by Nikki Chase
There’s no doubt they’re twin brothers. Mark’s siblings look a lot like one another except for him. His family used to explain it away by telling him he got his looks from a distant relative, but now I know the truth. He was the only one who was adopted.
Damn it. I got what I came here for, so why do I feel so unfulfilled? If anything, I feel more restless now than I did when I first got here.
Maybe . . .
Oh, God.
This isn’t something I want to admit, even to myself, but I’m finding it harder and harder to deny it.
Maybe, somewhere along the line, this has stopped being about Mark. Maybe now this is about Logan.
I drop my body onto the bed and close my eyes as the springy mattress makes me bounce.
What is happening to me?
Sure, I should move on. Even the cemetery caretaker is so sick of seeing me he tells me that every single time we meet.
But does it count as moving on when the new guy is the old guy’s long-lost twin brother?
Do I really want Logan, or do I simply want a replacement for Mark?
Having gotten to know Logan, I’m aware now of all the ways they’re different. It’s no surprise that I still love Mark despite him being gone, but I think I’m starting to fall for Logan, too.
All those times I met up with some guy at the insistence of my friends, it never worked out because I always compared them to Mark. I was looking for Mark in all those guys. And I never found him there, of course. Nobody was as good as Mark at being Mark.
So, now that I find myself with these confusing feelings about Logan . . . Is it because he and Mark are so much alike? Or is it because I can finally appreciate a guy for who he is, without comparing him to Mark?
I chuckle to myself. Sometimes in life, you can either laugh or cry.
How can I not compare him to Mark? For God’s sake, I just spent more than an hour in Logan’s office, asking question after question, comparing him to Mark.
Or could it be that the opposite thing is happening? Is it possible that I’m developing feelings for Logan, but my loyalty toward Mark is keeping me from realizing that?
I like how protective Logan is toward me. Mark was a caring guy, but he was never as comfortable with danger and violence as Logan seems to be. With Logan, I feel safe. Like anything can happen, and I know I’ll be okay as long as Logan is with me.
I like how honest Logan is. Mark was too sweet to tell me the truth sometimes, but Logan talks straight, and he doesn’t care if he hurts my feelings with the facts.
I even like it when Logan is grumpy. As big and tough as he is, I know he won’t hurt me—not really. It’s going to annoy him if he knows, but I find it cute when he knits those thick, dark eyebrows together and stares at me.
And of course, I like, like, like the way Logan fucks me. He’s forceful, violent, brutal. But at the same time, he’s not selfish. He gets off when I get off. He takes satisfaction from the sight of me squirming and writhing at his touch, from the sounds I make when he manipulates my body with his skillful hands, his delicious mouth, and his thick, hard cock.
I let out a big sigh. It’s way too late to be thinking about this. I should get to sleep. Tomorrow is a new day. There’s no use thinking about the way I feel when Logan sending me home tomorrow regardless. He doesn’t even want to see me again, so what’s the point in me agonizing over this?
As I stand up and walk toward the light switch, something leaks out of me. More wetness? Jesus, my own body is mocking me for trying to avoid thinking about him.
The hot liquid pooling in my panties reminds me of the moment when Logan came inside me. I felt something then. Something binding us together.
I’m sure it was just chemicals in my body going crazy after the orgasms I’d just experienced, but I can’t shake the feeling that it was something more.
Ah, that’s probably just wishful thinking. Whatever connection I feel is only in my head. If it wasn’t, Logan wouldn’t have asked me to leave.
“Are you sure you won’t be lonely, all by yourself here in the mountains?” I stand by Logan’s back door with a smile, looking at him and wishing he’d change his mind even though I know that’s impossible.
“I’ll be fine,” he says calmly in that deep, smooth voice I’ll miss forever.
Maybe I should’ve gotten a recording of him saying something. I’d have been able to listen to it when I miss him. And, I should’ve stolen a piece of his clothing when I had the chance to so I’d have been able to remember the way he smells.
Jesus, Harper, stop it, I tell myself. I’m starting to act like a creepy stalker.
“Maybe I’ll be lonely, all by myself in the city,” I say, a drop of hope still left in my heart, even as I follow Logan out the back door and toward the garage.
“Isn’t your family there?” he asks, showing some interest in my life for once. To be fair, he has been busy dodging my questions about his life until now.
“Well, yeah, I guess.” I pause. “But they . . . Well, after my mom died, my dad got so stressed out he was drinking himself into a stupor every day. He was violent sometimes so I ran away from home when I was sixteen.”
“Jesus. I guess having family isn’t always a good thing.” Logan pulls out a key fob and presses a button, making the lights on his BMW sedan flash.
I take the passenger seat and draw in a deep breath. This is the smell of Logan’s car. I’ll never get to experience this again.
As Logan steps inside, the car dips briefly from his weight.
During the drive to the city, I tell Logan all about my family—about my idyllic childhood, my mom’s sudden illness and death, my dad’s alcohol addiction and violent tendencies.
I told him how I met Mark not long after I left home. I was working at some burger joint, and he was the friend of a co-worker.
