Chapter 6
Faith
“Angel! Get your sweet ass down here,” Tore’s loud voice easily carried through our penthouse.
The fact he called for me at all, let alone his words, tells me that he has others with him and that I had better be scantily dressed.
Although I’ve never held an actual job, every morning I’m in the gym by eight and then shower before doing my hair and make-up for the day. If I don’t have plans with Tore’s associates’ wives, I’m home either reading or waiting.
Waiting for him to call for me.
Growing up, it never occurred to me that ‘waiting’ could be a full-time job. But it is. At least for me.
Walking down the hallway from our bedrooms, my stomach lurches when I see who is with him today—I shouldn’t have been surprised, not after Tore used ‘sweet ass’, his code to let me know that not only should I be dressed like a slut, but my body could end up being on full display for whoever is with him. Should he choose to allow it.
The Albanian scumbag, leering at me as I enter the living room, is one of a handful of men that my husband has exposed me to over the years.
That doesn’t include the bodyguards or servants who may have been present, of course . Because they aren’t real people.
“Faith?”
The voice sounded as wrong as the name when it called me from my dream this morning. It wasn’t Tore’s deep timber, nor was it any variation of the name I was born with.
Logan’s voice was filled with longing and care, or at least those were the emotions I hoped I heard. Being unfamiliar with both, maybe it was just good, old-fashioned lust. After last night’s experience on his boat, I’d be more than happy to settle for that.
Once I assured myself that I was fully clothed, I warily studied him as he apologized for having to leave, surprised that he cared enough to make plans with me later today.
Whether he would keep them remained to be seen.
Once I hear his door close, I rise and go to the window, shifting the blinds just enough to catch a glimpse of him entering the barn with Bruno right on his heels. Even though my need is somewhat pressing, I wait until I see him walking down to his dock to use the bathroom.
After that, I wander around, looking for any cameras that could be tracking me. Curiosity draws me upstairs, but a quick look from the top steps tells me he’s left it completely empty. While some might find it creepy or weird, especially since I know he’s lived here for over five years, I find it refreshing.
Tore stuffed our homes with so much stuff that I often felt smothered, much preferring to be outside than in. Simply to escape the excess.
Of course, it fell to me to inspect each room of whichever home we were currently staying in a couple of times per week. Ensuring that each item was at the exact angle he wanted it and not incorrectly moved by our maids. That and making sure that there weren’t any odd semen stains he or his lover left behind.
It must be the freedom from all of Tore’s expensive items that has me dragging my feet on buying furniture for my home. Besides the kitchen of my dreams, I’ve only purchased a bed and an outdoor living room set.
The old couch that came with the house is still in the front room, which suits me, especially since all I seem to do there is talk to the tradesmen or treat myself to a one-woman dance party once they’ve left for the day.
As I make my way to his kitchen, I decide to help myself to a cup of coffee.
And that’s when it started , I think a couple of hours later when I’m standing frozen next to Logan’s front door, crying and laughing like a lunatic, wondering if I can make a run for it without Bruno thinking it’s a game.
His mugs were in a cabinet on the opposite side of the kitchen from his coffee maker. The cabinet above his coffee maker had boxes of noodles and ramen soup, for crying out loud!
All I could think was that the heat and the steam from the machine couldn’t be good for the dried food.
Then his silverware was in the absolute last place I looked. They were in canisters in a lower cabinet—what kind of maniac doesn’t have them laid out in an organizer in a drawer?
Literally, every one of his kitchen drawers was a junk drawer.
His bowls and his plates weren’t in the same cabinet and then, out of curiosity, I opened his dishwasher. Only to find baseball caps.
Honestly, I think that’s what drove me over the edge.
Now, he’s back and I have to figure out how to run home barefoot, without his giant, loveable bear of a dog spotting me and then never show my face again.
How else can I explain that I temporarily blacked out and organized his kitchen, bathroom, linen closet, and dresser?
Fuck you, Salvatore Ruggiero. Fuck. You.
I thought I could shrug off our years together when those men murdered you, but here I am ruining a chance at …
“Hey! You’re still here,” Logan’s voice tells me I’ve missed my window to run. “Bruno! No, down.”
Letting out a combination laugh and sob, I barely register Bruno’s paws on my shoulders as he starts to hump my hip.
“Fuck! Bruno, down!” Logan bellows as I just stand there hiccupping.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I start repeating when I feel Bruno being pushed aside and Logan turning me into his embrace. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”
“What are you talking about? Bruno didn’t hurt you, did he? Why are you crying?” Logan’s confusion is understandable as he checks my neck for scratches and uses his thumbs to wipe the tracks of my tears.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that! Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I’m a freak,” I gasp out before hiccupping again.
“For fuck’s sake,” he bites out the words, then slams his mouth against mine.
