Текст книги "Perfectly Damaged"
Автор книги: E. L. Montes
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
When Logan said he wanted more from me last night, it scared the hell out of me. Maybe he was just drunk and it was the liquor speaking, but that’s a chance I can’t take. I’m not sure if going out with Matthew is the best option. I used Logan to get rid of Matthew. Now I might use Matthew to push Logan away. The thing is I don’t want to push Logan away; I want us to keep what we have. It’s simple and perfect. But the more he wants will only complicate things. Letting out a frustrated breath, I type a text, send it off, and then head downstairs where the others are.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Ms. Drunkster herself,” Santino jokes. He’s seated by the kitchen table with Charlie on his lap as usual.
I moan, brushing him off as I take the only empty seat, which is beside Logan. He smiles and pushes a full glass of water and a bottle of aspirin toward me. I open the cap of the bottle and pop two pills, gulping them down with the water. Everyone is minding their own business, chatting away. Logan leans in, quietly asking, “What happened to you this morning? I woke up and you were gone.”
“I had to use the restroom, and I felt so sick I just went to bed upstairs. I didn’t want to chance it if I had to vomit. Sorry.” I really needed to just get away. To think. Alone. Without being in his arms.
He reaches up and brushes my bangs aside in understanding.
“Would the two of you just hook up already?” We both turn our heads and face Blair Mega Bitch. She rolls her eyes. “Don’t give me that look. We all think the two of you should just do it already,” she says, tossing both arms in the air in frustration.
“We’re just friends,” I say. My phone buzzes. I open the text that came in and read it.
“Well, with friends like the two of you, who needs fuck buddies, right?” she goes on.
“Jealous?” Logan retorts.
Blair’s eyes spread wide, then she laughs. “Of the two of you? Hell no. It’s just disgusting. The tiny whispers, giggles, cuddling, but no kissing or sex? Pfft. The entire scene makes me have blue balls and I don’t even have balls.”
Logan opens his mouth to retort, but I cut him off by saying, “Well, like I said, Logan and I are just good friends. In fact I have a date on Tuesday.”
“With who?” Logan whips his head around, eyes glaring and lips slightly parted.
Shit. Why do I suddenly feel nervous? Most of all, why do I feel guilty? “Matthew.” I say it so low, I don’t think he hears me, but his twisted features tell me otherwise.
“Matthew?”
I look around at everyone. I guess I’m secretly hoping for help, but everyone turns their head and pretends not to be listening—except for Blair Mega Bitch, that is. The smirk on her face just proves she’s enjoying all of this. I’d like nothing more than to smack it off her face.
“Yeah. We’re going out on Tuesday for a late coffee date. Is that a problem?” I face him, arching a brow.
“Nope. Not at all,” he says smoothly. I study him. Interestingly enough, he seems to be okay with it.
* * *
Logan
Is she fucking kidding me?
Matthew?
The same dude that stopped by her place when she forced me to kiss her so she could get rid of him?
Do I have a problem with it?
Nope. Not at all.
I’m completely fucking cool about it.
She can go out with Matthew.
I couldn’t care less.
I couldn’t give two fucks.
Matthew?
Fuck Matthew and Tuesdays and shitty fucking coffee dates.
* * *
Jenna
It’s Tuesday, six in the evening. Matthew took me to a quiet coffee shop nearby my house. Over the past hour he’s been going on and on about starting grad school in the fall, and how his parents are proud of all his achievements, and how he graduated top of his class, and how he wants to be involved with politics just like his father and hopes to one day be president of the United States, but before he can move up, he has to start from the bottom, so his first goal is to be a senator within six years and blah, blah, blah.
None of this interests me.
Physically, I’m here with him as I nod and smile. Emotionally, my head is wrapped up in Logan. He sent me a few texts last night. They were simple, as simple as Logan could be.
LOGAN: Excited about your coffee “date?”
ME: “Date?” Yeah, I guess I am.
LOGAN: Yeah, “date.” I mean who takes a girl out for coffee as a date?
ME: Believe it or not, it’s very common.
LOGAN: It’s stupid.
ME: What would you do for a first date?
LOGAN: Take her out to a diner and then back to my house to watch a comedy ;-)
ME: Sounds like a nice date. Lucky girl.
And then I regretted texting it because it was flirty and I didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. So I changed the subject to something completely random, talking about the weather and how it’s going to be extremely hot in the coming week. He must have gotten the hint because he played along.
“Are you okay?” Matthew prods.
“Huh? Yes. Well, not really. I have a headache.”
“Would you like me to take you home?”
I know this is so bad in so many ways, but I ask anyway. “Do you mind driving me to a friend’s house in Philly?”
“No, not at all.”
I smile.
* * *
Logan
I’m enjoying my second beer, playing a video game, and trying to focus on anything other than picking up my phone to bug Jersey Girl. I know she’s on her “date,” so I’ll just wait. But waiting is a bitch. I’m just about to break my own rule when the doorbell rings. I groan. Who the hell could that be? I’m not in the mood for visitors. Reluctantly, I stand from the couch and make my way toward the door, opening it while I take a sip of my beer. My eyes meet with Jersey Girl’s brown gems and I act natural. I don’t want her to see how much her being here actually excites me.
