14 - Devil Fingers
Logan
“Ow. Fuck, Casey,” I bark as my muscles contract, doing the exact opposite of what she’s trying to achieve.
She jabs her thumbs into my shoulders, sending an electrifying tingle racing to the tips of my fingers that has me close to leaping off the couch.
“Looks like you overdid arm day,” she scoffs, voice dry with amusement. “Someone overcompensating for being an insensitive arsehole?”
Did I mention Casey’s a masseuse? I have the displeasure of seeing her once a month for sixty minutes of pure torture, which she certainly gets a kick out of.
You see, when we were dating, she was in college, pursuing a career in sports massage.
She used me as her guinea pig, at the same time as teaching me about different techniques. That’s why I’m a dab hand at it now.
I don’t retaliate to her snide remark, mostly because she’s right. I’ve been going ham at the gym recently, trying to punish myself with vigorous workouts and sets. Pummelling the guilt from my body.
Casey’s always right.
It grinds my gears. No one likes to be wrong, least of all me.
“Logan. Relax, will you?” She slaps a warm palm against my shoulder blade, then struts to the other side of the couch. Prodding the opposite muscle, she groans. “You’re so stiff.”
“I thought you girls like it stiff,” I snicker at the floor, only to be rewarded with a slap on the back of my calf.
Worth it.
I’m lying on one of those portable couches - you know, the ones with an awkward hole to stick your face into. A bit like trying to squeeze your head through a particularly tight sock.
There’s music playing, something calming, classical. A small water feature on one of the shelves above trickles a path of water over a giant glowing globe. It’s meant to make you relaxed, at ease but it’s not working for me. All it’s doing is making me need to pee.
Casey shoves her elbow into another rock-hard muscle towards my glutes, making me hiss through my teeth.
“Alright, this is ridiculous,” she exclaims, frustration seeping into her voice. “You’re going to tell me right now what’s got you in such a state. You haven’t been this knotted up since we first met.”
I roll my eyes; not that she can see and ignore her. But Casey isn’t the kind of girl to back down from an argument. I know that all too well. She’s small, but hella mighty.
Like some kind of professional ninja, she slips under the couch and stares up at me with those bloody doe eyes of hers. I’d spent many hours staring into them in the past. I still love her, but not in the way I did back then. Now I love her as a friend.
When she plants her rear on the floor, my eyebrows draw together. Crossing one leg over the other, she gets herself comfortable, like she’s planning on spending a considerable amount of time on the hard wooden floor.
“I wouldn’t sit there,” I say pointedly. “Pretty sure I got some drool on the floor down there.”
Casey doesn’t laugh nor get grossed out. Her head tilts marginally to the side, perfectly shaped eyebrows disappearing under her fringe as she continues to imprison me with her gaze.
“How am I supposed to relax when you’re prodding me with your devil fingers, woman?”
She deadpans. “Logan.”
Her voice resonates within the four walls, intimidating, even though she’s a good few feet shorter than me, and at least 50lbs lighter.
“Casey,” I grin wide, showing my teeth and likely those damn dimples.
When she makes no move to concede defeat, I shift, propping myself up on my elbows against the couch, refocusing my gaze on the pale wall in front of me.
Casey hoists herself up onto her knees and throws her hands down, none too gently.
The loud slap of her skin meeting the leather gives me a fright, and I jerk back on instinct.
Her fancy diamond ring catches my eye, glittering under the luminescent glow of the strip lights. I raise my gaze to meet hers. Amid her fiercely dark gaze, flecks of gold swim through the darkness. It’s like she’s staring into my goddamn soul—if I had one, obviously.
I force eye contact for a few seconds before I squirm under the intensity of her demanding gaze and need to look away. Staring into the eyes of murderers poses no threat to me. Staring down the barrel of a gun? Fine. But this bossy little slip of a woman? A totally different story.
“Alright, alright,” I yield, driving my palms into my eye sockets. Splitting my fingers apart, I peer at her through the V-shaped gap. “This has to stay between us.”
“Always,” she nods.