We immediately hit it off but Mark was always cautious around me because I was so young. It was only two years later, when I was nineteen, that we had our first kiss.
“He was all I had,” I say.
Logan glances at me as the car glides down the highway. “Have I helped you get over your grief in some way?”
“Yeah. Thank you.” I turn to look at him. I should say what I really want to say. There won’t be any more opportunities in the future. I open my mouth. “Logan . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Is it . . . Can’t we . . .” I take a deep breath and blurt it out in one breath, “Can’t we see each other again?”
Logan sighs. “We’ve talked about this. I’m not the kind of person you want to hang around, Harper. You know who I work with. I can’t . . . You don’t want to put yourself in danger just for me.”
“Maybe I do.”
Logan glances at me again, his eyebrows twitching into a frown. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. The thing that happened the other day? I didn’t even do anything to deserve that. Stupid shit happens when you deal with the people I deal with.”
“So tell me. Make me understand,” I say. “I already know you work with Mr. Foster and everyone knows he’s got his hands in all kinds of shady deals in town. But doesn’t he provide you with protection?”
“Why do you think we’re still alive?”
“So it’s not as dangerous as you’ve been telling me,” I insist.
“Harper. People die for no reason in my world. You don’t want to get involved,” he says.
“Why did you get involved? You said you used to work in a hospital. That sounds like a stable, well-paying job. So why did you leave that to work for the mafia?”
“Because hospitals aren’t any better than the mafia, okay?” Logan sounds agitated. Is it because of my incessant questions? Or does he hate his old workplace that much?
“What do you mean by that? As far as I know, unlike the mafia, hospitals don’t go around hurting and killing people.”
Logan laughs. “They do. What do you think happens to people without insurance? Or even pe
ople with excellent insurance who are terminally ill?
“Doctors only care about their bottom line, too. They’d push their patients to go through unnecessary and painful procedures just to get an extra buck.
“Hospitals don’t care about people, and neither do doctors. At least the mafia is honest about their intentions.”
I fall silent as I listen to Logan’s rant. Obviously, this is something that matters a lot to him, so much so that he let go of a secure career path in exchange for a dangerous one.
“And the pay is better, too,” Logan adds, laughing.
He doesn’t have to tell me that. I can deduce that myself from his elegant home and his fancy car.
As the car enters the city, my heart races. I really won’t see Logan ever again and there’s nothing I can do about it.
In desperation, I ask, “Logan, can I at least get a phone number? You don’t have to see me again, but maybe we can talk sometimes?”
“No,” he says simply, not bothering to offer an explanation as usual.
“I won’t ask you for anything more, I swear. I just want to hear your voice every once in a while.”
“Do I sound that much like your dead boyfriend?” Logan asks.
Maybe I’m imagining it, but there’s a hint of venom in his question, like he’s angry . . .
Is he angry because I won’t stop asking, or because he thinks I’m only using him to remind myself of Mark?
“It’s not that, Logan. I just . . . I want to talk to you sometimes. You. Not Mark.” My heart pounds as I watch him for a reaction. Is my guess right?
Logan remains silent for a few seconds. He looks like he’s deep in thought.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says finally. “There’s no reason why we should speak to each other again.”
“Logan, please,” I beg, shedding my pride.
I don’t know why I’m so distressed. I’ve only known Logan for a few days. But the thought of never even speaking to him again slays me.
“There’s nothing to discuss, Harper.” Logan turns to me as he stops the car. “We’re here. You should go home. Go back to your life.”
I want to scream at him. Ball my hands into fists and hit him. It’s not like he’d feel the pain—he’s so much bigger and stronger than me.
But that would be crazy. And I’m not crazy, despite the fact that I followed a stranger to his home and happily lived there while he held me hostage.
Maybe this is just Stockholm syndrome. Maybe as soon as I walk inside my apartment, I’ll feel different.
I take a few deep breaths, blink away the tears pricking my eyes, and put on a smile as I turn to meet Logan’s gaze for the last time.
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you for the ride. And for everything else.”
I wait for a reaction. A hug. A kiss goodbye. A sigh. A few parting words.
But he gives me nothing. He simply nods to acknowledge my gratitude.
“Okay, then. Bye.” I turn around as fast as I can so he won’t see the tears welling up in my eyes as I pull on the door handle.
And just like that, I find myself walking along the sidewalk just outside my apartment building.
I should feel relieved. I got home safe and I got all my questions answered. I finished my quest, and it was a success.
I should feel like I’m home. But I don’t.
Instead, I yearn to be somewhere else, somewhere in the mountains, alone with a cold, unfriendly stranger.
Harper
“Are you okay, Harper?” Melinda stops by my desk with her cup of afternoon tea. “You don’t look too well. You seem really tired.”
“Is it that obvious?” I cringe. I try to be professional at work regardless of what happens in my personal life, but my mind has been running in circles, and my body is apparently starting to be affected, too.
“Yeah,” she says. “You haven’t been yourself since you got back to work. You know, after you took your sick days.”
“Yeah.” I give Melinda a weak smile.
