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

by Jay McLean

  “Dunno,” Lachlan says, shrugging, too preoccupied with his drawing.

  Thunder claps, and I look up at the dull, gray sky, wait for the clouds to open up. A few seconds later, they do, and the atmosphere is coated with heavy rain.

  “Dude. I don’t drive, so… maybe I should call Cam or Luce for you?”

  He’s paying attention now, looking out at the thick sheets of rain falling from the sky. “How will you get home?”

  I turn to him, and without replying, I reach for my phone and pull up Lucy’s number. The bell above the door dings just as I hit call. I hit end just as fast, turning as I do. Logan’s standing outside, cap backward, soaking wet. He has the door open just enough to whistle into the room. He doesn’t look at me. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m just finishing something,” Lachlan rushes out.

  Logan snaps, “I don’t feel like standing out in the fucking rain!”

  “So don’t stand outside,” Lachlan tells him, not bothering to look up. “Just come in. I’ll be five minutes.”

  Logan shakes his head. “Now, Lachy,” he says, frustrated. His focus switches to me, his eyes red… he’s stoned. He balls his fists, his eyes locked on mine. “Pack up your shit, Lachlan, and say goodbye to your friend. This is the last fucking time you come here.”

  “What?” Lachlan’s on his feet. “You can’t do that. You’re not the boss of me!”

  “Yeah?” Logan laughs. Cynical and deranged. He walks into the middle of my store. To Lachlan, he says, “Dad shouldn’t be letting you spend all this time here. He doesn’t even know Aubrey. For all we know, she could be a kiddy fiddler.” His gaze moves to mine, holds it there. “Is that it, Aubrey? Is that why you let him spend all that time here? Buying him gifts when you barely fucking know him. Do you like little boys?”

  It’s hard to find your voice when everything inside you shatters. It’s one thing not to give a shit about me, but this—this is too much. My voice cracks, and I hate that it does, “Jesus Christ, Logan. Don’t be vile.”

  “And don’t talk to her like that!” Lachlan yells.

  And that’s when Logan loses it. He reaches over, grabs Lachlan by the arm, picks up his backpack, and drags him across the store.

  I run after them, trying to save Lachlan from Logan’s path of destruction. “Don’t you dare make him get in the car with you!”

  Logan halts on the sidewalk, me beside him, and we let the rain drown out our anger, our hurt. He turns to Lachlan, hands him his keys. “Wait in my truck.”

  “No.”

  Logan glares at him, a silent warning. After a beat, Lachlan’s eyes find mine, worried. Tearful. “I’m not saying goodbye,” he mumbles, and my heart cracks against the weight of longing and loss for something I never really had. When I don’t say anything, just stand there, shivering against the temperature, Lachlan runs across the road and toward Logan’s truck. As soon as he’s inside, I brace myself for Logan’s words, his attack.

  “I’d never put Lachlan in danger. Ever. So, don’t tell me what to do, Aubrey. You don’t fucking know me.” His eyes stay on mine, his words meant to slice, severe, destroy. “You thought you did, but you don’t. And you had no fucking right to say the things you said to me—to make me feel guilty. I did nothing wrong. That girl in Cambodia—she snuck into my hotel room. Luke gave her the key. It was a joke. Nothing fucking happened. And Bella—she says she sleeps with me every other week. She doesn’t. Did I leave you that night and go back to the party? Yes. You were drunk, Aubrey, and I knew if I stayed that I’d give in to what you wanted, and I didn’t want to take advantage of you. I went back to the party and bought weed. Then I left. I fucking left. I haven’t been with anyone since that night with you. And if you’d stopped to ask me about any of the things you accused me of, then maybe you’d know that. But you didn’t. I was right fucking here if you wanted the truth, but instead, you judged me. You decided I was a disappointment, and instead of coming to me, you just fucking left.”

  Logan

  Because we lived by the lake, most of us kids learned how to swim from an early age. For some reason, I just couldn’t get the hang of it. By the time the twins were older and experienced enough to swim without floaties, I was still wading on the edge of the water, afraid of dying.

