Perfectly Damaged

by E. L. Montes

  “After Brooke found me, I was taken to the ER,” I go on. “I was evaluated and placed on suicide watch in the psych ward. Then my parents felt it was best to send me away for a few months.”

  “You were taken to Brandy Mental Health?”

  I shake my head. “No. My parents never told me about my grandmother. So I’m sure keeping me far away from Brandy was for a good reason. I was taken to a small, private ‘rehabilitation’ retreat, as my parents called it. They told family and friends I needed a break from all the stress of school and such.” I roll my eyes. “But honestly, I didn’t fight it. I let them take me there and I signed the admissions paperwork.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I knew I was burden to all of them, so I didn’t fight them on it. And at that point I was desperate to get better. The therapist at the retreat told my parents that because I was aware of my illness and willing to work on getting better, my chances of recovery were high.”

  “I don’t understand the recovery process,” Logan states, confusion evident in his tone. “I’ve heard of people who recover from drug and alcohol abuse and self-harm. How does someone recover from a mental illness?”

  I draw small circles in the palm of his hand, allowing the comfort and calm to wash over me as I talk about my illness with him. “I know it’s hard to believe. The word recover is sort of a misnomer. Someone who’s recovering isn’t miraculously cured. Just like an addict, sometimes when things get rough, it feels uncontrollable and they relapse. Think of it that way. I could relapse at any time.

  “But with the proper treatment, good eating habits, and exercise—and most importantly a support team—there’s a strong chance I can beat this. I’ve read stories of some people who were able to stop taking medication altogether without suffering from the hallucinations or delusions. And I did. For about a year, actually.”

  Logan shifts. I lift my head and meet his gaze. His eyes brighten with hope. “You were able to cope and deal with it without medication?” I nod in response. “Well, that’s good, right? I mean that means you’ll be able to again. Right?” he urges.

  I shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  His brows crease then relax with understanding. “You relapsed.”

  “I did. Ten months ago, when Brooke died. It was difficult for me. See, before I only suffered from hearing voices. But I had my first hallucination about a month after her death.”

  “Of what?”

  “Her.”

  Logan pulls his head back. “Brooke?”

  “Yeah.” I lower my head, ashamed. “My therapist said it had to do with the tragic loss. For most individuals, the loss of a loved one is an excruciating pain and they grieve, eventually moving on. But someone who already suffers from psychosis, someone like myself, tends to deal with things differently. Not everyone with my condition would have had the reaction I did. People with psychosis all have different triggers and such. But for me, I couldn’t accept the fact that she was gone.

  “Brooke was everything to me. She was my rock. She kept me on my toes. She cared for me, and never once did she make me feel like I was different. She always encouraged me, told me I could be a famous artist or a politician or a teacher. Whatever I wanted to be in life, in her eyes I was capable of being it. When others saw the glass half empty, she saw it three quarters of the way full. She was one of those annoying people who was always quirky but happy.” I laugh, tears welling at the rim of my eyes.

  “If you told her an image was ugly, she’d look at you as if you were nuts and show you how beautiful the picture truly was by pointing out details, the nuances in the color, the shading, the texture, the meaning behind it. Showing you that flaws could be stunning and intriguing and mind-blowing—that was Brooke. At the end, you’d be inspired by the portrait and even more by her. That’s just the person Brooke was. That’s the person who was taken away from me, and I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t know how to deal with it. I hated myself and everyone around me because I couldn’t understand why she was taken away. Why wasn’t it me?” Logan thumbs over my moist cheeks, wiping away the tears as I force my next words out. “The world needs more of her and less of me.”

  “Don’t say that, Jersey Girl. You deserve to be here. Whatever happened to Brooke was out of your control. There was nothing you could do. You hear me?”

  I shudder, tightly clamping my eyelids closed. As much as my father and Charlie said it wasn’t my fault, there’s always something nudging at me that it was. Like maybe I could have saved her somehow. The thought reopens old wounds, and I burst into hard sobs. Logan pulls me into him, consoling me as I let it out.

