Logan - A Preston Brothers Novel (Book 2): A More Than Series Spin-off

by Jay McLean

  “How did you not realize that’s what they wanted?”

  “Because I’m stupid and naïve and pathetic. I thought she was being friendly. I didn’t realize until—”

  “So what? You want me to sit in on this dinner with you and… what…?”

  “I don’t know!” I shout. “Pretend like, like, like we’re dating and you don’t want me to do it.”

  “This is crazy, Red.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry I dragged you into it. But they seemed like nice people—”

  “Besides baiting an unassuming teenage girl into sexcapades, yeah, sure, they’re real nice people.”

  “I’m sorry.” I giggle. I can’t help it. “Did you really think you were going to get two girls tonight?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe.”

  “Have you ever had—”

  “Give me the damn address.”

  I read out the address.

  He asks me to repeat it.

  I repeat it.

  He gets on his phone.

  “You don’t know where it is?”

  “I’m just making sure.”

  I’m pretty sure we’re lost, because when I Google Mapped the address, it said it was ten minutes away. We’ve been on the road for almost thirty. I think I’ve seen the same area three times. But what would I know? I can tell you the roads, the houses, the cracks in the sidewalk from my home to work. Besides that, I really don’t know the area at all. Sucks to not have a car. Or a license.

  Finally, Logan slows the car down, checks the area around him. “This is it,” he says and then pulls into a gravel driveway surrounded by trees, trees, and more trees. Sunlight filters through the gaps, but besides that, nothing. I try to stay calm, for him, for me, but fear—it’s slowly eating away at my insides, turning my stomach to stone. I can hear my pulse in my eardrums, and this driveway is looong. Like, wherever this couple lives—it’s secluded. No shit. It has to be so people don’t hear their sexcapades. “Think they’ll answer the door naked?” Logan asks. “Get right to it, you know?”

  “Fuck off.”

  He laughs. I don’t know why he finds this so funny.

  Swear, it’s at least a mile until we get to what can only be described as a cabin. Or, at least, it feels like a mile. The porch light is on, even though it’s still light out, and there are two cars in the driveway. One’s a small Honda; the other looks like something that doesn’t belong on this planet. Logan cuts the engine. “Shall we?”

  “Let’s just eat and then get the hell out of there.”

  “Whatever you say, Red.”

  Logan doesn’t open my door for me. He waits by the porch steps as if he’s comfortable with the whole scene. I bet he thinks he can turn this into a four-way. He’s disgusting, repulsive. Stupidly hot. I get out of the car, run up to him as if there’s something on the ground, nipping at my heels, ready to destroy me. Discomfort builds a fortress in my lungs, making it hard to breathe. I reach for his hand. He looks down at it, shucks his hand away. “I don’t hold hands.”

  “But we have to pretend—”

  “We can do that without holding hands, Red. I can make out with you, feel you up, strip you naked and go down on you in front of them if that’s what you want, but I don’t hold hands.”

  I cross my arms over my chest, tuck my hands away. “Let’s just do this.”

  He sighs. “You’re pissed.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Red.”

  I face him, try not to reveal the hurt in my face. I’m not hurt by what he said, but because I know how he must see me:

  Clingy.

  Needy.

  You love me too much, Aubrey.

  All the reasons Carter broke up with me.

  “You could’ve said no,” I tell him.

  “What?”

  “If you didn’t want to do this, you could’ve said no.”

  He takes the two porch steps until he’s standing in front of the door. “And therein lies the problem,” he mumbles.

  “What problem?”

  “Nothing.” And before I can stop him, he’s knocking.

  The couple doesn’t seem phased by Logan’s attendance, because their attention goes right to me. “Still as cute as I remember,” the woman says, smiling that smile I once thought was genuine.

  “Super cute,” the husband agrees.

  Logan takes a step in, hands in his pockets.

  The woman says, “So should we eat first, fuck after, or the other way around?”

  My eyes go huge.

  The husband answers for me, “Eat first. I need the energy to keep up with you two.” He eyes Logan. “Or three, if you’re joining us.”

