Chapter Six – Logan
I don’t know why I said it, and I don’t know why she gave me that look and said okay. Hell, I don’t know what I’m doing here at all—going out shouldn’t be something on my radar. If I’m supposed to move on, partying, drinking, drugs; I have to forget about all of it.
But for so long, it’s what kept me going. It fueled me. Letting it go, starting over from scratch… fuck, it’s harder than I thought it’d be.
My thought was: classes don’t start until next week.
If ever there was a time to get one last partying bout in, it was now.
Probably a bad idea all around, but I’m not known for my good ideas.
I always go too hard, too fast, and I never know when to stop.
I take things too far. I’m not a nice guy, so yeah, it surprises me when she says that soft, barely audible, “Okay.”
It’s like she’s baiting me, like she cast out a line and is waiting for me to take the hook. I shouldn’t do it. I shouldn’t take that hook and let her reel me in… but then again, maybe the analogy is backwards. Maybe the one casting is me and she’s the one on my hook.
Guess there’s only one way to find out.
I stare into her brown eyes and ask, “What do you want?”
“What?”
I smirk. “From the bar. What do you want?”
“Oh, um, just water.” When she says that, she rubs her left wrist, and I see the stamp there. Ah, the girl’s not twenty-one yet. That should be a sign for me to stay away from her, but again, I’m Mr. Bad Decisions, so I’m full-steam ahead.
I turn away from her, though I only angle my head toward the bar; the rest of me remains facing her. I lift a hand and call out loudly, “Hey, can we get some water over here?”
The bartender, previously too busy flirting with a pair of pretty girls, hears me and gives me a short nod before grabbing a glass and filling it with water. He sets it in front of me before he goes to return to the girls to flirt some more.
I scoot the glass toward the girl and tell her, “It helps to be taller than a fifth grader.” She’s short, an inch or two above five feet, if I have to guess.
She takes the glass and swigs it, gulping it down like she’s dying of thirst. Halfway through it, she gives me her best unimpressed look and says, “I’ve been this tall since fifth grade.”
“So you just stopped growing, then? Didn’t your mom make you eat all your veggies?” As I ask, I can’t help but grin. The more I talk about her height, or lack of it, the more riled up she gets. It’s apparently a sore subject for her.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I come from a short family.” She finishes the water and slams the glass down hard enough that it alerts me to her touchiness, and I wonder if she’s seconds from storming off.
Strange as it is, I don’t want her to go. Not yet. It’s odd, yes, but I’m having too much fun with her, so in an effort to keep her here with me, I say, “I’m Logan.”
The girl eyes me up and down, as if she’s wondering whether I’m joking or teasing her somehow.
“See, normally when someone tells you their name, you’re supposed to tell them your name back. It’s how conversations usually go.”
“I know that,” she quickly says. “I just don’t know if I want to tell you my name.”
“Ouch. That mad I called you a nerd, huh?”
She rolls her eyes, not for the first time. “I don’t care that you called me a nerd. You’re just… you’re not really my type.” It’s like she knew exactly what to say to rile me up right back. I made fun of her height, and she tells me she’s not interested in me.
But we both know that’s impossible. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that I’m every girl’s type. The mask, body paint, and mystery behind it all definitely played a huge role, but at the end of the day, I’m still me.
“Come on,” I say. “I’m not asking you to marry me. All I want is a name.”
Not going to lie, this is new to me. Girls would trip over themselves to tell me their names, their whole fucking story, as if I gave a shit—and I never did. I didn’t care. I never pretended to, and they were fine with it. They wanted Pope, the man in the mask, and I gave it to them.
And now Pope is gone and Logan is standing in his place. Sucks, because I’d rather be Pope than Logan any day of the fucking week.
Everything I’ve done, all my experience, country-wide tours, and this little nerd doesn’t even want to tell me her name. I’d be annoyed if it wasn’t such a turn-on.
Don’t ask me why that is. Couldn’t tell you.
After what feels like forever, the girl finally says her name: “Wren.”
Wren. I can’t say I’ve ever met someone with that name. It’s unique, and it fits her. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” I tease her with a smile, and she rolls her eyes again at me, but unless I’m mistaken, there’s a new color on her cheeks.
Is she blushing? Wow. That’s not something I’m used to.