  And I do.

  It’s past midnight. Logan fails at TV surfing as he nods off in bed. He’s seated up against the wooden headboard. I’m lying beside him, my head on his lap, looking up at him. His fingers gently comb through my hair, pausing midstride when he dozes off, then continuing when he comes to and flashes his eyes open.

  After I cried my eyes out—when I thought there was no possible way I could shed another tear—Logan and I continued to sit by the lake. No words were spoken after that. None were needed. Logan had comforted me the only way he knew how: by holding me. His arms curled around me, his gesture silently reminding me that he wasn’t going anywhere.

  We didn’t leave until it began to rain. Then we had dinner with the rest of the crew. It was a nice distraction from the haunted thoughts fighting for my attention.

  When outside partiers began to trail indoors, Logan and I snuck into his room. For the past two hours, we’ve done nothing but lie here. Since Logan’s room is located by the front of the house, the music and noise from out back is very distant.

  I watch him doze in and out as I continue to trace his features. My eyes scroll over his, admiring the thickness of his lashes. They’re not long, but they’re dark enough to bring out the metallic cerulean hidden behind his hooded eyelids. I suck in air as my stare drops to his stubble-covered jawline, which could quite possibly be chiseled directly from granite. My gaze dashes to his full, soft lips. As quickly as it came, the air dissipates from my lungs, as I think of exactly how those lips taste. Although I’ve only fully felt them twice against mine, I’d recognize the owner of those lips on any given day.

  Immersed in every inch of his rugged aspect, I try to memorize all of it, imprinting each and every fine detail of his features, and vault it deep within my head. A place where I can lock away the perfect image of the man—

  Suddenly it hits me all at once.

  I hope that there’s a moment in everyone’s life when everything around them just stops. There’s no movement whatsoever, yet you feel…

  Every. Single. Thing.

  All of the emotions traveling through every cord, fiber, and thread of your existence—every muscle, aching. You want to cry. You want to laugh. You want to drop to your knees because you feel the weight deep within your chest. It’s too difficult to bear, but you won’t let it go.

  You can’t let it go.

  Because deep down you know without it you’re nothing.

  Lifeless.

  This is madly, passionately, and without a doubt falling in love.

  With every part of me, I’m falling in love.

  And now that I have it, I just want to grip on to it for dear life. Because I know once it’s gone, I’ll be back to where I started: in a tomb, feeling numb. Before Logan, I thought if I stripped away any chance of feeling at all, I could keep myself from getting hurt. But I’d rather feel every single emotion, where it pains me so much to love, than feel nothing at all.

  Logan makes me feel alive.

  I’ve fallen in love with this man, this man that looks past my imperfections and accepts me.

  I want to give him all of me. I’m in love with him. I am truly, without a doubt, deeply in love with Logan. It’s a feeling I thought I had experienced before with Eric. A feeling I thought I knew. But I never really knew this feeling. What I have for Logan sits deep in my che
st, rooted at the center of my heart, submerged and hidden for no one else but him. It’s within my soul.

  If I die today, my soul will forever be his.

  So many emotions twirl deep within me. Tears filled with the love I have for this man obscure my vision. I’m unable to control it any longer. Sitting up, I lean in, shutting my eyes as I kiss him. The tears collect along my lashes and drip down my cheeks. Logan sucks in a breath as he awakens. It doesn’t take him long before he registers what’s happening and his lips respond, perfectly united with mine.

  It’s a kiss unlike any we’ve ever shared. It’s sensuous yet obsessive and urgent. Though he’s taken off guard, he doesn’t pull away. His lips naturally mold to my mouth as if kissing me is the most natural thing in the world. He tenderly sucks on my bottom lip, gently tugging my flesh between his teeth. I lose control. I need to be near him, closer. Never breaking contact, I position myself across his lap, straddling him.

  In the dark lit room, his hands find their way up and frame my tearstained face. He brushes his thumbs along my moist cheeks, but when he realizes I’ve been crying, he tries to pull away. I force our lips to hold. I don’t want to lose his touch. “Why are you crying?” he mumbles against my mouth, his fingers gripping at my face.

