Chapter 7
Seven
Baby
What an icon. Heather Chandler really was that bitch.
Also, simply a bitch, but one of my role models nonetheless.
I don’t want to be mean. Sometimes I am, and I don’t have an explanation for why, just a tiny bit of guilt after the fact.
But where our bad attitudes may be similar, I’m nowhere near as bold as Heather.
She’s so loudly herself and quick to speak her mind. She gets shit done.
My bravado is false. A barrier. That’s what Flo says. I’m too guarded, hide too many things under quips and casual name-calling. I choose to simply wonder if she’s right rather than accept it completely.
“Fuck me gently with a chainsaw.”
I nod my head. “Mood.” She also happens to be a poet.
My timer goes off, and I sulk—taking my chosen name literally and being an infant as all different sorts of pathetic washes over me.
Watching movies in my free time is a big part of my life.
It’s routine—and unfortunately, waiting for Logan used to be part of that.
But that thing happened, and I wanted to make sure I turn the TV off and go hide in my cave before he shows up.
I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to finish another movie, but I started it out of spite anyway. Now that I hear my stupid alarm telling me he’ll be home soon, I’m feeling less brave.
There’s been a plethora of why invading my existence lately—why did I do that? Why me? Why him? If this world has a creator, they must hate me something fierce.
As I hit the power button on the remote, I get one final look at Heather Chandler and know this kind of thing would never happen to her—but then the rest of the plot flies by in my head, and I’m reminded that things could always be worse.
I could die choking on drain cleaner. Small blessings, I suppose.
I get maybe twenty minutes of misery-soaked quiet before Logan comes home, knocks once on my door, and walks in before I can say anything. There’s really no point in even having a door, not when he’s so set on pretending it doesn’t exist.
“Hey.”
I stare, holding my breath to let the hit I just took do its thing. “Get out,” I mutter through the cloud of smoke that fills the air once I exhale.
“No.”
I don’t like this extra sassy little backbone he’s grown. He used to listen to me more.
In his defense, the last time he did as he was told, he was forced to pretend he didn’t mind me rubbing up on his grimy work shirt. And that’s what I did—just rubbed my horny gayness all over his straight self.
Why?
He plants himself on my beanbag chair, and I consider telling him he’s too gross to be there, but it’s a lie.
I want all of his yuck. I’m probably gonna wallow in that chair as soon as he leaves, like some animal—the way dogs roll in dirt.
I kinda like his sweat—the way he smells when he comes home.
Want to lick it off of him. I could plant my face right in his armpit and then die happily.
God. I’m high. It’s got that mess of horny gayness demanding attention. I lean forward on my bed to pass him my bong and then lie down, curling around one of my carefully placed stuffed animals—a dog that looks more like a blob than the animal it’s modeled after.
I know I have way too many of them, but I love them and they’re cute.
And soft. My room is filled to the brim with cozy shit.
Fuzzy blankets, fleece fitted sheets, the bean bag chair that’s twice my size.
I’ve kept my walls somewhat bare—a learned habit from Gen for fewer distractions when I’m studying or doing my homework—but apart from my desk and swivel chair, everything else has been chosen simply for its texture.
It makes Logan stand out. He’s got a boyish ruggedness that tells me he’s gonna be an extra manly sort of adult one day, but he’s too cute to pull it off just yet. Unless he’s shirtless. I wish he’d been shirtless the other night.
No, I don’t.
Well, I do! I do because of all that horny gayness I’ve got goin’ on but…
“You look like you’re arguing with yourself.”
I roll over, abandoning the dog to grab a different toy in its place as I give him my back. Kinda wish he’d take it and blow it out.
“Do you have class tomorrow?”
He does that a lot. Changes topics when it’s clear I don’t like the one he’s on. He’s so nice with the way he tortures me. I have no choice but to appreciate the small ways he takes pity on me.
“Yeah. Two.”
Logan didn’t do the college thing. It was one of the reasons I—very briefly—considered not letting him move in here.
He took a job in the city, jumping into the real world early like a big boy and looking sexy while doing it—which is why I ultimately let him move in.
The goal was to find roommates in school, just because that’s what you do when you’re studying—spend time with other people who are doing the same.
Plus, not going the student-housing route worried my moms a bit.
They wanted me to find girls—Gen, specifically, worried I’d go boy-crazy with a little extra freedom.
It wasn’t total defiance that made me pick guys, but I do think that has something to do with it.