Still, I exhale a heavy sigh before gearing up to speak. “The girl I slept with at the party, Cordelia.” I pause. My hands fall from my face, landing with a thud. “She’s pregnant. I got her pregnant.”
Casey’s mouth drops open, her hands flying to cover her lips. She shakes her head in disbelief. “Logan, no. You—”
“Yeah, I really fucked up this time,” I say, and for once I feel completely helpless.
“Is she?”
“Keeping it?” I finish her sentence. “Seems that way.”
“Do you love her?”
The question comes out of nowhere, but she asks it with quiet certainty. Taken aback by her very blunt question, my eyebrows draw together.
“I just met her.”
“Well, you better work it out quickly, buddy. If you want to be part of that kid’s life.”
Then without another word to elaborate, she jumps to her feet and vanishes behind me. I crick my neck to glance over my shoulder, watching her work.
“That’s all you’ve got for me?”
“Yup,” she smiles sweetly, back to concentrating on pounding my muscles like a slab of meat. “You got yourself into this,” her tone is matter of fact, before she mutters the word “cold.”
Which confuses the hell out of me further, until she shoves her fingers back on me, coated in some sort of ice-cold gel.
“Shit, Cee,” I cry. “Could’ve given me more warning.”
Giggling, she tosses her head back in amusement. She slides her hands across my back a few more times, then strides over to the little sink to rinse them.
“You’re done,” she announces happily, “now get out of here.”
“With pleasure.” I jump off the couch and guzzle the glass of water she slips into my hand. “Have a good day, Cee.”
I plant a quick kiss against her head before escaping out the door. Outside, the sun is high in the sky. It’s a glorious summer’s day, which is ironic because today happens to be the most difficult day of the year for me.
Mum’s birthday.
She would have been thirty-seven. I’ve never accepted nor properly come to terms with it.
Such a bright, compassionate woman taken from the world far too young.
Her death instantly tore apart mine and Dad’s relationship, and it’s been ropey ever since.
I blamed him for everything. Told him repeatedly that it should have been him.
Wished it was him.
It was cruel, but sixteen-year-old me needed an outlet. Needed to blame someone other than himself. Dad ended up taking the brunt of the responsibility just to stop me hacking myself apart, piece by brutal, bloody piece. Which is where my lust for blood and gore comes from.
The iron gates creak and groan when I push them open to step through to the serene grounds.
The graveyard itself is maintained to a high standard.
Wildflowers bloom and the gravel paths are swept of leaves regularly to keep everything neat and tidy.
Squirrels dart from tree to tree in search of nuts, and birds sing from their perches amongst the leaves. Full of life as it should be.
It frustrates me when places of rest are left to ruin. The dead should be respected as much as the living.
Stones shift beneath my trainers as I follow the winding path to her resting place.
Plot number 42…my least favourite number.
Looking down at the marble gravestone always hits the same, every single time.
Disbelief. Denial. Anger. A myriad of emotions that I try hard to keep bottled up from the world.
Anna May Cox
Mother, wife, daughter
Free spirits never truly die
The fancy gold scripture has held up well over the years of exposure to the elements. It’s nearly as new as the tragic day we buried her. A square white envelope rests, propped up against the headstone. The bold handwriting reads: Anna, my love.
Dad has visited and left his yearly letter to Mum. He must have swung by early this morning before work. I’m glad. Today of all days is never a good day for us to meet.
A heavy sigh pours from within me, and my knees finally give way to the cumbersome weight on my shoulders.
Tears burn my eyes, blurring the world before me into a haze.
With tentative fingers, I reach out to the smooth stone, startled by its cool temperature.
My eyelids fall closed, allowing a teardrop to sneak through my tough armour.
“I miss you so fucking much, Mum,” I whisper.
Then I scoff and quickly apologise. Because she’d have scolded me for cursing. My mother frowned upon dirty language and always pulled me up for it. If only she could hear my disgusting mouth now.
I’m not sure how long I sit and talk to her as if she’s still here. I bet I look like a right twat, but I don’t care. Because speaking with her brings me solace and helps to mend my broken heart.