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

by Jay McLean

“Yes!” Lucas shouts, and then they’re all running in different directions. Besides Lucy, who takes a book from her back pocket and sits down on the porch steps. And I realize now, that Lucas was right all those months ago. We did have it good—us kids. We always had someone to play with, always had toys and enough yard to have the most epic hide-and-seek games that lasted all day, all evening. I smile at the realization, then laugh under my breath when I see Aubrey attempt to climb my truck and hide in the bed.

  Dad answers, “We need to talk about your wage.”

  I face him. “I can take a pay cut if you need the funds somewhere else. I don’t mind.”

  He shakes his head. “No, I was thinking a pay raise.”

  “Nah.” I shrug, shove my hands in my pockets. “I don’t need a pay raise, Dad. You pay me enough.”

  “Yeah, but things have changed now. You pay rent and bills and—”

  “What?”

  His eyes narrow. “What?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your rent,” he repeats, slowly, like I’m hard of hearing. “And bills…”

  “I heard you the first time, Dad. But, I don’t pay—”

  “You don’t pay rent?” he shouts. “You live with the girl and you don’t—”

  “I don’t live with her. I mean, not technically.” Do I?

  “Do you have a key?”

  “No.”

  He sighs. “I can’t even remember the last time you spent the night here.”

  I scratch my head. “Neither can I…”

  “Here’s a piece of advice, Logan. Whether technical or not, you’re living with the girl. You use her electricity, her water, probably eat all her food.”

  “I buy food,” I state. Stupid.

  “When was the last time you were even in your room?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know the twins have turned it into their office?”

  “What?! No! What the…”

  He chuckles to himself, shaking his head. He clasps my shoulder. “Do the right thing, Logan. Get your name on the lease. Start paying rent. Pay bills. At least half, if not all.” He starts walking away.

  “Wait!” I call out. “Aren’t you going to miss me?”

  “Son, I thought you moved out months ago!”

  Back at Aubrey’s, she sits on the couch, her legs over mine, watching a movie. I tap her leg, wait for her to look at me. “Did I stealth move in here?”

  She giggles. “I think so.”

  “When?”

  She shrugs.

  “How come you haven’t asked me to pay rent or anything?”

  Another shrug. “I like having you here.”

  “But I should be paying rent.”

  She sits up, turns off the TV with the remote, and sidles up next to me, her hand on my stomach. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re contractually obligated to be here. If you want to stay as a guest in the house, then I’m more than happy with that. Like I said, I just like having you here.”

  “I’m going to pay rent,” I say, fingering a strand of scarlet. “You should probably get a key cut for me.”

  “I already have one,” she says, reaching for her bag sitting on the coffee table. She hands me the key. “I didn’t want to give it to you until you said something.”

  I flip the key between my fingers, stare down at it. “Am I a sucky person for not offering earlier?”

  “No.”

  “Am I a sucky boyfriend?”

  “Shut up.”

  “No, Aubs, I’m serious.” I lift both her legs until she’s sitting sideways on my lap. “It’s just… being with you is… it’s like being with my best friend, you know? So maybe I’m not thinking about all the things I should be doing as your boyfriend. I’ve just been cruising along with all of this, and…” I break off on a sigh. “And maybe I’ve just been too casual about everything.”

  “You’re overthinking things,” she says. “Are you happy, Logan?”

  “Of course, I am, babe.”

  “Good, because I’m happy. I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy in my life as I am when I’m with you. So, I really don’t think you or I, or we, should be doing things any differently. And your family, they…” she trails off, her voice breaking.

  “They what?”

  She licks her lips, looks down at her thumb stroking her bare leg. “They make me feel like I’m part of something, and that… that means a lot to me, so…” Her voice ends on a whisper, and I lift her chin, make her look at me. Her eyes are clouded with tears, and I frown, hating that I caused them.

  “My family adores you, Red.”

  She smiles, but it’s sad. “I wanted to ask you to move in a while ago, but I was kind of scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of pushing you too far, of wanting things you may not want.”

  I laugh once. “Aubrey, you didn’t have to be scared to ask. I mean, why would I not want to come home every day to the girl I love?”

  Her eyes widen, her gaze right on mine. “What?”

  “What?” I look down at her warily.

  “What did you just say?”

  “You know what I said. I love you, Aubrey, and if you didn’t know that already, then I’m clearly a sucky boyfriend.”

  Her shoulders shake, and then she’s crying, calling me an idiot. I can’t help but laugh, which is horrible, because no guy should laugh when their girl is crying. Her arms wrap around my neck, her face pressed to my chest, drowning out her quiet sobs. I rub circles into her back, press my lips to her temple.

  “When did you know?” she asks, looking up at me.

  “That I love you?”

  She nods.

  I inhale deeply, exhale slowly. “It was a Sunday,” I start.

  “You know the day?”

  Smiling, I run my hands through her hair, try to contain its wildness. “It was a Sunday morning, and I’d woken up after you had. You were in the sunroom painting, and you were in my shirt and nothing else. You were all bare legs and bare feet, and your hair was this wild mess on top of your head. You were doing a painting of my house to give to my dad for his birthday—”

  “I remember that,” she whispers.