Maybe my being a teensy bit boy crazy did play a part, but not much.
Except in Logan’s case.
And now they think I’m dating him, and I’m positive the only reason Gen hasn’t expressed her distaste past those first few complaints is that Flo said not to.
“Do you want to go to the mall afterwards?”
I sit up, my instincts saying yes, but my mouth lagging. I almost forgot he was talking to me. “With you?”
“Yeah. For clothes, or whatever.”
“Oh.” I flop back down. I forgot about that. My body twitches through the effects of the plant I shared with him, and it’s such a snug feeling that I agree. I’ll most likely regret it in practice, but for now, “That sounds fun.”
∞∞∞
“What about this one?”
He gives the shirt in my hand the swiftest of glances and nods. “Cool.”
“Logan.”
He’s impossible. “I’ll wear whatever.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m aware.” The words ‘call me daddy’ splashed across his chest are proof of that. It’s even got a little tear, right there on the collar. It’s obviously a very old shirt. Looks like it’s been stretched out. The neckline sits awkwardly, and shifts with every movement he makes.
I gasp.
“What?” He looks around, trying to see what gave me that reaction, but unless he’s got a mirror, he won’t see it—the bite mark peeking out from beneath his clothing. But there is a mirror at home. He’s had to have looked at it sometime in the past two days.
He’s definitely seen it. There’s no way he hasn’t. I hope he wasn’t upset.
I’m honestly shocked it’s even that noticeable, that dark.
I must have bitten him hard.
“You need a new shirt. Now.”
“I know that—it’s why we’re here.”
“I mean, you need to change now, Logan.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m obviously not going to wear this to Audrey’s dinner, but it’s fine for—”
I grab his wrist and lead him silently to a rack with some more basic tees.
“Here.” I hand him one in a 2X and grab a duplicate so that I can go pay for it while he changes.
“Put this on.” The neckline is higher and less worn out than the one on the shirt he’s currently wearing.
It should—I hope—cover the bite mark I left on his skin.
Like some psycho. I’m aware that biting isn’t okay. I get that. But also, I don’t always do it because I want to. It’s not a conscious choice I make to go around chomping on people when they’re varying degrees of annoying. It’s a thing that I do just ‘cause. Out of love. Most of the time.
I don’t care what anyone says, biting is a love language.
But that, that’s not okay. I have left a bruise or two—dozens, whatever—before, but that’s nuts. It looks like I was actually trying to eat him.
But god, he did taste good. Real good. Yummiest thing I’ve ever had in my mouth. The more I go over it, the more I realize why I latched on so tightly.
It’s kind of scary. I don’t think it’s normal to have something in common with Hannibal Lecter.
“Why?” Logan asks, cutting my reminiscing short.
I give him a look that begs him not to ask again—mostly because I don’t want to say any of the filth that’s bumping uglies around in my head out loud—and he takes maybe two seconds before he groans and turns towards the dressing rooms. It’s a relief until I remember the goddamn mirrors in there, and then I’m nervous all over again. He’ll definitely see it—again.
But at least other people won’t. Nobody else will see my mark on him.
I frown.
It’s a good thing.
It’s a good thing, I tell myself again. For Logan, I’m sure it is. He doesn’t want people knowing I did that. Any of it.
I start to feel paranoid that he’s told people.
I don’t know who he would tell, but it’s possible.
It’s such a humiliating experience all around, and thinking he may have been laughing about it with people I don’t know only makes it worse.
I stressed about that endlessly when I was dating Zeke.
He’d be with his friends, and they’d be looking at me and laughing, and I’d feel like I needed to peel my skin off.
There’s a tiny bit of that anxiety growing now, but Logan wouldn’t do that.
He wouldn’t.
“Find everything okay?”
I force a smile at the clerk and get ready to explain the situation with as little detail as possible. “We’re not done yet, but he needed a shirt now. I was hoping I could buy this one real quick?”
I shove it across the desk, and of course he takes it. It’s his job. I worried for nothing. He even smiles at me like he’s happy to do it—corporate conditioning clearly doing its thing.
“Oh, we don’t need that one,” I say as he tries to put the shirt in a bag for me. “He’s putting one on.”
“Ah, okay. An emergency, huh?” He’s so cheery it’s sickening. “We should wait then. I’ll need to make sure it’s the same shirt before I charge you. Plus, it gives me the chance to talk to you a—”