Jersey’s eyes trail down my shirtless body and the PJs hanging low from my waist. Then she looks back up and smiles at me. “Can I come in?”
I step aside, still holding the door open for her, and close it after she steps in. “How’d you get here?” I ask, following behind her as she makes her way into my kitchen.
“Matthew.”
Matthew. I’m happy her back is facing me so she can’t see the way my expression sours at the mention of his name. “You asked your date to drop you off at another guy’s place?” That makes me smile.
“Nope. I told him it’s a friend’s place. I didn’t stress it was a guy’s place,” she says, opening my refrigerator. “I’m so hungry.”
Jersey looks good. She’s wearing tight jeans—which accentuate her ass perfectly—and a loose yellow blouse that brings out the color of her eyes. Her hair is done in long waves that fall just past the middle of her back. I love when she wears her hair like that. It looks good on her. She’s bent over, her head in the fridge, and I can’t help but picture all of the things I want to do to her. In the kitchen. On the couch. In my bed. Then something flares in my stomach as an earlier thought prods my mind. She got dressed for another guy. She got dressed for another guy and it pisses me off. I lean back onto the counter, crossing my legs and trying to compose myself.
“What the hell, Logan? You have nothing in your kitchen except for old Chinese food and a bag of large marshmallows.” She shuts the fridge, turns around, and faces me with a pout.
She’s so damn cute. “Don’t downplay marshmallows.” I say, uncrossing my arms and legs. I open the fridge and grab the bag of marshmallows.
Jersey lifts herself up onto the counter and sits beside the stove, facing me. She watches as I grab a fork and plate and turn on the gas stove. I stab a marshmallow onto the fork and roast it over the fire.
“You’re roasting a marshmallow on your stove with a silver fork?” she asks.
“Yep.”
She shakes her head. “I’m hungry for real food, Logan.”
“Matthew should have fed you. I’m sure you didn’t have any coffee either, since you don’t drink caffeine.”
She stares at me for a few seconds before responding, “I had a water.”
I shake my head. Douchebag didn’t even know that much about her. “I’ll feed you after you try this.”
“Okay.” She nods.
She watches the white puff light up in flames. I slowly rotate the fork until the marshmallow turns charcoal, then I blow it out. I let it cool down before bringing it up to her mouth. She looks down at it first, hesitant. Then she wraps her lips around the fluff and closes them over the fork, taking the gooey sweetness into her mouth. And fuck is that sexy. I wish it were something else her lips were wrapped around.
“Mmm. Delish,” she says.
“Told ya, Jersey Girl. Don’t knock it ’til you try it.”
“Food. Please,” she demands.
“All right, all right. I’m gonna go throw on some clothes.”
“Why? I don’t mind if you go like that,” she jokes.
I smile. “I bet you don’t. Wanna go to the diner?”
She nods, her gaze lingering over my chest.
I shake my head, laughing as I head to my room.
July
As much as I try to repair my damaged soul, it’s useless.
How can you fix me, when I can’t even fix myself?
chapter 19
Jenna
It’s dark out. I can barely see…
No. My head turns to the right.
I’m cold from the rain. My breathing is uneven as I search around…
No. My head moves to the left.
I’m so scared. I can hear the boots trudging through the mud. They’re getting closer. I run…
No. White-knuckled, my fingers grip the bed sheets.
I run faster, harder. Out of breath and lungs burning, I run, not looking back, just pushing forward…
No. Go away. Just go away.
I lose balance, slip, and fall. With shaky hands, I try to lift myself up. My gaze meets the tombstone.
No! My eyes flash open.
The dream. It’s the same nightmare over and over again. When I think there’s no way it’ll come back, it proves me wrong every single time. It usually happens when I’m under a lot of stress, when my life is chaotic. Like now—or at least I think it is. I don’t know. I’m more confused than I’ve ever been.
I wet my dry lips and sit up, leaning my head against the headboard. There’s nowhere to run or hide. I’m trapped in this room. My eyes quickly scan the space. The creeping feeling that someone is watching me crawls over my skin, and I nervously peer into the dark corners, praying someone isn’t lurking there, waiting to attack.
My large bedroom feels small all of a sudden, like the walls are caving in. I’ve felt safe behind these walls for the last twenty-one years of my life, but now they’re betraying me.
My stomach churns and my throat starts to close, as if an invisible hand is slowly choking me.
I’m suffocating.
I need air or water or an escape. I just need to breathe. Find some way to just breathe. I push the sheets off. It’s so damn hot in here; I brush away the sticky strands of hair from my face. Talking myself into it, I allow my legs to dangle off the side of the bed. I’m dizzy, my mouth is dry, my chest is tight—I need to call someone. I reach for my cell phone on top of the nightstand. With a shaky finger, I skim through the short contact list. Charlie is away on vacation with her family for the Fourth of July week.
I’m stuck. The walls are zooming in. Closer. I breathe in and out, three soothing breaths.
Logan.