  “And I just remember standing there, watching you, thinking if I could wake up to this—to you—for the rest of my life, I’d be a damn happy man. And then you turned to me, and you had no make-up, no jewelry, and you were so perfectly flawless that for a second, I actually stopped breathing. Then you said, ‘Don’t come back until you have my coffee.’”

  She laughs now, the sound filling every empty space within me.

  I add, “I probably loved you a long time before that, but that was the first time I actually knew what the feeling was. I just kept it to myself in case… in case…”

  “In case what?”

  My insecurities force me to look away. “In case you didn’t feel the same way.”

  She fingers the penny hanging around my neck, while silence settles between us. Minutes pass, and I start to worry that maybe—maybe I’ve pushed her too far. Finally, she speaks, her voice low, soft, sweet, “Do you remember our first night?”

  “I remember it well, Red.”

  “Maybe, but I’m sure you don’t remember it like I do.”

  “How do you remember it?”

  She exhales her breath right into my chest, into my heart. “I remember standing waist-deep in your lake. And you brought me there because… because you wanted to show me the stars. I always thought that you hated me, but that night… there was something about the way you looked at me, the way your eyes settled over mine. You know that I’d crushed on you before that night, but standing with you, with the stars above us, it was the first time I actually hoped to get to know you, and I remember asking myself, What’s beneath the bravado, Logan Preston?”

  I clear my throat, push back my emotions.

  “Logan,” she says, looking up at me with those tears she refuses
to let fall. “I never thought that we’d be here. Together. And I never, ever dreamed that I’d be lucky enough to find what was beneath that bravado… or that I’d fall so fast, and so hard, and so deeply in love with every single part of you. Bravado and all.”

  41

  Logan

  I always finish work an hour before Aubrey does. It used to mean finding something to kill time for that hour before she got home to let me in. But for the past two weeks, I’ve had a key. Because for the past two weeks, I’ve “officially” moved in. The day after we talked, told each other how we felt, I went to the bank and withdrew the cash I needed for rent, as well as rent and bills for the past few months I’ve been staying here. When I gave it to Aubrey, she said she always wanted to make love on a bed of cash. So… that’s what we did. I kind of feel bad for anyone who has to handle that cash from now on, because seriously? Body fluids are no joke.

  I park my truck in our garage and leave the door open so I can bring in the trash, check the mail, because I’m domesticated as fuck.

  Bills.

  Bills.

  Bills.

  I can’t believe she never made me pay this shit before. Now I know what Destiny’s Child were whining about all those years ago. I am a trifling, good-for-nothing brother. A motherfricken’ scrub. Wait, that wasn’t even Destiny’s Child.

  Whatever.

  Among all the bills is a single letter, no name, just the address. No stamp either. I pocket the other mail and drop the trash can, my eyes narrowed when I rip open the envelope. Inside is a photocopy of what looks like a police report and a photograph. I look at the photograph, and my stomach turns, my heart stops. My breath… my breath doesn’t exist.

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

  “No.” My eyes are frantic, as frantic as my mind, my heart, and I don’t want to read this… don’t want to know…

  My hands shake, turn to fists.

  I blink hard, see red.

  Not red.

  Scarlet.

  Missing teeth and crazy hair and too many freckles… “No,” I breathe out. “No…”

  I tap my pocket, but my reprieve isn’t there. She hasn’t been for months.

  I run to the garage, check behind the stereo on the bench where I used to keep my stash.

  Nothing.

  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…

  I grasp my hair, my heart pounding.

  “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!”

  The letter’s still in my hand, and I find an old lighter, set it ablaze and watch it burn, burn, burn on the concrete floor. If it doesn’t exist, it won’t be true. Can’t be.

  My stomach churns, and I know what’s coming.

  I run into the house, search every pocket, every corner, every hidden space.

  Nothing.

  Then I run back outside and bypass my car, too worked up to drive.

  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. In the pocket of the door, there’s a tube of hand lotion. It’s pink. I wonder who it belongs to. “Are you all buckled in?” he asks, looking down at me…

  I throw up at the memory of his voice, all over the front lawn, then I sprint the few blocks to Denny’s house. My hope answers, his eyes narrowed at me.

  I try to catch my breath. Can’t. “You still dealing?”

  “You still using?”

  “Watcha got?”

  “Whatcha need?”

  I need something to settle my heart, my thoughts, my nightmares. “I need Mary.”

  Aubrey

  Logan’s truck is in the garage when I get home.

  The roller door’s up, which is strange. He never keeps it up because he stores his work tools in some new, fancy toolbox that’s just begging to be broken into. The trash can is by the mailbox, and the mailbox is open.

  I enter the house, call out to him.

  He doesn’t respond.

  I go through every room in the house.

  He’s not here.

  I call his phone.

  He doesn’t answer.

  Logan

  Sweet Mary.