  “I can’t do this,” I shout and literally run away.

  Behind me, Logan’s laughing.

  I think I hate his laugh.

  “Aubrey!” he shouts after me.

  I’ve already passed all three cars. “I’ll find my own way home.”

  “Aubrey!” he says again, his footsteps hitting the gravel. He catches up to me quickly and grabs my arm, forces me to stop. “Red,” he says, calmer. “You know the good thing about small towns?”

  “What?” I grind out, my back still to him.

  “Everyone knows everyone. And, a lot of the time…” His laughter suspends his speech.

  I hate him.

  He tries again. “A lot of the time, the people in small towns, they’re related.”

  I finally face him, glance at the couple waiting by the door. “Like incest?” I whisper, hoping they don’t hear me. Logan smiles, mocking. It’s part breathtaking, part I-want-to-punch-it-right-off-his-goddamn-face. I lean in closer, whisper quieter, “You mean they’re brother and sister?”

  “No.” He takes me by the forearm, practically drags me toward them. It would be less effort just to hold my stupid hand. “Aubrey, I’d like you to meet my sister, Lucy, and her husband, Cameron.”

  Lucy laughs so hard, her eyes water. Cameron shakes his head. “Lucy has these hot lesbian tendencies, but I swear, we did not invite you over for that. She honestly just wanted to get to know you.”

  With my eyes wide, I turn to Logan. Punch his arm. “You knew?” He and his sister have the same laugh. One high-pitched. One low. They have the same smile, too. Same eyes. God, I’m stupid. “You knew!”

  “Not until you told me the address.”

  I turn to Lucy. “And you knew he was coming?”

  “He texted me as soon as he found out.”

  “Why did it take so long to get here?” I’m half shouting, half crying, half embarrassed, half relieved.

  Logan says, “I drove around town because I thought you might recognize the area from that time you were here.”

  “You were here before?” Lucy asks, then narrows her eyes at her brother. “You took her to the sex den?”

  “Ha!” I yell. “I knew it was a sex den!”

  “It’s not a fucking sex den,” Logan mumbles, sobering and shaking his head.

  Cameron chuckles. “So now that Little Logan’s out of the picture—with the whole sex with his sister thing—should we eat first, fuck later?”

  Lucy backhands his stomach. “In your dreams, asshole.”

  “Wait.” I look at Logan. Not his face. Not his chest. Lower. “Little Logan?”

  “Shut up.” He shoves me into the house, closing the door behind him. “He has a friend called Logan. That’s how they differentiate between us. No fucking way that’s the reason, and you know that.”

  I shrug, sit down at the chair Cameron offers me. “I wasn’t of sound mind to confirm nor deny.”

  “Logan,” Lucy says, sitting opposite me while Cameron works in the kitchen. “Is Aubrey the first girl you’ve brought home?”

  “Semantics, Luce,” he murmurs, tapping on his phone. A second later, a song comes on from somewhere in the living room. I don’t realize its purpose until the chorus hits: I think you’re cute.

  “You’re a jerk,” I tell him.<
br />
  He laughs.

  Lucy giggles. Then she winks at me.

  Cameron sets down a platter of tacos in the middle of the table.

  I declare, “I love tacos!”

  And Logan says, “And according to you, Lucy loves your taco.”

  Logan

  Tonight, Aubrey’s wearing a dress, no bra. It’s the kind of dress I’d see on any number of girls walking down Main Street. It doesn’t suit her. Not that it doesn’t look good on her, it’s just that… it’s not her. “I love your sister!” she all but squeals the second we’re back in my truck. She’s smiling. Wide. The same smile that’s graced us almost the entire night. She waves to Luce and Cam, standing on their porch, their arms around each other.

  “Yeah, she’s pretty cool,” I say, tapping at my pocket. I haven’t had time with Mary all day, and I’m jonesing. Bad.

  “Is it just you three?” she asks as I start the car, roll away, letting the gravel crunch beneath the wheels.

  “Who three?”

  “You, Lachlan and Lucy?”

  I shake my head. “I’m one of seven.”

