Chapter 3
3
LOGAN
W ell, she’s gone.
Not sure why I expected otherwise.
Expected is the wrong word. Hoped is, too. I know better than to put my hopes and expectations in the hands of other people. They’ll only let me down.
Still, this one stings in a way I didn’t see coming.
I scan my suite from the bathroom doorway, shaking off the last of the shower’s warmth while rubbing a hand towel over my ears. The rest, I let the air take care of. A breeze slips in through the cracked window, cooling the lingering heat on my skin.
She left in a hurry. The bedsheets are tossed open. The aspirin I left her? Gone. The water? Empty. That’s good. I imagine she’s nursing the kind of headache that makes you swear off drinking forever. If she’d stuck around, Tesla could’ve whipped up one of her famous hangover cures—half witchcraft, half science, entirely disgusting—but I’m not surprised Katrina fled instead.
She’s in Criminal Records. And my band, The Electrics, spent the better part of our summer tour trying to sabotage theirs.
But I never wanted to. Not really.
I did what I had to do. What was necessary to give my band the shot they deserved. To give my girls the life they earned through blood, sweat, and tears.
I don’t regret that. Won’t apologize for it.
After all, wasn’t it just a little fun?
A flash of yellow on the floor catches my eye. I step forward, toes grazing a crumpled sticky note that didn’t survive the morning rampage. Did she read them? I picture her stomping through my suite, ripping them down one by one in frustration. A smirk tugs at my lips.
Then I spot the final crime scene.
The robe.
Or rather—the lack of it.
That little thief stole it.
A slow grin spreads across my face.
I’ll have to get that back.