  “Because of you,” I hum against his lips. “Because of you… I love you, Logan.” Tears sting the corner of my eyes. I shut them tightly and dig my nails into the flesh of his shoulder blade, pulling his chest against mine.

  He groans at my confession. Dropping his hold from my face, Logan grips my thighs and grinds me against him. I whimper as I feel his immense hard-on. The two thin cotton layers of our pajama bottoms are the only things interfering with what we both clearly desire.

  Logan slightly lifts my shirt. His fingertips taunt the flesh of my hipbone, lingering, but he doesn’t attempt to go farther up. He’s trying not to lose control within our kiss. Our tongues savor this moment in slow, long licks. He tastes sweet and salty, and I want more. A strong pull, a tug deep below my waist, pushes me closer to him.

  I want to feel his skin against mine.

  I want to experience his touch.

  I want his lips on every inch of my flesh.

  My nails rake through his hair. My breathing grows rapid; I try to catch my breath, but our kiss intensifies. I weep over his mouth—with one hand, I grab his wrist and dare him to explore under the hem of my shirt; but he maintains his hold on my hips, his fingers digging into my skin there. Does he not want this?

  I pull away, my lids flash open. His hooded eyes burn with want. I shake my head, confused. “Don’t you want me?” I pant out.

  Logan sucks in a breath and blows it out roughly between his words. “I want you so fuckin’ bad”

  His words kindle a throbbing pleasure below my waist. I grind, rubbing against him. I slowly rotate my hips, feeling the swell in his pants. He certainly wants me, and as wet as I am, I want him just as much. “Then why are you holding back?” In a bold gesture, I tug at his wrists. He releases his hold on my hips and allows me to guide him underneath my shirt. At the hint of my bare skin, he groans, and I match it with a charged exhale as his fingertips dust a scorching trail along my flesh. I guide him up my sides, around my back, and on to the clasp of my bra strap.

  His fingers linger. “Jersey Girl.” He hisses, sucking in a deep breath. “I don’t think I’ll be able to stop. I can’t—”

  “I want this, Logan,” I cut him off. I gently rest the palm of my hands along his chest. “I want this more than anything.”

  Before we can utter any more words, we lose our breath as our lips collide. His hand still grazes the clasp of my bra, wavering. Within a heartbeat, he unclips it. Finally. My breath hitches.

  This is it.

  This is really happening.

  Heart racing, I pull away, gripping the edge of my shirt and tugging it over my head. I moisten my lips and stare down at him. So much is written in his eyes. He’s panting as his stormy blues dance around my face. It’s as if he’s mesmerized by every single carving of my features; and he seems to be analyzing what’s going through my head at this moment. I lift my hands and remove the straps of my bra, slowly dragging them down my arms and exposing my swollen breasts.

  Logan’s struggling, fighting back the urge to lose control. He sucks in his bottom lip, stalling for time. His gaze drops down to my chest, but he doesn’t make a move. He brings his eyes back up to mine as if he’s seeking approval. I smile and lightly nod, wanting him to, needing him to. Desire has completely taken over. I need a stronger connection.

  An intimate connection.

  His hands softly slide up the side of my torso, and I arch my back, rocking against him as his fingers graze over my ribs. Logan stops just beneath my breasts. There’s a long pause between us where nothing but the sound of our panting can be heard. His lustful stare penetrates through mine, shooting flames of longing deep into my belly. His tongue darts out over his dry lips and he traces his thumbs over my nipples. Before I can react, Logan rolls us over so that my back is flush against the mattress.

  He quickly removes his clothes and kneels before me, totally naked, and without a doubt the most beautiful male I have ever laid eyes on. Aching for him, I reach down to remove my bottoms, but his hand stops me. I freeze. My heart’s pounding and I’m trying to figure out what—he pulls at the string of my pants, hooking his fingers over the sides by my waist, and gently tugs them down along with my panties. They’re on the floor in a matter of seconds.