  When I told my mother that, she said I had two options:

  A: be afraid for the rest of my life.

  B: take swimming lessons.

  I wish I’d opted for option A. Because option B only made things worse.

  After she died, there was a moment when I no longer feared death. In fact, I wanted to be a part of it. So, a few days after her passing, I left the house in my pajamas and walked through the darkness of the night toward the lake. I got to the end of the dock, and I jumped. I couldn’t reach the bottom. I didn’t care. I stayed under the water until my lungs burned, and I’d heard her voice—my mom’s—telling me to rise, to get some air.

  So, I did.

  But then I’d go back under, do it again, just so I could hear her voice.

  I was nine years old, and all I wanted was to hear my mother’s voice.

  Lucas found me that night, and he stripped me out of my wet clothes, gave me the shirt off his back. Literally. He walked me back to my house, his arm around my shoulders.

  I lied when I told him I just wanted to feel something.

  Truth is, I wanted to feel nothing.

  He swore he’d never tell anyone.

  He never did.

  Now, I fill my lungs, my entire insides, with everything Mary has to offer. Mary is my whore, and she never once tells me what we’re doing is wrong, that we shouldn’t. I walk toward the lake, my hands at my sides, and continue until the water reaches my nose. And then I keep going farther and farther under so I can hear her voice. My mother’s…

  But I don’t.

  Instead, it’s Mary’s voice.

  Aubrey’s.

  And it’s not just voices.

  It’s visions, too.

  Aubrey’s eyes.

  Aubrey’s tears.

  And then Mary’s back, begging me to take her. To love her.

  Aubrey’s crying.

  You don’t need her, Logan. You have me: Mary.

  Aubrey’s breaking.

  I rise up from the bottom, gasp for air as soon as I hit the surface.

  Aubrey.

  Aubrey.

  Aubrey.

  I go back down.

  I am tied.

  I am bound.

  I am sinking.

  Low, low, low.

  I am liquid.

  I am drowning.

  I am disappointment.

  I am nine years old, and the leather cracks beneath my weight. The car still smells new, even though I’ve been in it for months. The dash is gray. I can barely see over it…

  I am nine years old, and I am fucking terrified.

  It’s two in the morning when I make it back to the house. Dad is up, pacing the living room. He takes me in from head to toe while audible droplets of lake water fall to the floor beneath me. I try to calculate how many times I’ve seen him like this: unsettled eyes and a tired mind and a soul too forgiving of me.

  I should really cut this shit out; it’s not fair that I do this to him. I know that. Deep down, past the bullshit, past Mary, I know he worries.

  He’s expecting me to say something, anything, but the only thing I can think to say is “Mary made me do it.” I don’t say that, obviously, and so we stare each other down, waiting for the other to speak first.

  But it’s neither of us who do.

  “I’ll get a towel,” Lachlan says. I didn’t even notice him sitting on the stairs, pajama pants, no shirt, and he shouldn’t be up this late, or early, whatever. He comes down a moment later, towel in hand. There are tears in his eyes, but no sound to accompany them. “Bend down,” he whispers, and so I do, and then his towel-covered hands are on my head, patting my hair, and I fight back my own tears, because I’ve neve
r treated him the way I did tonight. I need to apologize. I need to get rid of Mary, to get her out of my system, to stop letting her control me. I’m about to speak, to say sorry, but Lachlan beats me to it. “I’m not saying goodbye to her.”

  And I say, “Okay.”

  And then Dad is pulling him away, handing me the towel to dry myself off. He says, his voice soft, but his words hard, “I’ll make the call tomorrow.”

  And I say…

  I say…

  “Okay.”

  26

  Aubrey

  My heart drops when he walks through my door, hat backward, clothes disheveled, his backpack dragging on the floor behind him. His tired gaze finds mine, and I shake my head. “You shouldn’t be here,” I tell him, slowly moving toward him.

  Lachlan lifts his chin, his lifeless eyes squinting. “I’m not saying goodbye to you,” he says, his voice wobbling.