This isn’t the heated kiss from the night before. Today, it’s like he’s pouring his sudden frustration into me, all while trying to soothe me at the same time.
That sounds nuts , I think to myself before I start to laugh again.
He draws back, tilting his head as he studies my face. “I was eleven the last time a girl laughed at me when I kissed her.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, before covering my mouth and laughing at his indignant expression.
“She was my case worker. I got transferred to an old guy with a shaggy beard after that.” There’s a quirky smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye as he continues. “In retrospect, I should be thankful he didn’t like little boys. Now, you gonna tell me what’s wrong?”
“Your kitchen,” I start, then hiccup again as I try to find the words. “I’m sorry. Nothing was in the right place. But they were in the right place. For you , at least. Just nothing made sense, and I don’t know. And then, I just couldn’t stop.”
I slap my hand over my mouth, watching him as he walks over and opens one cabinet after another. There are a few moments of absolute silence until he opens a drawer.
Then he quirks an eyebrow over his shoulder at me.
“You organized the fast-food condiment packets by their color?”
“I threw some away. They didn’t all fit,” I confess, wringing my hands together.
“Okay,” he says, holding his hands up when he sees me start to cry again. “This is fine, babe. I don’t care.”
“I didn’t stop there,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice steady.
At his perplexed expression, I point down the hall to his room.
His mouth quickly drops open, and I swear, even across the room from him it’s like I can feel his exhale.
When he walks in the direction of my finger, I finally get moving myself. Stumbling down his two front steps, I use the momentum to start running toward the path that will take me home.
An occasional rock has me cursing, but it’s when I land on some thorns that I curse, faltering but catching myself just as I hear him calling my name.
“I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t snooping, I just … I’m sorry. It was just, he liked things in order. And I got used to keeping them in order. And even though you had everything in the weirdest places, I shouldn’t have touched your things.”
Logan’s eyes darken at my words, and without another word he scoops me into his arms and turns back to his house.
Bruno’s contently sprawled out in the yard, only his eyes follow us as Logan carries me inside, straight back to deposit me on his bathroom counter.
“You don’t happen to remember where you put the hydrogen peroxide and Band-Aids, do ya?” he asks, breaking the silence with a wry smile on his lips.
“The second drawer down,” I tell him. “The tweezer is in there, too.”
“Makes it easier, having it all together,” he replies, and I gasp, watching his expression; thankful when I realize he’s being sincere.
“I never should have touched your things,” I tentatively repeat myself, just as he uses the tweezer in his hand to pull out one of the thorns. “Motherfucker! Oh, shit!”
His lips twitch. “I guess we’re even now, huh?”
“Asshole,” I say, right before he goes back in for the second spike. “Jesus Christ!”
“Don’t be a baby, baby,” he says as he reaches for the peroxide. “I’m almost done.”
“That’s not funny,” I grumble, relieved he’s almost finished.
“What do you say we wait a day for that horseback ride I promised you and we go out on my bike instead?”
I bite my lip, trying to figure out how to avoid spending time with him; just knowing he’s going to want an explanation about everything I’ve done and said today.
“I want to make sure your foot is fine before you spend a couple of hours in stirrups. There’s a great burger place I know about an hour from here, and I’m starving, so let’s get a move on.” His words leave little room for me to say no. Not that I really want to.
When he turns away from me, I look down at the supplies he left on the counter and the open drawer—forcing myself to ignore everything—as I gingerly test out putting weight on my foot.
I instantly feel like the baby he teased me about being. The bite of the thorn is gone and there’s no pain when I stand up straight.
“You don’t happen to know where my boots are, do you?” I ask, soaking in all of the ink on his back as he changes his shirt.
“They’re probably in my boat,” he says with a shrug. “Have you been on a motorcycle before?”
When I shake my head, he quickly explains that I need to watch out for the muffler, but I narrow my eyes at him when he continues. The whole, wrapping myself tightly around him seems a little self-serving to me.
For the quick ride to my place, I know I’m overly stiff, worried about burning my leg, but not nearly as worried as when he follows me into my house.
“What?” he asks, looking way too innocent before crossing his finger over his heart. “I won’t touch a thing.”
After the thorn, I’m in no mood to apologize again, so I simply nod before going to change.
“Are you a chef, by any chance?” he asks when I rejoin him.
“No. I mean, I love to watch cooking shows and experimenting in the kitchen. But no, it’s just kind of a hobby I want to get better at, I guess.”
It’s obvious that he wants to ask me about a dozen other questions, instead, he just motions toward the door.
“You don’t have to lock it, y’know. No one’s going to bother you way out here.”
“Have you forgotten?” I ask in a teasing voice as I secure the second deadbolt. “I’m a city girl.”
“That you are.” Somehow, the long, slow journey that his eyes make from the tips of my rhinestone cowgirl boots up to my neckline turn what once sounded like a slur to best compliment I’ve ever received.