He’s been an amazing friend over the last month, but the more time we spend with one another, the closer I feel to him. Too close. And I’m frightened that one day he’ll pull away. He’ll pull away as soon as he knows. I suspect he has an idea of what’s wrong with me. Even though I feel better about myself when I’m around him, I sink right back into reality when we’re apart. The reality where Logan can never be mine.
Mine? What is wrong with me? He’s not an object I get to claim; he wasn’t handed off to me or gifted or purchased. Logan remains the sole owner of himself. But shamelessly, I still want him to be mine.
“Hello?” Logan’s voice, low and raspy, prickles through the speaker. I look down at the phone in my hand. Oh God, I didn’t realize I hit the call button when I saw his name on the list. “Hello…Jenna?” I hear again, his voice sleepy.
I quickly bring the cell to my ear. “I-I’m so sorry, Logan. I didn’t mean to wake you. Please, try to go back to sleep,” I whisper.
He yawns. “It’s cool. What time is it?” He pauses. I look at my clock just as he recites the time. “It’s almost two in the morning, Jersey Girl. Are you all right?”
The sound of his voice is soothing, especially when he says the nickname he made up for me. It’s something I’ve grown accustomed to over the past few weeks. “Yeah…I just had a bad dream.”
“Another one, huh?” he says, his tone a bit clearer now. I can hear his bed squeak, as if he’s adjusting himself to sit up.
Last weekend at the lake house, Logan and I fell asleep on the couch in the living area. That couch has been known as our spot for the last month. We’d stayed up most of the night watching movies while everyone else sat out back partying. I didn’t realize I’d dozed off until Logan gently shook me awake. He said I was shaking and whimpering in my sleep. Even though I knew, I couldn’t tell him what my dream was about. I did tell him, however, that it’s a nightmare I’ve been dealing with for a very long time. He didn’t question me, thank goodness. He rarely does. But waking up to Logan made me feel safe. I guess that’s why I subconsciously called him just now.
“Yeah,” I say. “The same one.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“Not really. I guess I just needed to hear your voice,” I confess. “It calms me.”
He chuckles. The sound of the low rumble deep within his chest shoots a warm liquid through my heart, and a tug starts at the corner of my lips. “That’s good to hear,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to think of something else to keep him on the phone a bit longer.
“Jersey Girl?”
“Yes?”
“Want me to come over? I mean, I know your father is away on a business trip and your mother left for that stupid spa retreat with her friends. And Charlie’s on vacation with her family. You’re all alone in that house. I know you’re probably afraid.”
He’s right. I am alone. I’ve never felt more alone than I do now. “I am scared, I guess. But I don’t want you to drive here at this time. It’s late—or early… Whatever. I’ll be okay.”
“I don’t mind. Tomorrow is the Fourth and I’m off. If I leave now, at this time, there shouldn’t be any traffic. I can make it there in thirty minutes. Only if you want, of course. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“You don’t make me uncomfortable, Logan.”
His silence says he doesn’t believe that. Have my reactions to certain things convinced him otherwise? “Well, the offer is still there,” he says.
“Okay.” I finally cave in. I want him here with me. I’m afraid of this house, of my dream, and of my own thoughts. I want Logan to clear all of it away, like he always unknowingly does.
“All right, see you soon.”
We end our call. I hop out of bed and walk into the bathroom. I look like crap, so I wash my face, brush my teeth, and comb my hair. Then I tread down the stairs and wait at the bottom step, in the foyer by the door.
I just sit and wait.
* * *
The doorbell sounds, startling me a bit. I stand, rubbing the numbness out of my behind from sitting on the marble stairs, and then shut off the alarm and open the door. With sleepy eyes, Logan smiles adorably at me and scratches the back of his head. His hair is a bit longer than when we first met. Right now, the right side is crushed flat against his head while the rest is wildly all over the place. A little giggle escapes me. “You have bed hair.”
Logan’s mouth slants into a crooked grin as he brushes his hand over the wild locks. “Well, I did hop out of bed and run to your rescue. Give me some credit, huh?”
Even at almost three in the morning he’s an ass. I playfully shove my hand against his shoulder. “All right, big guy, no need to be all cocky.” I smile. “Come on in.” Stepping aside, I give him room to shuffle in. When he does, I shut the door, lock it, and punch the code into the alarm. “Are you hungry or thirsty?” I ask him.
“Nah. You?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Well, um, I guess we can go up to my room.”
Logan nods once. It’s not like I’m nervous or anything. I’ve been alone with Logan a lot in the past few weeks, especially in his apartment. But he’s never been in my bedroom, and I’ve never been in his. A bedroom is kind of a sacred space. Asking someone to go in with you could give the wrong impression—especially for us. Will he be able to see right through me and know the exact person I am by my possessions? I shake that thought aside. I trust Logan, so I walk up the stairs, and he slowly follows behind me.
As I enter my room, I look around. Suddenly I’m insecure of my things. I wonder what he’s thinking as he takes in the cave I spend most of my time in. Is he judging the light grey walls and sleek black furniture? What about the built-in bench by the window? It’s filled with three stuffed animals my father gave me as a child, and I just can’t seem to let go of them. Does he think them juvenile?
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.
