by E. L. Montes
I walk carefully toward the bed, turn to face him, and then plop down cross-legged on the center of the mattress. Logan’s eyes roam over the shelving unit by my desk, which is filled with old art sketches and oil paintings. “Did you sketch these?” he asks with his back to me.
“Yeah. A long time ago.”
“Damn, Jersey Girl. I knew you were talented with the oil paintings, but these are very detailed. They’re amazing.”
“Thanks.”
Logan drops the clear plastic shopping bag he walked in with on top of my desk. Through the bag I can see jeans and a white fabric, which I’m guessing is a T-shirt. He turns around, facing me, and comes my way. My heartstrings thrum when he reaches the edge of the bed and slightly lifts his shirt, reaching for the button of his jeans. He looks up. “I hope you don’t mind? I usually sleep naked, but I’ll keep my boxers on this time.” He winks with a grin.
Naked? “Uh, no, that’s fine.” My voice, I’m sure, is a bit shaky.
Nodding, he drops his jeans, then grips the edge of his shirt, lifting it up and over his head. Each groove and line of his ab muscles flexes in the process. I swallow hard. I’ve seen him practically naked in swim trunks. This isn’t a big deal. Just think of swim trunks and quit ogling him.
My traitorous eyes navigate over his broad chest, which is just begging to be touched, down his perfectly sculpted abs, also begging to be touched, and past the V of his hipbones, which I wouldn’t mind running my tongue along. Then comes…his package. The fabric of his grey boxer briefs, snuggly wrapped around his impressive size, has my breath quickening and my mouth watering. All my self-control abandons ship and my thoughts betray me as images of Logan climbing into bed and covering my body with his explode in my mind. The only thing I can see are his blue-grey eyes filled with lust, penetrating mine as he drives his cock inside of me.
Oh my God.
I tear my eyes away, flushed and embarrassed by where my mind just went. Trying to shake away the shameless thoughts, I scoot over to the left side of the bed, giving Logan room to join me on the right side. I feel the dip in the mattress as he settles in. I can’t look at him again; I feel like I’ve been caught red-handed. The yellow and blue polka dots scattered around my pajama bottoms are extremely interesting all of a sudden. I trace each one along my thigh. God, I look like a five-year-old in PJ bottoms and a white cami next to his extremely adult, manly body clad only in boxer briefs.
“Everything okay?” Logan prods.
I make the mistake of looking up. He’s in my bed, half naked with his head propped against the headboard. His waist and legs are beneath my covers, but his upper body is in full view, completely on display. I sigh again. “No. I mean…” I shake my head. “Yes. Yes, everything is okay,” I fumble. Obviously I’ve forgotten how to speak
“Well, come here. I feel lonely over here.”
Nodding, I scoot back so I’m leaning against the headboard like he is and drag the comforter up to my waist. My hand smooths over the steel blue fabric. The color reminds me of Logan’s eyes. Funny, I never put that together before now. “So what shall we talk about to keep that pretty little head of yours clear of bad thoughts?”
Tilting my head along the cushioned headboard, I cross my arms and meet his gaze. “What makes you think I have bad thoughts in my head?”
“You must have bad thoughts before bed if you keep having the same bad dreams over and over again. Something keeps bothering you. If you actually let me in and talk to me about it, it may help.” There’s a slight hint of annoyance in his tone, which in turn annoys me.
“I have let you in, Logan. Other than Charlie, you’re probably the only person I have ever let in, besides Brooke.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t try to humor me. You don’t and you know it. You beat around the bush with me. You never tell me what’s bothering you. You won’t tell me how you feel. It’s like you skip over it, and I allow it. I accepted it because I thought you needed time, but now I’m not so sure if it’s time you need. I feel like you’ll always keep everything bottled up inside.”
“Wow. If that’s how you truly feel, then why are you even here?”
He bites down, jaw clenching. Through his teeth he mutters, “Because believe it or not I actually care about you.”
“No one asked you to,” I spit out, crossing my arms and looking away.
