her mouth on a soft, breathless moan doesn’t scare me.
It sets me free.
I move. Teeth and tongue, licking and scraping along the inside of her thigh until I get to the center of her. I dip my shoulder, my hands tightening their grip on her thighs as I press my tongue against the bottom of her, splitting her open with the tip of it before dragging it up the length of her slit. The taste of her pussy, sweet and salty, against my tongue goes straight to my cock, sends me spinning inside my own skin.
More of her.
I need more of her.
“Oh, my god…” The hands in my hair tighten and the leg she’s balanced on begins to shake, her knee buckling almost instantly under the pressure of my mouth. “Logan…”
I growl in response, long and low, the sound vibrating through my chest. Shifting my hold on her, I pull her on top of me, leaning back and pushing myself lower in my chair. Mouth locked around her cleft, I slide my arm between her legs, my fingers rough and desperate, gripping her thigh from behind. Pulling back on the base of her hip, I push against her, using the hard press of my shoulders to open her legs wider. Free hand splayed across the small of her back to hold her in place, I fuck her with my tongue. My mouth. Sucking her clit. Nipping it with my teeth. My face buried in her pussy so deep I can taste every soft, desperate part of her.
Her thighs start to tremble, her breath coming in soft, ragged sobs. Her hands clench in my hair, the yank of them so hard I can feel it loosening at the roots. The dull pain of it pounds its way down the back of my neck. Spirals down the length of my spine, the heat and ache of it nearly unbearable but I don’t stop.
I can’t stop.
Not until she’s ruined. Until she’s broken and moaning my name. Until her hips are thrusting and bucking against the hold I have on her while she shamelessly fucks my mouth.
