Chase

16. Chase

CHASE

After leaving Logan’s suite earlier, the rest of my shift has been a prolonged kick to the teeth.

One of the regular servers is out sick tonight, which would have been fine if the restaurant didn’t also have a twelve-person bachelorette party scheduled for seven o’clock, followed by a corporate retreat at eight.

One of the walk-in fridges in the back kitchen broke ten minutes into the first massive reservation, too, and it’s been a shift from hell ever since.

“Fuck,” David roars at me and Ruby as he rushes past the line cooks, slamming a metal tray down on the counter. “We need the bachelorette desserts out now, and we have to move all of the creme brulee pots into the working walk-in. Both of you, go. Desserts.”

“Moving as fast as I can,” I tell him.

“Do it faster,” he spits back. “Quit daydreaming in fucking fairy-land, Chase.”

My heart pounds hard in my chest. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

I say it without thinking.

David could easily fire me from the tone I used, alone. But luckily, tonight, he needs me too much.

“We’ll chat later, Chase,” he says in a low tone. “Go.”

I rush into the failing walk-in, get the desserts that are luckily still very cold, and bring them out to the bachelorette party.

“Oh my God, yes,” the bride says, her eyes going wide at the cups full of white chocolate raspberry mousse. “I’m too drunk to say no to sugar right now.”

I place the cups of dessert in front of each of them, and a woman with curly blonde hair at the end of the table blinks up at me.

“You’re, like, hot,” she says, one corner of her mouth curling up in a smile. “How long is your shift?”

“I appreciate the compliment, but you’re unfortunately barking up the wrong tree,” I tell her.

She blinks again. “What?”

“I think he’s saying he’s gay, Kristin.”

I don’t bother to correct her friend and say I’m bi, because regardless, I’m not interested in any action from her.

She doesn’t seem deterred. “You could take my ass. I don’t mind.”

“Jesus, Kristin,” her friend says, her eyes going wide as she looks back at me. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s no problem. Let me get you guys a fresh pitcher of water.”

“That would be excellent,” her friend says.

After another half an hour, they’ve finished their desserts and we’ve collectively helped Kristin chug down a couple of glasses of water. She’s hiccupping when I come back to the table to clear all of the cups.

“Can I ask you a question?” she tells me, only slurring her words a tiny bit now.

“Go for it.”

“Is it true that Big D is staying at this hotel?”

My jaw tightens.

Way too many fans of Yard Line have become aware of his stay.

“We are not permitted to disclose who the hotel guests are. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Oh my God. That has to be a yes,” she says, turning to her friend. “Like, he’d say no if the answer was no, right? I’m going to find Big D. I’m going to be the next one to get married! And it’s going to be to a famous actor, bitches.”

“He has a name,” I blurt out, my tone a little too harsh. “Celebrities are people, not characters from a show. You can’t just hunt them down like game animals, understand?”

She gives me a wide-eyed look and I’m worried I’ve just fucked up for the final time.

She’s going to ask for the manager.

And then she’s going to complain to David that I was short with her, and I’m going to get fired.

But her lopsided smile comes back a moment later, and she hiccups and starts to laugh.

“Feisty waiter,” she says. “I still want you to fuck me in the bathroom—”

“Enough, Kristin,” her friend says. “I’m so sorry.”

I wave a hand through the hair. “It’s nothing. Just make sure she gets back to her room safely.”

“I’m on it.”

When I’m back in the kitchen, I bring another batch of stuff into the working walk-in and I pause for a moment, taking a deep breath.

It’s not the bachelorette party upsetting me.

Or my boss.

Or even that everything seems to be breaking.

I reach in my pocket and feel the envelope Logan gave me. I’ve been looking at the money multiple times over the past few hours, getting angrier and angrier each time throughout my shift.

Why did you give this to me?

The right thing to do would just be to take it, deposit it into my account, and have a little extra cushion toward rent this month.

But fuck that.

I don’t want his money. Why the hell would he think to even do something like that?

The rest of my shift is more brutal by the hour. The corporate dinner guests get even rowdier than the bachelorette party women were, and while none of them proposition me for sex, they’re very demanding about drinks and one of the guys even snaps his fingers at me when he wants a refill.

I fantasize about splashing paint along the pristine table in front of them.

