Chapter Twelve – Logan
Wednesday night I stand in the room where I keep my guitars. I stare hard at them. Ever since Wren brought it up earlier, I’ve been in a bad mood. I’ve been pissy. She has no idea the wound she poked at; she didn’t even know it’s a wound to begin with. Now she knows it’s a sore subject for me.
Keeping my cool is impossible when guitars and everything else is a reminder of what I had, what I used to be, what I fucking lost. I’m no one now, and that fact was only rubbed in my face when Wren asked that innocent question: you play?
Do I play? That’s like asking if I can fucking sing. Of course I can fucking play, just like I can fucking sing.
Damn it.
In an effort to cool myself down, I hit up the nearest bar that night, try to drown my sorrows in booze while picking up a girl or two. I flirt heavily with a skinny girl with long, thick red hair for hours. I buy her a few drinks, and soon enough we’re in the alley next to the bar, making out.
It’s messy, which is familiar to me. I’m used to it.
Her name is… Holly? Molly? Whatever, it doesn’t even matter.
It’s messy, because I’m a fucking mess. I’ve always been a mess.
It’s always been easy for me to launch myself off the deep end, to take a dive and barely come up for air.
I’m used to damn near killing myself with my lifestyle.
Her tongue is in my mouth when her hands sloppily fiddle with my pants. I’m semi-hard; not as hard as I should be, but I can get there. I can… I can fucking get there.
She pulls her mouth off mine, and I open my eyes to watch her fall to her knees. It wouldn’t be the first time a girl has given me head in a dark alley, but it is the first time I’m not fully in the moment. I’m here, but at the same time, I’m not. It fucking sucks.
Out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see someone cross the sidewalk, but when I turn my head I don’t see anybody.
My pants are undone, and she’s seconds from pulling out my dick when I stumble backward, away from her, which causes her to look up at me with a hazy, confused expression.
My voice comes out gruff, “I…” Fuck. I want to keep this going.
I want to see how far I can take things with this girl, but for some reason my mouth disagrees. “I gotta go.”
I give her my back and start to walk away from her, swaying only a little, and I don’t stop when I hear her call out, “What the fuck? Are you serious?”
Unfortunately for us both, I’m dead fucking serious. I just don’t know why.
I never turn down a good time. I’m always up for it. Hell, the only one who could keep up with me in Black Sacrament was Priest—I can’t even count how many times we shared a group of girls. It was the life. It was just what we did. It was a part of being rockstars.
And now I’m nothing, and I can’t fucking forget it, no matter what I do.
My pants are fixed, and once I’m out of the alley and onto the sidewalk, I glance both ways, figuring I’d see whoever it was I saw out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t see anyone. No one that sticks out like a sore thumb, anyway. Nobody that’s openly leering.
Behind me, the girl comes out of the alleyway, bristling as she walks past: “Fucking asshole.” She returns to the bar—after pointedly giving me a harsh glare.
Fucking asshole. Yeah. That’s what I am. It’s what I always was and always will be. This feeling, though… I don’t know what it is or why it’s nagging me so hardcore. Ever since Wren asked if I play. No, ever since I took her home, things have been weird for me, and I just don’t know why.
Fuck.
I walk home. The perk of living off-campus means I’m close to the nightlife, to all the clubs and bars. Tonight was supposed to be a night where I drowned my sorrows, a drinking night, so I walked, even if it meant walking home would be the opposite of fun.
And I was right. This is the opposite of fun. I’m not nearly as drunk as I should be, and my dick should be deep inside that girl’s throat.
I blame Wren. I blame Wren for all of it.
Maybe coming to MSU was a mistake. Maybe I wasn’t ready to have a normal life. Maybe a part of me still clung to what I used to be, what I used to have… maybe that part of me will never let it go, and I’ll always feel like this.
Shit. That’s depressing.
During the walk, I can’t help but feel out of place, like someone’s watching me and laughing. I glance over my shoulder quite a few times, but I never see anyone. It must all be in my imagination or something. Not sure what that says about me. Paranoia is a hell of a thing.
I make it home, and I stumble up the stairs.
