The Logan Brothers - Books 1-4: (EXPOSURE, CRASH, TWIN PASSIONS, and ADDICTED TO YOU)

by Shorter, L. A.

  ….

  It was Monday night when I stood in the kitchen at the 'Den'. That's what I called my underground poker club. I'd wanted so much to run Logan's Casino that I'd decided to say 'fuck it' and start up my own little thing on the side.

  In many ways this place was much better. It was small, exclusive, and purely for proper poker players with proper money. I didn't really want to have to deal with all the shit that went into managing Logan's. No, this place would do me just fine.

  The one problem, of course, was Crash.

  I hadn't told him, or any of my brothers, about this place. It wasn't strictly legal, or regulated, and I knew if he found out about it he'd hit the fucking roof. Crash ran the whole family now, and was overseeing all of the family's assets. But he was so busy building this new hotel and casino that he'd never notice my little side business.

  No, I kept this all under control. As long as people who came down here kept their mouths closed, I'd be all right.

  It had been so far anyway. I'd been running poker games down here for months now, and no one knew anything about it. I started with close friends, before letting some friends of friends in as well. I wanted to keep a lid on it, so made sure anyone who came down knew the deal.

  “Don't fucking tell anyone,” I'd tell them.

  But then, I also wanted to make money off it. I got my friend Zig involved. He'd been a bouncer at my bar for a long time, so I used him as muscle. I started to charge fees for playing, skimming off the top and putting the money into my own pocket. It was beautiful.

  I even began giving people credit. I'd let them play with up to $5,000 depending on how reliable they were. If they won, they'd cut me in on 20% of their profits. If they lost, I'd send Zig over to collect.

  I felt like my father's son. I'd grown up idolizing him, this big fucking boss in town. No one messed with Charles Logan, and Crash soon followed in his footsteps. Now dad was gone, and Crash was looking to set his sights higher than dad ever did.

  I guess, in a way, I wanted to prove I could set something up for myself. I'd been allowed to run the bar but Crash never trusted me with it, not since dad died. I was always trying to show him that I could do a good job, that I wouldn't fuck things up.

  With this poker club, I was proving that, if only to myself.

  Chapter 5

  Amy

  My dad's house always felt empty since mom died. It wasn't that he changed the furnishings or gutted the place when she passed; it was the lack of her presence that left the place feeling cold and lifeless.

  The house was massive. If I was more proud of how he'd built the place I'd admit it was a lavish mansion, and not just a house. I remember when I was a kid and he was having the place built. It took over a year to complete, and he had an entire team working round the clock to get it done. When we finally moved in I felt like I was walking into a museum. It was just so grand and palatial, quite imposing to me as a kid.

  It never quite felt like home.

  For me, it was my dad's way of showing his power, proving his dominance, asserting his presence on the neighborhood. It wasn't homely, it wasn't where I wanted to live. I don't think mom liked living there either.

  I didn't care for the safe room, state of the art home defences, 10-car garage, or the helipad built onto the roof. I didn't even care for the heated indoor swimming pool or the double, floodlit tennis courts, nor the 10 acre landscape garden or the 20 seat home cinema.

  None of that mattered to me, not when I began to learn exactly how my father earned his money. For years I'd been shielded from the truth, fed lies for breakfast, lunch, and dinner to keep me detached from it all. But as I got older my curiosity grew, and I soon learned exactly what it was my father did.

  I stumbled onto him having one of his more 'intimate' conversations with one of his men. It was late at night, the house completely silent. I went down to the kitchen to grab a glass of milk and overheard raised voices away in my father's study. I followed the sounds and saw him through the crack in the door.

  He was standing there, a gun gripped tight in his hand, his spare digits wrapped like a snake around a man's neck. He was thrusting the end of the pistol into the guy's head, threatening him and telling him to 'finish the job'. As I listened I learned this the 'job' was to assassinate a rival, and his entire family.

  He told the man to make it look like an accident, to burn down their house as they slept. I thought he worked in finance and was listening to him ordering the murders of an entire family. I was only 13 years old at the time.

  It was during that year of my life that I began defying my father where I could. I think I did it on purpose, did it to show that he wasn't in control of everything. That's why, when he told me to stop playing poker, all it did was force me further and further into the game. When he tried to get me to join dance and acting classes, to engage in 'normal' activities for 'normal' teenage girls, I turned my back and walked away.

  I began to resent him for who he was and what he did. I thought he worked as a banker, but never understood what it meant. I was just told that he was 'busy a lot with work'; that was the only explanation I got to explain his regular absence from my life. That, at least, I could understand, learn to accept. OK, so I'd never have the closest relationship with him, but I could be proud of who he was, proud that my daddy had an important job and needed to work a lot.

  But no, he wasn't a banker, he didn't work in finance. He was a murderer, a criminal, preying and profiting on the suffering of others. How could I possibly be proud of a man like that? How could I possibly love a man like that?

  ….

  I sat outside my dad's mansion in a hire car. I'd left my Porsche at the hotel. If things went badly, and I was to leave straight away, I didn't want my dad knowing my number plate or even what sort of car I drove.