Staining it with neon green and blue and pink, then moving to the walls, destroying the perfect vintage wallpaper with the thickest brush I own.

Ruin it all, and drown it in color, until it’s something new.

Every hour that I spend here is an hour I spend away from my art, from the actual thing that I want to devote my life to.

And some nights, I feel like I’m being slowly consumed by a life that I never would have chosen.

I wish I had a pack of cigarettes to chain smoke that somehow magically wouldn’t lure me back to an addiction.

Or a sledgehammer to take to every wall. Or…

Or a way to turn back time and figure out what I did wrong with Logan.

What I did to make him try to pay me off.

I’m beyond exhausted by the end of the night.

David takes me into his office right after we shut down the kitchen, and I’m ninety percent sure I’m getting fired.

But he says it’s my final warning. He reminds me that I am one of the best workers he’s ever had, but that my attitude is “completely unreasonable” sometimes, and I need to watch myself.

As I’m walking out the back exit, I feel Logan’s envelope in my pocket again and anger rips through me again like a living thing.

Fuck this.

I stride back inside through the kitchen and into the Bellwood lobby. I use my badge to beep in, granting me access to the top floor.

It’s like there’s a ball of fire inside my chest propelling me forward toward Logan’s door.

Shouldn’t be here, I tell myself as I walk forward down the short hall.

Really shouldn’t.

But I’m possessed by something stronger than myself. My mom has always told me to channel it into my art, when I have these moods. But right now Logan’s door is closer than my canvases.

I reach up and knock hard on his door many times.

I pause, then do it again, making sure he knows I’m here.

Blood’s rushing into my ears and my heart is pounding so hard I can feel it, but I’m not turning away now. I probably look like shit and smell terrible after my long shift, but I don’t give a fuck right now.

I feel for the envelope in my pocket.

The moment Logan swings open his front door, I push the envelope against his chest.

“I’m not accepting hush money,” I tell him. “I’m not a whore. And you can’t pay me off to keep quiet, either, and honestly I can’t believe you think I would tell anyone about us without your consent, anyway, I’m not a monster—wait, fuck, Logan, are you bleeding?”

I release the envelope on his chest and it drops to the floor.

I move down to clasp his hand in mine, bringing it up so I can see it closer.

“I want to do the nude photoshoot,” he tells me, completely ignoring my question.

“Logan.”

“I want to do it,” he insists.

“Can you tell me why you’re bleeding first?”

“Oh, fuck,” he says, looking down at his hand. “I am.”

“What the hell happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Logan says. “I wasn’t trying to even hit the wood, but I slipped, and…”

Three of his knuckles are coated in red. They’re gashed pretty badly, and even as I’m bringing his hand up, another trickle of blood comes out.

He needs bandages. And antiseptic, and maybe even a little bit of gauze wrap.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell him.

“Chase, it’s fine—”

“You better fucking open this door when I get back,” I call out to him as I head back down the hallway and go straight for the elevator. I take it down to the kitchen and tear into our first-aid kit, grabbing way more supplies than I’ll actually ever need.

When I arrive back on the top floor, Logan is still there, leaning in the door frame, and he still has that isn’t-this-all-a-bit-silly look on his face. His cheeks are rosy.

“You think I was going to stand in the door and let you bleed out in front of me?” I ask, raising my brow.

The corner of his mouth comes up into a tired half-smile, and even that feels like a small win to get out of him.

“Bleed out, from a cut on my finger? Dramatic,” he says in a lilting voice.

“Yep. I am dramatic. Get used to it. Now let me inside.”

He exhales, moving to the side and holding out his arm, letting me into the suite.

Inside, he has the lights dimmed low, and only one of the fireplaces on.

There’s at least triple the amount of paperwork on the living room coffee table than was there earlier.

Some of the stacks look like movie scripts but some have a more legal appearance, probably contracts.

I go for the dining table instead.

I pull out two chairs and motion for him to sit.

“It wasn’t hush money, Chase,” he says.

I wave my hand through the air. “We can talk about that in a minute. First, explain why you’re bleeding.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” I tell him firmly.

He looks off toward the tall windows, his expression far away as he gazes out at the park. “Have you ever considered that I don’t want to talk about it?”