  It’s the exact same words he said last night, and I wish I didn’t have to fight him on this, but: “I don’t want that, either, dude, but I have to be the grown-up here, and if your brother—”

  “There’s something wrong with him, you know?”

  “What do you mean?” I rush out, my heart pound, pound, pounding. “Is he… is he sick or something?”

  Lachlan shakes his head, drags his backpack across the floor, and slumps down on the chair. “Not like my mom was sick, but… Dad says you can’t see it, and sometimes, Logan can’t even see it himself.” His voice is so soft, so desolate, my stomach turns at the sound of it. “Dad says that he’s… he’s self-destructive. Do you know what that means, Red?” His gaze drops. “Because I don’t. I tried to look it up, but it didn’t make sense to me. And it should. Because we’re buddies, you know? He’s my best friend. He’s my favorite of all my siblings, and I know I shouldn’t say that, but it’s true. And I should be able to help him. But…” He looks up, his eyes clouded with unshed tears. “But I don’t know how.”

  I stand in the middle of the store, wordless, my heart torn to pieces. Not for Logan, but for a boy who sees too much and feels too much and aches in ways I can’t even imagine. Logan and I slept together. That was it. But Lachlan… God. Logan is someone he loves, someone he looks up to. My breaths weaken. So do my knees. So does my will. “You can stay,” I tell him. “But I need to speak to your dad.”

  He nods. “He’s picking me up tonight. He wants to speak to you, too.”

  I keep staring at the clock, the door, the clock, the door. Lachlan never said what time his dad was coming, and he’s been so quiet, so focused on his drawings that I don’t want to interrupt him. At 5:30 p.m., Mr. Preston shows up, his giant frame barely fitting through the doorway. I instantly heighten a few inches and smile so stupidly wide; my cheeks sting with the force. Hand outstretched, I make my way over to him. “Mr. Preston,” I greet, and his smile is warm and genuine and everything mine isn’t.

  “You must be Aubrey.”

  His hand dwarfs mine.

  Lachlan’s chair scrapes when he stands, quickly moving his sketchbook behind him. Hiding it. My smile drops. “I didn’t realize the time,” he tells his dad. “I’ll get my stuff.”

  Mr. Preston pulls out his wallet, hands over a fifty to his youngest. “I just ordered some pizza. Can you go get it? Give Aubrey and me some time alone.”

  As soon as Lachlan leaves the store, Mr. Preston turns to me. “I should’ve come here earlier.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Lachy’s told me a lot about you. He also tells me that you don’t mind having him here, but I just want to make sure.”

  “Honestly, sir, Lachlan is basically the only person I see all day, so having him here keeps me sane.”

  He nods at that, a slight smile appearing beneath his facial hair. “It’s quiet, huh?”

  “Understatement.”

  “It’ll pick up, just give it some time.”

  I nod.

  He does the same.

  Then we just stand there, awkwardly. I shuffle on my feet while he rubs the back of his neck. We’re looking down at the floor but glancing up at each other. He breaks the silence just as I’m about to. “Lachlan also told me about last night… with Logan.”

  “Yeah…?”

  “I want to apologize to you on behalf of my son.”

  “I appreciate it, but it’s not necessary.”

  “Logan… he’s—”

  “Self-destructive?” I finish for him, repeating Lachlan’s words from earlier. Without waiting for a response, I turn, walk behind the counter so I can get some distance and clear my head. I’d expected to speak about Lachlan. Not Logan. I don’t want to speak about him, don’t want to think about him. If I do, the tears will return. Because I’m angry at myself, and angry at him, but neither of us can take back the words we dropped like bombs set to destroy. “Like I said, I appreciate it, but we don’t need to talk about it anymore.”

  Mr. Preston sighs, the single sound filling the entire room. “Okay,” he says, nodding. “Okay. Well”—he looks behind him—“what time do you close up here?”

  “Nine, normally. But I’ll probably hang back.”

  “Got work to do?”

  I shrug. “The store’s smaller than my house. It feels less…” I trail off, catching myself before I give him too much.