“Well, it’s a little too late for that, huh?”
“What is that even supposed to mean?” I ask. Logan lets out a mocking laugh. I scowl at him. “What’s so funny?”
“You. Me. Us. Everything!” He raises his hands for dramatic effect. “Look at us. We’re arguing like we’re a damn couple.”
“Yeah. Well, we’re not.”
“You’ve made that very clear,” he retorts bitterly. Then he scoots down into the covers and roughly turns to his side, giving me his back. So I guess we’re done with whatever this was—disagreement, argument, misunderstanding?
Yes, it was harsh. I know it was. But we’re not a damn couple and I don’t want him to think we are. I’m just…I don’t know. I’m frustrated now—frustrated at myself for being such a bitch and frustrated at him for wanting more, for making me want more too.
I stand and pad over to the light switch by the door, mulling over the shitty turn that the last few minutes took. The small lamp on the nightstand casts the only light in the room now.
Slipping back underneath the bedsheets, I rest on my side with my head on my arm. I stare at the back of Logan’s head while my mind wheels in circles trying to fill the silence. He’s in my room, and I know he’s mad, and I want to know what the hell is currently going on in his head, but I don’t dare ask because it isn’t fair. How can I ask him what’s going on in his head if I can’t even tell him what goes on in mine? Now I understand his frustration.
“Art was always my thing, even as a child, as far back as I can remember,” I start off quietly, my gaze lingering on Logan’s rumpled brown hair. His shoulders slowly lift and drop with his even breaths.
Silence. Then, “Yeah?” He speaks but doesn’t move.
“Yeah,” I reply and keep going while I have the guts to do it now. “It’s difficult for me to share or show my feelings. It was the same when I was a kid. I always drew, pencil to paper, and later discovered painting. Art was the only way I could express my emotions. I could create something beautiful without the risk of getting hurt.” I laugh at the thought. “I know it may sound stupid.”
Logan shifts, rolling over to the left side of his body so he’s facing me now. He stares at me, his head gently resting against the pillow. Not a trace of humor can be found on his face. “It doesn’t sound stupid at all,” he says.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” I shrug. “The more I relied on my drawings or paintings as a way to cope with all my bottled-up emotions, the worse I got. It triggered something else, and I withdrew even more into myself. It got so bad that the one thing I was truly passionate about slowly became an enemy.
“My heart gradually shut out all those who cared for me, making me numb. Painting became the only way I could effectively communicate. I poured all of my frustration into my paintings, so much so that when I got overwhelmed to the point of a breakdown, I exploded. One huge destruction. I couldn’t paint fast enough to handle everything, and I couldn’t handle painting or drawing without crying, without falling apart. It hurt too much. Once it came to that, I told myself I wouldn’t do it again. So I shoved most of my paintings and all my art supplies into a large cardboard box, metaphorically storing away all my emotions. I couldn’t handle it anymore, so I just stopped.”
“How long has it been since you last painted?”
I try to think back on it. “A little over nine months. My last painting was a month after Brooke died. I never finished it. It’s the only painting I’ve never finished.”
His eyes glisten as if a memory just sparked. “That one painting in your shed, when I walked in and asked for the measuring tape…
That was the one, wasn’t it?” he asks.
I nod. “That was the first time since I stored all my paintings away that I looked at all of them. My psychiatrist thought I was ready to start again, but I didn’t feel ready yet. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”
So many questions linger in his stare, but he doesn’t ask. Instead he makes a statement. “You’re so talented, you can’t let that go to waste.”
“Do you like to build?” I ask him.
“Yeah,” he answers, a bit thrown off by the question.
“Why?”
“Just…because I do.” He shrugs.
“No. There’s a reason why.”
He thinks for a moment. “Because knowing I took part in creating something that others can enjoy is rewarding somehow.”
“Exactly. That’s how I felt for a very long time, fulfilled at the end of each piece I’d created. But then it turned into something else. Something darker. I was no longer fulfilled; I was angry at everything and everyone. My anger slowly turned into something more and then, before I knew it, creating art wasn’t fun anymore. Every time I tried, it triggered something else.” I shut my mouth and then open it to tell him. Tell him what it triggered. Tell him about my disorder. Tell him who I truly am.