  “Is it, like, a Brady Bunch type thing?”

  “Nope.” I tap at my pocket again. “We have the same parents. Lucy’s the only girl. She’s the oldest.”

  “Where do you fit in?”

  “Smack bang in the middle.”

  “Typical,” she says.

  “What is?”

  “You’re like a poster boy for middle child syndrome.”

  “Fuck off. I am not.”

  “I’m kidding! I don’t even know what middle child syndrome is.” She laughs. That same laugh that knocked me back a step the first time I actually paid attention to it. Breathy. Husky. Hot.

  I wait until we’re out on the road, where the trees aren’t so close, and not so inconspicuously check out her legs. I remember how they felt in my grasp, how her flesh turned white when I grabbed onto them. I remember how she looked, naked, sprawled out on her bed, her legs spread, waiting for me. “So…” I start. Then trail my gaze from her legs to the hem of her dress. “Why are you dressed like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like normal.”

  She scoffs. “Like every other girl?”

  I shrug, turn right onto Main Street, past her work, past Lucy’s. “Who were you trying to impress tonight?”

  “You think me dressing like this is me trying to impress someone?” This is our game, Red’s and mine. We talk in circles, never really coming up with answers to satisfy the other. She adds, “My washing machine’s broken. This is all I had. Which reminds me, I need to get home. I have about fifteen browsers open on how to repair it.”

  I side-eye her. Her face. Not her legs. Maybe her tits. They’re small. Not quite a handful, if my memory serves me correctly, but definitely a mouthful. “You got the tools for that?”

  “I have enough.”

  Before I know it, before I want it, I’m pulling into her driveway, cutting the engine. I step out first, wait for her at the front of the car. I’ve noticed that she does this a lot: takes forever to get out. She should really leave a porch light on, not just for her own safety but because it’s too damn dark out here, and I can’t see her face. I can’t see what the hell it is she’s waiting for. Eventually, she steps out, one pale leg after the other. She bypasses me, as if I’m not here, as if I haven’t been waiting, and goes right to her door. I follow, settle my hands on her waist from behind. “Logan.” My name is a frustrated grunt. She spins in my arms, and I take the opportunity to push her against the door, move in on her. Her hands are on my chest, her eyes on mine. “What do you want, Logan?”

  “You.”

  “You could’ve had me last night.”

  “You were drunk.”

  “I was fine by the time you left.”

  I press my lips to her bare shoulder. “Why are you acting like you’re not going to invite me in?”

  She doesn’t exactly invite me in, but she opens the door, keeps it open. Then she opens the door leading to the garage, already knowing what I want. What I need. The thing is, I crave them both. Mary and Aubrey, and as I watch Aubrey walk down the hallway, lifting her dress over her head as she moves toward her bedroom, I question whom I crave more.

  I take advantage of Mary in Aubrey’s garage and call out, “You want some of this?”

  “I’m already naked in bed!”

  She looks like she did last night: naked beneath the sheets, scarlet surrounding her face. Her bed is a four-poster with a white canopy draped along the sides. Our one night together, she told me it was the only luxury she allowed herself when she moved here. She said it right before I used the drapes to tie her hands to the posts. I spent the following half hour with my face between her legs, getting what I wanted: hearing the sounds that fell from her lips when I made her come.

  I kick off my shoes, remove my shirt, and move to the bed. “It’s a shame you’re so repulsive,” she says, and I chuckle, take off my jeans. I climb into bed with her, and for some reason, I don’t feel the need to get on her right away. I try to tell myself that I’m not ready. Or that I’m one step too lit to perform the way I want. I push away the truth—that one of the best parts of our night together was just existing with her—under the same roof, under the same blanket. Touching. Even if the touching led to nothing more than just touching.

  She turns to her side, faces me.

  I do the same.

  “Lachlan came by the store today.”

  “Oh yeah? Did he steal anything else?”

  “No,” she laughs out. “He popped his head in, said hi and bye and then he left. Your dad was with him.”