  I'd been back in town for several days now, preparing for this moment. I'd driven nearby a few times, but could never muster the nerve to keep driving up the driveway and towards the house.

  I hadn't seen him for three years, I hadn't even spoken to him during that time either. We had become completely estranged, my life taking me beyond his clutches and into a whole new world. Sometimes I would send a letter or a card for his birthday or Christmas, just so he knew I was safe. For everything he was, for everything he'd done, he was still my father, and I couldn't put him through the torture of not knowing whether I was dead or alive.

  I'd driven up through the gates at the bottom of the driveway leading up to the house. The security measures outside had been updated since I was last here, with an armed guard inside a small control room now acting as gatekeeper.

  When he asked me who I was I could see his hand clutching tightly at his side, ready to pull out his pistol if he needed to. It was like I was entering the fucking White House or something, and my dad was the President. Things must have become serious around here to warrant such defences.

  I told him I was Amy O'Brien and the change in his face was instantaneous. He mumbled and fumbled for a moment before asking for some I.D. I gave him my driver's license and he quickly called it in and opened up the gate.

  There were a couple of extra security men lingering up near the entrance of the house outside of the front door. I sat in my car and sucked in a few deep breaths. I could feel my nerves building heavily inside me, weighing me down and preventing me from stepping out of the car.

  Then, suddenly, the door to the house opened and I saw him. He stood there in the doorway, dressed, as he always did, in a smart black suit and tie.

  My father, Conor O'Brien.

  His expression remained strict as he spoke a word to the security men to his sides. One of them wandered down towards the car. His hair was cut short like a marine and he also wore a dark suit. As he reached the car he pulled on the handle and opened it up.

  “Miss O'Brien?” he questioned, as if my dad thought I was some sort of imposter or something.

  I nodded.

  “You
r father is waiting for you.”

  He stepped to one side and I climbed nervously from the car. I hadn't felt this tense in years, despite the nature of my life.

  The guard held out his arm, gesturing me towards the front door where my father still stood, looking at me with a hint of suspicion. I walked forward as the man shut my car door behind me, my steps abbreviated and shaky.

  As I got closer I began to notice my father's face start to soften, his eyes taking me in. I climbed the wide steps to the house and he slowly moved forwards, his face cracking as he spoke, his voice still loaded with doubt, as if I was an apparition.

  “Amy?” he asked. “Is it really you?”

  The corners of his lips curved up in a smile as his hands drew out in front of him. He moved quicker as I nodded, his arms grabbing me and pulling me into a deep hug.

  “My little girl,” he said, his hands settling on either side of my face as he took a long look at me. I let myself smile and a tear trickle from my eye. I had never seen my dad look at me in that way, as if he truly, endlessly, cared for me and loved me.

  He hugged me again, his arms wrapping tight around me. I felt young again, like I was 12 years old, before my life began to change, before I learned the truth. For a fleeting moment I felt the love I had for him erupt to the surface, a love that had long lay dormant.

  “It's OK,” I heard my father say, his eyes dashing to the two guards still lingering nearby, “you can go. This is Amy, my gorgeous little girl.”

  ….

  We moved through the house, and I felt an immediate shudder run through me. The place was full of memories, of ghosts from my past. They came rushing through me, filtering quickly back into my mind and whispering to me the reasons why I left. I felt suddenly cold and alone again, stuck in a mausoleum with no way out.

  My father led me through into the main living room, where a maid stood dusting the furniture. The place was just how I remembered it, large and open and spacious. It was a place for hosting sumptuous and sophisticated parties, gatherings for the city's wealthiest and most powerful residents. It was not designed for a child, nor for the comforts of a family. I had rarely spent much time here before I left.

  “Fetch us some drinks,” my father spoke to the maid as she turned around to see us walking in. “I'll have a whiskey, my daughter will have a hot chocolate....is that OK sweetheart?”

  He turned to me with the question and I nodded. Hot chocolate? I hadn't drank that since I was about 15. He was always trying to keep me young, keep me as his little girl.

  The maid scuttled off out of the door, leaving us alone in the quiet, cavernous room.

  Dad moved forward and sat in his chair, a large armchair he used to smoke in. It was made of tightly stitched red leather, and looked out towards the southside of the room, where a large set of glass doors and wide windows allowed the light from outside to spill in.

  I sat down opposite at the end of a long sofa, my eyes still scanning the room, trying to remember if anything was new, if anything had changed.

  “Is it strange being back here?”

  I looked over to my dad to see him staring at me. He was settled in now, sitting back in his chair, his legs crossed casually over each other.

  “A little,” I admitted. “It's been a long time.”

  A short silence descended, broken quickly as the maid came rushing back in with our drinks. She clearly knew that Conor O'Brien wasn't a man to be kept waiting.

  “Some things have changed, though,” I said, as the maid once more closed the door behind her. “Like the extra security. Is something wrong?”

  He took a sip of whiskey and breathed in deep. “Nothing for you to worry about Amy,” he said.

  His answer didn't surprise me. He always used to shut me out, keep me from knowing anything about his life, his work.