  Logan touches and caresses me with his eyes, learning every inch of my bare skin. And I allow him to. I’m entirely naked before him, embracing every part of this perfect experience. For so long, I wondered at what it would feel like to be exposed before Logan Reed, to bare it all and have him soak in every fragment of my being.

  I thought I’d be scared or ashamed because of who I am, because of the darkness that is a part of me. But in this moment, as affection pools in his eyes and acceptance in his heart, I feel nothing but free. Until now I hadn’t realized that Logan has been undressing me from the very first time we met. Slowly, layer-by-layer, he removed the facade that hid the real me beneath. The me I thought would always be concealed. But not anymore.

  My love for him surges. The separation between us is too much. I sit up, my hand wraps around his neck, and I pull him down to me, connecting our lips once again. Instantly, we’re back in a trance, lost in our kiss, savoring each stride. I fall back onto the mattress, bringing his body down with mine, enthralled by the beat of his heart along my chest.

  Logan slightly pulls away from our kiss. His lips flicker over my mouth—top, bottom, side… In a daze, I gradually open my eyes. I’m met with Logan’s adoring stare. His hand frames my face and his thumb traces up and down my jawline. Our breathing is shallow, our hearts beating as one. The tenderness in his gaze gives me all the reassurance I’d ever need. “Say it again,” he whispers. My brows draw in in confusion and I shake my head. He spreads my legs with his knee and sinks into me slightly—just the tip of him at my opening.

  I gasp. Relief. Anticipation. Rapture. Ecstasy.

  “Tell me again,” he says, imploring me with his blue eyes. And then it registers through my haze of lust and love and passion and promises that my confession has touched him more deeply than I’d realized. I lift my head, the tip of my nose grazing his as the curve of my lips mold to the curve of his. My stare lingers as I emphasize each tiny word slowly, proving to him that I mean each one. “I. Love. You.”

  His lips ajar, a tiny groan escapes. My words encourage him, and he grinds his hips, inching himself farther into me. Thoughts flee my mind as air escapes my lungs. All I can feel is the delicious friction and pleasure coexisting within me. I shut my eyes, waiting for him to fill me completely, but he never does.

  His face hovers over mine as his words drift over my lips. “I knew I was done for,” he says, “the morning I drove by and saw you alone, staring at that house. I told myself
to keep driving, but something told me to stop. And when I’d seen how lost and confused you were, something told me I was meant to be there.” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “I was meant to be there so I could help you find your way.”

  Logan digs his hips farther into me. My breath hitches and my eyelids bolt open. Our lips agape, he fists his fingers into my hair. “The night we went to the diner, when I told you about my accident—” He thrusts. I arch into him, whimpering as he fills me with his length. “You didn’t judge my past. That’s when I knew I couldn’t turn away from you even if I tried.”

  He pulls out slowly then fills me again. He continues with gentle strides, picking up the rhythm gradually. I join him, rotating my hips, my body shuddering at how incredible it all feels. Our bodies move together, pushing and pulling in perfect accord.

  “The night of the beer pong game,” he says roughly, struggling with his words. My breathing increases as he grips my thigh and tosses my leg over his waist, allowing him to push deeper into me. I toss my head back into the pillow, the desire burning in the pit of my stomach. “After we lost and I leaned into you. I wanted to fuckin’ kiss those lips so bad.” He grazes his lips over mine, sucking on my bottom one before taking a breath and mumbling, “But I saw how scared you were, so I gave you another kind of kiss.”

  “Special Logan kisses,” I whisper.

  His lips curl into a gentle smile, and he continues to drive into me. “Yeah, but you didn’t know that I’d recited how I felt for you right then, in that moment, in my mind. The words flowed silently, so easily. There was no mistaking them. When I gave you those three kisses, I was telling myself and you…” He pecks my nose. “I…” He kisses my forehead. “Love…” My heart swells as he presses his lips to my chin. Then he whispers, “You.”