Then Logan scoots in closer, reaching his hand over my waist and bringing me into him. We’re both in the middle of my mattress. My hand easily lands on his chest, and his rises to rest on the base of my neck. “You will create art again and when you do, you’ll have that feeling back at the end of each piece. Because I believe in you and your work and the person you are.”
“I don’t think I’m strong enough to handle it,” I confess, and I truly don’t think I am.
He brings his head to mine. His lips touch the tip of my nose, my forehead, and finally my chin. Our little thing. Ever since the first time he’s done it, he’s never stopped, and I will never let him. I’d rather have a thousand little Logan kisses like those than no kiss at all, because when his lips lightly caress my skin, he’s mine and I’m his.
He rests his forehead against mine. “You’re stronger than you think, Jersey Girl.”
“I hope so,” I whisper.
I wake up to the smell of buttery pancakes and bacon. Logan steps forward at my bedside, a plate in one hand and a glass of OJ in the other. He rests the glass on my nightstand. His smile is contagious, forcing me to smile back as I sit up.
“Good mornin’, Jersey Girl. You slept like a baby.”
“That’s the first time in a long time I’ve slept like that in my own room.”
He smiles, handing me a plate. “Breakfast in bed,” he announces proudly.
I grab the plate, placing it on my lap. Two pancakes, three strips of bacon, and scrambled eggs. “You actually cooked?” I ask in disbelief.
“Yeah. Unlike at my place, your folks actually had something in the fridge.” He sits on the edge of the bed beside me, studying my features.
“Thank you. Um, I usually don’t eat breakfast, though.”
Logan lifts his leg up on the bed and twirls his body so he’s face-to-face with me. “How ’bout this—if you eat up, I’ll give you a hint about a little surprise I have in store for today.”
“Surprise?”
“Yep.”
“What kind of surprise?” I ask.
His lips curl up into a grin. “Eat up.” I stab my fork into the fluffy cake and take a bite. “There you go, Jersey Girl. Let’s get some meat on those bones.”
“What?” I mumble through my mouthful. “I’m not skinny.”
He chuckles. “Eat up, will ya?”
I quickly scarf the rest of it down until my belly’s aching and on the verge of exploding from being full. But it was worth every bite to see the satisfied look on Logan’s face as I took my last swallow. That’s the best breakfast I’ve had in a really long time.
“This is not fair! You made me eat all that breakfast and you haven’t given me one hint!”
We’ve been driving for almost two hours now. First, Logan had to stop by his apartment to grab a few things. He asked me to wait in the car, which I did. When he came back out, he held a black book bag over his right shoulder. When he entered the truck and I asked what was in the bag, he tossed it in the backseat and told me it was none of my business.
“I gave you a tiny hint already,” he says.
“Telling me to bring a change of clothes and dress comfortably with sneaks is definitely not a hint.”
“We’re heading toward the lake house.”
“Is that the big surprise? The lake house?”
He laughs at my unenthusiastic tone. “No. We’ll be there tonight to hang out. Bryson, Santino, and a handful of people will be there. It won’t be packed since everyone is with their families for barbeques and fireworks and crap like that.”
“Why aren’t you and Bryson with your family for the Fourth of July?”
“Because my mother hasn’t celebrated the last two years; it’s too close to Sean’s birthday. Uncle George usually hangs out with his buddies. It’s not really a big holiday for us.”
“Oh.”
“But I can tell you where I’m taking you is nearby the lake house.” He steers the wheel as he turns his head to take a quick peek my way. His smile brightens. “Oh, come on, Jersey.”
“Come on what?” I ask innocently.
“What’s that face for? I expect you to be enthused by the mystery of this adventure.”