I throw myself onto my bed, face-first, and will sleep to come to me.
My head is a little foggy, the world around me spins a bit, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
What’s giving me a run for my money is the fucking feeling of not being good enough.
The feeling of deep-seated loss. It’s like my soul was cleaved in half when I was told I could no longer be Pope.
I’m Pope. I haven’t been Logan in forever. I don’t know that I can go back to the person I used to be before fame.
Time crawls by, and I think I lay there for an hour or two before sleep finally takes me. My last conscious thought before I fade away into nothing is about Wren, and how I hate her for dredging up all these stupid feelings inside me.
I debate on skipping my classes the next day, but it’s the first week of classes this semester, so it’s probably smart to drag my ass to them even if I’m not all there in the end.
I don’t pay attention. I’m just a warm body.
That’s how it goes for me until Friday, till I stroll into my intro to psych class and see little miss perfect sitting in the front row, waiting for class to begin like the goodie two-shoes she is, her notebook and pen already in hand, ready to go.
I shouldn’t sit next to her. I should choose another seat in this auditorium—at least I’d have some peace of mind.
Hell, she’d probably like that, too. She’s made it clear that she wants nothing to do with me.
A challenge is all fun and good, but when the so-called challenge knows a sore spot of mine, that makes me view it a little differently.
What if she brings up my guitars again? I don’t know that I could keep my cool. Keeping my cool isn’t what I’m known for.
In the end, I head down to the front row and take up my spot beside her, dropping my bag down between my knees. “You know,” I start, eyeing up her notebook and pen, “you’d be able to take better notes on a laptop or tablet.”
“Maybe,” she says without looking at me, “but when you write things down, you use a different part of your brain. It helps you remember stuff more.”
I chuckle. “I don’t think so.”
That causes her to look sharply at me, those brown eyes of hers narrowed in my direction. “It’s a real thing.”
“No, I think you made it up to make yourself sound smarter.”
“And what would you know about being smart?” The moment the comeback comes out of her, she widens her eyes and looks away. “That was mean. I—I didn’t mean it like that.” Apologizing like she personally offended me or some shit.
Fuck. It’d be so much easier if this girl was more like the girls I was used to. I had a taste of her, so therefore I should be done. I shouldn’t care. Literally shouldn’t give a single shit, but that’s the thing: I do give a shit.
“I think you did mean it like that,” I say with a shrug. “Don’t worry. I don’t care. We can’t all be smarty pants like you.”
“I’d rather be smart than be whatever you are… no offense.”
I flash her a grin, and she averts her eyes like my smile is either blinding or the ugliest thing she’s ever seen in her life—and I know for a fact it isn’t the latter. “Miss Goody-Goody has some teeth, huh?”
Wren rolls her eyes. “I thought you’d sit somewhere else.”
“You’re not in the clear yet.”
The way she looks at me after that makes me wonder if she’s debating on bringing up what pissed me off on Wednesday, but right then Professor Scott walks down the steps and heads to the podium.
She turns her attention away from me and, when the professor meets her eyes, he smiles at her and nods his head.
He’s just a professor. He’s only saying hello, just as he probably said hello to the students he passed on the way down the steps.
Still, I’m not blind. He’s a good-looking guy, young for a professor, and the way Wren’s cheeks get an extra boost of color when she exchanges hellos with him makes me wonder if she likes looking at him.
It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. I don’t give a shit if she thinks the professor is hot. She’s allowed to think anyone she wants is hot, just like I’m allowed to do the same… even if I always stop myself before any actual hooking up happen.
Still, even though I repeat that thought to myself, I can’t help but get a little prickly at the idea of Wren finding our professor attractive. It makes no goddamned sense.
Class begins, and Professor Scott launches into whatever lecture he has planned for the day.
Beside me, Wren takes diligent notes, while I just sit there and listen—or I try to listen.
Really, I can’t stop thinking about the girl next to me and how the common denominator of me feeling strange is her. It goes back to her every single time.
Thank God today is Friday, which means after this class I’ll have a good seventy-two hours away from her. Maybe it’ll be long enough to get her out of my mind.