  “So, how have you been? I haven't seen you in so long.” I could tell that his initial elation at seeing me again was quickly being overcome by his anger at my leaving. I couldn't blame him for that, but I'd also expect him to understand. He knew exactly why I left.

  “I've been well dad, really well. I travel a lot, move around. I've been enjoying my life.”

  “And money, what are you doing for money? You haven't used any of your credit cards. Are you OK? Are you getting by?”

  “Money's fine dad, that's not a problem.”

  I could see his eyes flashing. “Are you still playing....poker?”

  I nodded. “That's how I'm earning. I do really well dad...you might just be proud of me.”

  He planted the most strained smile I'd ever seen on his face. I knew he wouldn't understand. Even if I made millions from the game he still wouldn't get it.

  “That's good Amy, that's really good. I...I am proud of you.” His words weren't convincing, but I didn't care. I'd long learned to realize that my dad's approval would never come with anything he didn't understand. So why bother caring?

  “And you?” I asked him, not expecting any honestly in his answer. “How's life?”

  His answer was just as ambiguous as I'd thought it would be. “It's fine” is all he said.

  An awkwardness hung in the air between us. There was so much that needed to be said, but neither of us were willing to bring up old issues so quickly. He'd never agreed with my life choices and I'd never agreed with his. It was a subject of contention that I wasn't sure we'd ever be able to resolve.

  But right now we just smiled and nodded to each other, unwilling to dive straight back into our issues. It was uncomfortable and unnatural. It had always been like that since mom was killed.

  As we spoke I could sense everything beginning to bubble up to the surface. There was only so far small talk could get you when there was so much that needed to be said. We both had real grievances that needed to be unearthed, and I knew they wouldn't stay buried for long.

  “How long are you back for Amy?” dad asked. I knew he wanted to speak his mind about me leaving but was biting his tongue.

  “I don't know dad, I guess that depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  I paused for a moment. “On you.”

  His eyes widened slightly. I couldn't tell if it was hope.

  “How so?”

  I took a deep breath. “I don't want things to be like this between us dad. You're my father, and I love you....but I need you to understand why I left. I need you to tell me the truth.”

  His eyes narrowed and his eyebrows arched down. “What truth? What do you mean?”

  “About mom. I know her death wasn't an accident.”

  He kept his gaze on me, unmoving. “She died in a car accident Amy. You know this.”

  I watched him closely for hints that he was lying. I'd learned to be able to read people like a book, and right now the signs were all there. He wasn't telling me the truth. He never had.

  “Dad, I know that's not the truth. Why don't you just admit it? Why do you think I left in the first place? Because of all of this, everything you do. I know mum was shot to death, I know it wasn't the crash that killed her.”

  His eyes widened slightly and he stood up quickly, walking towards the window. He had his back to me, staring out into the landscaped garden and splashing fountain being tended by one of a series of gardeners.

  “Where did you hear that?” he asked quietly, his voice deep now. “How do you know?”

  “I overheard some of the men talking. They said mom had been shot in the car, and that's when you crashed. Someone was trying to kill you and they killed mom instead. She was taken away from me because of one of your enemies.”

  I could feel my eyes beginning to water as I spoke. My assured calm, my composure, was lost in the face of the memory. For years I'd kept my thoughts at bay, never talking about my mother's death to anyone, least of all my father. He always thought I believed his lies – that she'd died when he crashed the car – but that wasn't the whole story.

  No, I knew that someone was trying to kill him an
d that's why she'd been shot. She was innocent, my best friend, the one person in the world I could count on and trust; but she was taken from me because of the life he led. It was his lust for money and power that got her killed. Nothing more.

  From that point on I could never look at him in the same way. Our relationship, one that was already malfunctioning, was broken completely. He thought I blamed him for crashing the car, but could never bring the truth to me. Maybe if he had, maybe if he'd been honest and stopped trying to hide everything from me, I'd have been able to accept it. Maybe if he'd done that I could have moved on.

  But he hadn't. He'd lied and I'd left. I couldn't cope with it any more. I had to escape.

  “I'm sorry Amy,” he said, still looking out of the window. “I should have told you. All I wanted to do was protect you, that's all I've ever wanted.”

  “But I wasn't a kid dad! I was nearly 18. You should have told me the truth, rather than letting me hear it from someone else...”

  At that he turned suddenly, his voice beginning to rise slightly: “And you should have told me you knew. Why didn't you tell me you overheard my men? Why did you just leave? Do you have any idea what it's been like for me. I lost my wife and then I lost my only daughter. I didn't know where you were, whether you were safe, what you were doing for money. I had no idea who you were spending your time with. All sorts of thoughts went through my head, thinking you'd been attacked or raped or worse. Did you hate me that much that you'd want to punish me in that way? Was I so bad a father that you'd want to put me through that torture?”

  His words were gushing now. I'd never heard him speak to me like this, not with such passion and pain. I felt a pang of guilt rise up through my body as his expression grew more hurt, his words striking at my core.

  “I needed to get away from this....all of this...”

  “From me?” he cut in.

  I paused for a moment before answering: “Yes, from you....from your whole life, this whole life. It got mom killed, it was sucking the life out of me. I couldn't bare it, knowing how this house had been built on blood and suffering.”