“Honestly? The lake house isn’t a huge surprise. I wouldn’t have scarfed down my breakfast for—”
“Oh, have a little faith.” Logan shakes his head at me in mock disappointment. “I only said it was by the lake house. It could be the most epic surprise of your life for all you know.” I cock my head to study him. He catches me staring and smiles.
“Okay. Fine,” I relent. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. This could be the best surprise ever!” I joke, slamming my hand to my chest and batting my eyelashes at him.
“See? Now you’re getting it, Jersey.”
Logan parks his truck in a large dirt-filled parking lot surrounded by tall trees. There’s a handful of cars spread out in the lot. I unclick my safety belt but stay inside, scooting toward the dashboard and crooking my neck to get a better look.
We’re parked at the base of a trail into the woods, but these woods aren’t like the ones by the lake house. Those are open and airy and you can see at least a mile. These woods, even though it’s sunny and bright out, feel dark, secretive. Hundreds of tree trunks hide what’s beyond.
Run.
Sweat coats my skin, trailing behind a sheet of goose bumps. My fingers grip the edge of the seat as I stare ahead. I stare and stare, waiting for him to jump out—the person watching me. I can’t see him, but I can feel his eyes penetrating through the trees, across miles of wildlife, through the windshield, and straight into me. He’s waiting for me to step out of the truck.
Run.
“All right, Jersey let’s do this—”
Logan stops midsentence. Shuddering, I slowly turn my head to him. He’s beside me with the door wide open. His eyes cautiously take in the fear in mine. “Are you all right?” he asks.
I’m not. Everything in my stomach is churning, my mind is racing, and my heart stammers in my chest. I’m not all right. I’m scared and though I don’t know the man that I’m afraid of, I can’t help that I am. I don’t want to be anywhere near him.
Logan’s hand finds its way to my cheek. The warmth from the contact instantly soothes me. I lean my face into him, wishing I could shrink and curl into a tiny ball and live in the safe haven that is Logan Reed’s palm for the rest of my life.
“Look at me,” he urges kindly. My eyes flutter open, mesmerized by stormy blues as they fill with concern for me. “We can leave,” he says, acknowledging my discomfort.
You always ruin everything.
Shut up, I tell the voice in my head.
You do! Just because
you’ve ruined your own life, doesn’t mean you have to ruin it for everyone else, You’re pathetic…
Straightening my shoulders, I suck in a shaky breath and fight back the urge to burst into tears. As much as I hate the voice, it’s right. I ruin everything for everyone.
Slowly, I shake my head side-to-side. Logan’s brows draw in, “You sure?” I nod. He’s not convinced. “I don’t know, Jersey—”
“I’m fine!” I croak. Clearing my throat, I finally say, “Seriously, I just thought I saw something, that’s all. I’m fine now. I promise.”
Logan stares at me, hyperaware of every bit of my anxiety. He turns his head toward the evil woods. I focus on him, breathing a little heavier than normal. Finally his eyes are back on mine and everything is okay again, if only for a moment. My lips tremble into a shy grin.
“All right, then,” he says. “Let’s get to it.” He reaches his hand out for me. I grab it without hesitation and hop out of his truck.
Logan intertwines his fingers with mine, tightening his grip as he pulls me in closer to him, but our bodies remain inches apart. Using his free hand, he shuts the passenger door behind me.
I take in all of his actions. Even if they mean nothing to him, they mean everything to me. The way his body towers over mine—it makes me feel safe. The way he pulls me in close enough to breathe in the smell of Gain fabric softener lingering on his fresh T-shirt—it sets my senses whirling. The way our bodies touch without actually touching, my chest centimeters from the middle of his stomach—it only intensifies the magnetic pull between us, slowly luring me to him.
I’m falling deeper and deeper into an ocean filled with nothing but emotions for Logan Reed. I’m the anchor sinking to the bottom. Reality is the life vest thrown in to rescue me. But in my life, I don’t want to be rescued from reality. I want to drown in this small world created with Logan. I want to breathe it all in, let it fill me up, and drift away. I don’t care how much it’ll burn or the amount of time I have left before my lungs stop working. I want to just feel this way for as long as I can.