  I blink, slowly, feeling the effects of Mary start to swarm my insides, making everything crack, disintegrate, liquify, all at once. “They were probably going to see Cam and Luce.”

  “I love your sister,” she says.

  “You said that already.”

  “And Cameron. He’s so dreamy.”

  I get on top of her now, settle between her legs. “Shut up,” I mumble into her shoulder. Her skin is so warm, heating my insides. Fuck, she feels good.

  I feel her silent giggle against every single inch of me. “And speaking of dreamy, your dad is a fox, Lo.”

  “Shut up,” I say, louder, stronger, and bite down on her shoulder.

  “Why?” she asks, her fingers stroking my hair. If my eyes weren’t already closed, they would’ve drifted shut at the touch. “Are you jealous?”

  “No. I’m just not into girls I’ve fucked telling me about their daddy issues.”

  Her hands freeze, then disappear completely. Underneath me, her entire body is solid. Cold. She doesn’t respond, and when I look up at her, her eyes are wide open, staring up at the ceiling.

  “What?” I whisper, moving up and kissing her jaw.

  It takes her a long-ass minute to respond, “You can be so fucking offensive, and you don’t even realize it.”

  I lean up on my elbows, look down at her. “What the fuck did I say?”

  “A: you called me a girl you’ve fucked.”

  “You are a girl I’ve—”

  “And then you teased me, said I had daddy issues, when you know that he’s dead, and that, yeah, he caused a lot of issues for me.”

  Fuck.

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  “I’m sorry,” I breathe out. “I didn’t mean it.” I try to kiss her, but she moves her head to the side. “Red,” I murmur. “I’m sorry.” I kiss her cheek, her jaw, her neck, whispering apologies with every one. She’s stiff for a moment, refusing to give in. So stubborn. I finally find her lips in the darkness of my closed lids. My tongue meets hers, and the longing and the craving and the hunger that’s coated every breath, every organ, is finally satisfied. Beneath my touch, my whispers, Aubrey cracks, disintegrates, liquifies.

  We are one.

  One movement.

  One sound.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, one last t
ime. “Forgive me?”

  Against my lips, she nods, her fingers finding my hair again.

  I am lost.

  I am high, floating.

  I am low, beneath the earth’s surface.

  I am night.

  She is day.

  I am darkness.

  She is light.

  I am nine years old, and the leather cracks beneath my weight…

  “Logan?”

  I blink, shake.

  “Logan?” Something tugs at my hair, and I open my eyes to hers. Green, like the trees lining my driveway. Freckles, half the shade of scarlet. “Are you okay? Where’d you go just now?”

  I am conflict.

  Aubrey kisses me again.

  And she is hope.

  13

  Aubrey

  Logan fixed my washer. He also scratched the itch I hadn’t been able to do myself for the past three weeks. I woke up this morning, and he wasn’t there. I wish I could say I was surprised, but I wasn’t. What did surprise me, though, were all the texts on my phone:

  Logan: Have to be somewhere. Sorry, Red.

  Logan: It’s a family thing.

  Logan: Sunday Family Breakfast, to be exact.

  Logan: Sunday: the day of the week before Monday and following Saturday, observed by Christians as a day of rest and religious worship and (together with Saturday) forming part of the weekend.

  Logan: Family: a group consisting of two parents and their children living together as a unit.

  Logan: Breakfast: a meal eaten in the morning, the first of the day.

  Logan: Elaborate enough for ya, Red?

  I spend the morning doing laundry. Mom calls to check in on me. Grandma calls to tell me that she’s been thinking about me, that she hopes I’m meeting new people and having the time of my life. I keep her on the phone for as long as she’ll let me. Then I make a list of meals to cook for the next few days. I do everything I can to not think about Logan. Because even though I got a hint of what I saw three weeks ago last night—there was nothing more on his end. He said it plain as day. I was a girl he fucked. Nothing more, nothing else. If I’d met the current version of me a year ago, I’d probably slut-shame myself. But the truth is, there’s nothing wrong with a girl wanting a guy to pleasure her. And there’s nothing wrong with what we’re doing. It’s not as if we’re hurting anyone.