Guilt creeps into my conscience. I told the whole office I had a crazy-high fever and had to ask a neighbor to drive me to a hospital where I was diagnosed with a bad case of the flu.
I know it sounds excessive, but I disappeared without calling because there was no signal at Logan’s house, and I had to come up with a good enough cover-up story.
I mean, I can’t just tell people I skipped work because I ran into my dead boyfriend’s long-lost twin brother and spent a couple of days being held hostage in his house where we also had hot, kinky sex.
“I heard about this bad strain of the flu that’s been going around. I read on the news there was even this teacher who died from it. The flu season is just really bad this year.” Melinda eyes me with a mixture of concern and caution. “Maybe you should go home. If you still don’t feel well tomorrow; as far as I know you still have plenty of sick days left since you’re always at work.”
I laugh softly along with her, knowing she’s probably more worried about getting infected herself than she is about my well-being.
But now I have a good excuse to go home early, so I’ll take it.
I fake a small cough. “Yeah. It’s almost five anyway. I think I should go home.”
I gather up my stuff and say goodbye to Melinda, then walk my usual route home, not even paying attention to my surroundings. I know these sidewalks like the back of my hand.
Not too long ago, I’d scoff at anyone who dared to suggest going home early. I was dedicated to my work, and I wasn’t going to let some stupid flu keep me away from my desk. Leaving the office early was for the weak.
But I guess Logan has made me weak.
Nobody has died, but I feel like my heart has been grabbed, squeezed, twisted, and wrung out. Honestly, I feel much like the way I did when Mark died.
Is it because I feel like I’m losing Mark all over again?
Or have I come to care about Logan the way I cared about Mark?
Oh, God.
What does it matter?
What’s the point of obsessing over this?
Mark is gone forever, and Logan wants me gone from his life forever.
The healthy thing to do is forget about them and move on with my life. I’m pretty sure that’s what my therapist would say, even though I haven’t seen her since coming back from Logan’s.
In fact, I haven’t left my apartment except to go to work since coming home. I don’t even go out to buy groceries or eat out. I simply get food delivered every single day and stay in my PJs all the time.
It’s such a cliché, I know. I’m that girl from every romantic comedy ever who wastes her life away on the couch, eating reheated pizza and ice cream from the tub.
But I guess clichés exist for a reason.
I almost walk past the brightly-lit mall when I remember something. I need to make a stop at the drugstore. Or maybe I should just order the thing online and get it delivered so I can get back to my couch a few minutes earlier?
Nah. I need to at least make an effort. Stopping by the drugstore isn’t such a big chore, damn it. I can do it.
So, I enter the heated building with the shiny floors, brilliant lighting, and loud people. Ah, the mall. The temple to commercialism.
Like every teenager, I loved the mall. Then, it completely lost any appeal to me.
I have no idea if I grew out of it or if I was too depressed after Mark’s death to enjoy anything.
All I know is everyone here looks happier than me. Every single one of them. Except for that one middle-aged guy manning the information desk while playing on his phone, looking bored.
I wish I enjoyed this like most people. Why can’t I take pleasure in the things other people do? What is wrong with me?
I used to take pride in the fact that I wasn’t like most people. Most people didn’t take their careers seriously and most people didn’t achieve as many things as I did in a short time.
But I realize now that was only a Band-Aid I use
d to deal with the loneliness of having no family to rely on (although there are people who are fine despite being on their own), and of having lost someone I deeply cared about in such a sudden, tragic way (although there are people who have lost their loved ones and gone on to have great lives).
Now, I feel like I’ve lost Logan, too. The only person with whom I connect after years and years of loneliness.
But I never had him. So what am I grieving for?
As I enter the drugstore, I quickly find the aisle where they stock the thing that I need. This isn’t my first time buying it, but it still feels weird.
I pick up the product from the shelf and hold it in my hand, turning it over to read the writing on the box.
The last time I bought this, Mark was still alive. Still, I was terrified. I was young.
I’m older now, but not necessarily wiser. Maybe that’s why I’m just as terrified. Or maybe it’s because I know, no matter what happens, I won’t have anyone in my life to support me.
I guess if things get really desperate I could take a cab to Logan’s house in the mountains. The thought has crossed my mind more than a few times in the week that I’ve been home.
I’ve lain in my couch, tapping the screen of my phone to open the taxi app. I’ve gone as far as entering his address. But I’ve always changed my mind.
Logan would just drive me back home again. Or worse, he’d tell me to go home on my own. Or worse, he wouldn’t even open the door for me, hiding in some dark corner of his house while I pound on the door.
Hey, maybe this is exactly what happened to that woman who went over, looking for him while we were hiding in his office. Logan dumped her and she couldn’t let him go.
Damn it. I may be depressed and pathetic, but I still have some dignity. I won’t go there just for Logan to turn me away—which he definitely will do with no second thought.
I grab a few bags of chips and cookies before I join the line at the register and pay for my purchase. I know these aren’t healthy, but which part of my life is healthy at this point?
As I walk out of the store, I find myself almost laughing to myself at how similar things are to the way they were around the time of Mark’s death.