“You’ve made it clear you don’t want to talk about it, or talk to me about anything at all. But I’m tired of beating around the bush, so if you want me to fuck off, you’re going to have to say it to my face—”

“Don’t fuck off,” he murmurs. “Please, please don’t fuck off.”

I grab the antiseptic wipes and bring his hand up. “Why are you bleeding?”

He doesn’t respond, and I hate the silence. He doesn’t even wince when I put the wipe onto his scraped up hand.

We stand up afterward and he stretches out his hand and arm, seeming very lethargic.

“Did you crack into a bottle of wine?” I ask him.

“No. Haven’t had a drop,” he says. “I’m just very sleep deprived lately.”

It takes a moment before he meets my eyes again. He gives me a long look, his eyes like two grey clouds, and something in him looks fucking broken.

I don’t understand him.

But it’s painfully obvious he needs a hug.

He can be distant all he wants, but I’m not blind. I step closer and wrap my arms around him tightly. I breathe in his scent as he stays rigid for a moment, not expecting the gesture.

But finally, he relents and lets his body melt against mine.

“Logan,” I tell him, my voice coming out a little raspy.

He leans back a little, and when I catch his eyes, it looks like something’s finally clearer in them. “I don’t know how to act around you.”

I’m not sure if that should break my heart or make me proud.

I bring my palm to his chest and grip his shirt there, balling the fabric up a little in my fist.

“I need to ask you a question,” I tell him, “and I need you to tell me the truth when you answer.”

He’s looking at my lips. A surge of something electric shoots through me.

He swallows hard. “I will.”

“Are you going to freak out if I kiss you?”

His pupils flare. “Probably. Yes.”

I nod. “You want me to do it anyway?”

“Chase, right now I’d probably let you do anything. Do it without asking. Punch me in the face. Bend me over and whip me. Please do whatever the fuck you want with me so I stop thinking so much—”

I close the gap between us in an instant, pressing my mouth to his.

The heat of his lips feels wicked, like there’s something burning between us. He exhales the moment our lips touch, and I don’t hold back.

I stay there on him, lifting my hand and bringing it to his hair to lace my fingers through it, and I’m surprised when Logan doesn’t seem to hold himself back either.

He opens for me, sliding his tongue along mine, and the slick sensation goes straight to my cock.

I bring my hips forward and rut up against his hip with my cock.

“Don’t give me that much permission,” I say against his lips before going back in to claim his lower lip with my teeth.

I pull his lip back slowly, then let it go, bringing my thumb to swipe over it.

“Can’t help it,” he says.

I’ve wanted it for so long.

Too fucking long.

“You let me do things like this, and I’ll want to do them all the time,” I warn him. “Don’t know if you’re ready for that.”

“Maybe you should try me. I’m not the same person I was last year. I… fuck, Chase, I’m so tired of self-control.”

“So drop it. I’m here. I’m in control now, and I can handle it. I want you to relax.”

He pulls in a long breath as I press a kiss to the edge of his lips. “Is that a command?”

“It absolutely is, Logan.”

I pull back a little, realizing one of my fists is still curled on his shirt while the other is tucked at the back of his hair.

“You deserve more than I give. You deserve to hear me speak more openly about my life. About my past. All of me.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything else,” I say against his neck. “We don’t owe each other shit. I’m well aware of that—”

“Will you stay here?” he says suddenly.

I squeeze him tighter. “You really must be sleep deprived to be asking that.”

“Fuck you,” he murmurs, his voice slightly muffled against the side of my head. “I’d still like it, even if I wasn’t. You were all over me on the couch this afternoon.”

“I thought I was bugging you earlier.”

He lets out a frustrated groan against me, almost like he’s pissed. “I loved it.”

I shift one hand down his back. He leans in to kiss me again, biting on my lower lip to pull it back now, just like I did to him. He gives me a sultry look afterward.

“I’ll stay here,” I tell him. “But only if you tell me why the hell you’re bleeding, and why you gave me an envelope stuffed with cash. If you don’t, I’ll fuckin’ threaten you.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Threaten me?”

I nod. “Yep. I’m not kissing you again until you tell me. That’s a fucking threat.”

“Is it bad that I want to find out what it’s like to be threatened by you?”

I lean in close, almost kissing him, but at the last moment I don’t do it.

I reach down to palm his cock through his pants, and then I take that away too.

“It’s a little bit like that.”