  She’s the same as she’s always been, but nowhere near strong enough.

  I’m four joints in and sitting on Denny’s couch, my body numb, but my mind won’t stop. This bitch used to be able to make me forget, take the agony away. She’s forgotten about me… about what I need from her.

  You left me, Logan.

  “I didn’t.”

  “What?” Denny asks, and I shake my head.

  You left me for her.

  I shake my head again.

  You’re nine years old…

  “Shut up!”

  It’s so easy to mess with you, to screw with your mind. That’s what happens when you think you can replace me, Logan.

  “Shut. Up!”

  “Dude,” Denny says, pulling on a bong. He exhales a ribbon of smoke, and I watch it float up, up, up. He points to me. “You’re trippin’.”

  “I’m fine.”

  I wrap Mary in her home—Rizlas provided by Denny—before I even finish the joint between my lips.

  “Slow down, man. You’re hitting it too hard.”

  “I’ve paid you, right?”

  Denny sighs. Nods.

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Nothing, man.”

  On the couch opposite me, Denny’s roommates sit, watch me take control of Mary like the whore she is.

  A half hour later and I can’t get that picture out of my mind, out of my goddamn eyes. I pull at my hair, frustrated.

  This is what happens when you abandon me, Logan.

  My head rolls to the back of the couch, and I try to focus on the lights reflected from the television, try to see something other than scarlet. It doesn’t work. I close my eyes. That doesn’t work either.

  You’re nine years old, and the leather cracks beneath your weight…

  My phone rings: Aubrey’s ringtone.

  I reject the call.

  It rings again.

  I shut off my phone.

  “That your girl?” Denny asks.

  I blow out a breath, feel the full effects of Mary control every muscle, every move. Why can’t she control my thoughts? “It’s not working,” I mumble.

  Denny laughs. “You need something stronger, bro.”

  Yeah, you do, Mary agrees. Have you met my friend Acid?

  Aubrey

  By midnight, concern and anger wage war on my emotions. I pace the kitchen, my phone gripped tight in my hand. I stopped trying to call him a few hours ago, when every call went straight to voicemail. Panic swirls in my veins, scratching at my flesh from the inside. I stop to attempt a calming breath, right before I hit dial on my phone, bring it to my ear.

  Tom’s voice is quiet, short. “Aubrey, everything okay?”

  “Hi, I’m um…” I’m pacing again, chewing on my thumb.

  “What’s wrong, sweetheart? What happened?”

  “Did Logan— was he… was he at work all day?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Because he hasn’t come home. I mean, he has, but…”

  Through the phone, I hear Tom shift, as if he’s getting out from under the covers. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know, Tom. His car’s here, but the garage door was left open, and it’s like... It’s like he was here and then he was gone, and I don’t—” I break off on a sob, fear overtaking all other emotions.

  Tom stays quiet a moment too long. Then: “Did you kids have a fight?”

  “No,” I tell him, certain. “We didn’t have a fight or even anything close to it. I don’t know what happened.”

  “Okay,” he says. Then repeats himself. As if he’s speaking to the both of us. “Look, Logan—he does this sometimes. Disappe
ars for a few hours and doesn’t come home until the middle of the night.”

  “He does?” I ask, my heart slowing.

  “He’s never done this around you before?”

  “Never.”

  “I’ll get in my truck, drive around a bit, see if I can find him. If I do, I’ll send him right home to you, okay?”

  “Okay, sir… yeah.”

  “Aubrey?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Please try not to worry,” he tells me, but I can hear it in his voice; he’s as worried as I am.

  I spend the next few hours the same way I spent the last few. Pacing. Worrying. Frustrated. At 4:30, my phone rings. I jump for it, praying it’s Logan. It’s not.

  “Anything?” I ask Tom as soon as I answer.

  “No. I take it you haven’t heard from him?”

  “No.”

  He exhales into the phone. “Let me make a few calls. You stay put in case he shows up. Stay by your phone, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dark turns to light, and I’ve flipped the house upside down looking for any clues as to where he might be. At this stage, I’d almost be happy to find another girl’s number in any of his pockets. I’d call the number, calmly, and ask if he was with her. I just need to know that he’s okay. That he’s not dead in a gutter somewhere. There are no numbers, no signs of other secrets he might be hiding.

  I call Tom at 6:30, when I know Logan usually goes to work. Tom isn’t at the site, but Lucas is, and there’s no Logan.

  Not at 7:00.

  Not at 8:00, 9:00 or 10:00.

  By lunchtime, my stomach is growling, begging for food.

  Eating is the last thing I can think about.

  I run through the past few days in my head, try to come up with reasons why he might just up and leave. There are no reasons. No answers.

  At two in the afternoon, there’s a knock on my door. I pray for Logan, but he has a key. He’d come right in. Because this is his house. Our house. Lucas and Laney look as worried as I feel. Laney hugs me. “Have you heard—”

  “Not a single thing, and his phone—”

  “Goes right to voicemail,” Lucas finishes for me. “I know, I’ve been trying all day.”