  “Lonely?” he asks, and I press my lips tight. “Young lady, at one point, I lived in a house with seven children, and I still had moments of loneliness. Having people around doesn’t take the loneliness away. You know what does?”

  “What?”

  “Pizza.”

  “Pizza?”

  He opens the door. “Are you coming?”

  “To your house?”

  “Well, unless you want to take one of the pies home and eat alone, then yes. My house.”

  “But…”

  “Are you expecting customers?”

  My eye roll makes him chuckle.

  “All retail stores close at five here. Restaurants at nine. You won’t be seeing anyone else tonight. And if it’s Logan you’re worried about, he’s not home. Won’t be for a while. So?” He tilts his head to the side, his eyes focused on mine.

  I succumb to his offer. “I’ll grab my stuff.”

  His smile widens. “I’ll wait.”

  We walk side by side toward the pizza shop, my three steps for every one of his. “I know you don’t want to talk about this,” he starts, staring right ahead, “but Logan—he’s the most carefree of all my kids. He walks around this town giving zero shits—pardon my language—about what anyone thinks of him, and to me, that’s a good thing, because people here like to talk. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It takes a lot to affect him, to get a reaction out of him, and so when something or someone does, it’s because he cares, Aubrey. He takes out what little emotion he carries on the people he cares about, which is normally his family. He says a lot of things he doesn’t mean. And we know that. But, I thought it important to share this with you—just in case you don’t know him well enough to know that, too. And because… well, because he’s my boy, and I want to see him happy.”

  Logan

  Guilt.

  Sorry.

  Disappointment.

  I write down all three words on the notepad my therapist handed me—our standard routine—and pass it back to her. She looks down at what I’ve written, then up at me. “Guilt and sorry are too similar,” she says. “You’re going to have to do better, Logan.”

  With a sigh, I lean back in my chair. “But what if they’re about two different things?”

  “Interesting.” She taps her pen on her chin a few times. “Tell me about the guilt first.”

  I’ve been seeing Amanda as her patient for a couple years now. Before that, I saw her as Lucy’s friend… who also happens to be Big Logan’s girl, and I know she’s not going to like what I’m about to say. “I was an asshole to Lachlan.”

  Eyes wide, pout protruding, she whin
es, “How? Why? But he’s so cute!”

  “I know.” I sigh again. I have a feeling there’ll be a lot of sighing in this session. Guilt, sorry, and disappointment can do that. “I don’t know what got into me. I was just… I was so mad.”

  We’re in the pool house behind Big Logan’s dad’s house—where she and Logan live. The pool house has been converted to her out-of-hours office. She doesn’t allow a lot of people beyond the high brick fence and barbed wire. It’s almost prison-like, security cameras and everything. But, knowing what all went on with Big Logan, it makes sense. She asks, “Was your anger linked to the disappointment at all?”

  I shrug. “I guess.”

  “Who disappointed you?”

  “A little bit of me, and maybe…”

  “Maybe…?”

  “Well… see, there’s this girl…”

  “Ahh.” She scribbles down a few words on her notepad. “There’s always a girl.”

  I shake my head. “That’s the thing, there’s never been a girl. I mean, besides Mary.”

  “Mary is a drug, Logan. She’s not a person. She has no emotion. No say. No control over your life… unless you let her. Did you let her?”

  I quirk an eyebrow. “You mean again?”

  “How are your flashbacks going?”

  “Wow. Straight to the point, huh?”

  “I’m trying to work out if anything’s linked. That’s all.”

  I’m not here to talk about the flashbacks, so I change the subject. “So, this girl…”

  Amanda presses her lips tight but nods for me to continue, “I guess she assumed some shit about me that wasn’t true.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, that I’d been screwing around with other girls.”

  “Are you two exclusive?”

  “No,” I say quickly, then take a breath. “Okay, so we hooked up before I left for Cambodia, right? Three weeks pass and we don’t see each other—”

  “Because you were gone those three weeks?”

  “Yes. And then when I get back, we bump into each other again and… you know…”