“So, Wren, you don’t normally come to places like this. You came to have fun. If this isn’t your idea of fun, why are you here?”
She opens her mouth, as if she has a reply ready, but then she must think better of it. She shuts her mouth and thinks it over before she says, “I want to try new things. I… want to do things I’m uncomfortable with.”
I chuckle. “Why?”
“Why not?”
“Touché.”
“Why are you here?” she asks me. “Wait, let me guess: you always come to places like this. You like to drink and let loose. Make mistakes and not remember them in the morning. It doesn’t matter what day of the week it is for you.”
I’d be insulted if she wasn’t right.
“Pretty good, for a nerd,” I say dryly, in the hope of getting under her skin—and it works, based on the way she bristles and frowns up at me. Her frown, I hate to say it, is kind of cute.
She’s kind of cute, actually.
“Stop calling me that,” she huffs.
“Why should I? That’s what you are, isn’t it? I bet you were in the top ten of your graduating class.” I wait a moment before saying, “Go ahead, prove me wrong. Tell me you got Cs or something.”
Wren sucks in a hard breath. “I’ve never gotten a C in anything… and I was in the top five, actually.”
I grin, and then I lean down and say, “I knew you were a goody two-shoes.” I inch toward her and reach for her hair, brushing it off her neck, making sure to graze the tips of my fingers along her skin in the process.
She doesn’t move away from me, but her hard glare at me softens a bit.
“The real question is,” I pause for dramatic effect, “how bad do you want to be tonight?”
Her eyes fall, and I can tell she’s thinking about it. This girl isn’t used to talks like this, that’s for sure. The banter doesn’t come easily to her. When her eyes lift and meet mine, she doesn’t say a word, leaving me to wonder just what she’s thinking.
She hasn’t moved away from me, and I’m not ready for rejection, so I hope I’m picking up what she’s putting down.
“I’ve never—” She sucks in a hard breath and pauses, giving my mind enough time to think up a whirlwind of possibilities. She’s never what? Never hooked up with a stranger at a club before? That much is already obvious. Never kissed a stranger? That’s clear, too.
But maybe she means something else.
“I’ve never been bad,” Wren finally says, stopping my mind from racing.
“Not surprising.” I lift a hand to her chin, which I take between my thumb and index finger.
I angle her head back, half expecting her to push me away or step back, but she does neither.
She lets me, and I take advantage of that.
“I’ve been told I’m a great teacher. Let me show you how fun it can be to be bad… we can be bad together.”
Her eyes fall to my mouth, just for the quickest of seconds. If I wasn’t zeroed in on her, I wouldn’t have noticed that falter on her part, and now I know her denial of interest in me was just for show. She’s attracted to me. Of course she is.
As I debate on kissing her, on testing whether or not she really wants to be bad tonight, I decide there’s another test we could run.
I let go of her chin, take one last swig of my beer, and then pull her by the hand to the dance floor, all without saying a word.
We’re dancing within a minute, my hands on her hips, my fingertips digging in just a bit harder than what’s comfortable.
Firm. Firm enough that I’d feel her if she chooses to pull away from me.
And, you know, go back to her goody two-shoes self.
But she doesn’t. She remains right where she is, with her backside pressed firmly against me as we dance to the quick beat.
I’m normally no fan of dancing like this—music like this isn’t my thing.
I like the harder stuff, not the auto-tuned shit—but I can’t lie, having her ass rubbing all up on me is nice.
The nerd has a fine ass, and soon enough I’m sporting a hard-on through my jeans.
Hey, she might not be my type, but tonight the nerd is looking fine.
It’s like she’s begging me to tempt her, to pull her over to the dark side.
She wants to be bad tonight? She’s come to the right place.
No one’s badder than me. I wrote the fucking book on being bad.
Hell, I got kicked out of Black Sacrament for being bad at the wrong time.
I’m not perfect. Never claimed to be. Sometimes I say things I shouldn’t.
She grinds that ass on me, and I respond in kind.
She has to feel the bulge in my pants; I make no moves to adjust myself and try to hide the erection.
It isn’t like I’m the only one dancing with a hard dick—I’m sure the majority of guys grinding on their chosen girls are experiencing the same issue.
A hard-on comes hand-in-hand with grinding on asses, even with layers of clothes between bodies.