Chapter 16
Emery
The old stairs to the loft were uneven, steep, and creaky. Growing up, Logan, Sarah, and I used to try to sneak up on each other all the time. It was a game no one could ever win.
When Sarah and Jon moved in, they replaced them with a nice new quiet set that no one had to worry about falling through.
Holt insisted it was a waste of money, but tonight, when I made a point of shutting the door to Logan’s apartment and then creeping back down to learn all the things Logan’s been hiding from me, I’d wager it was the best money ever spent.
“Jesus, Em.” Logan stands at the bottom of the stairs, peering up at me with a mixture of exasperation and irritation.
“What?”
“You’re not even going to pretend you weren’t eavesdropping?”
I pull myself to my feet, taking the steps down, a thousand different thoughts filtering through my mind. “I told you I wanted answers. If this was the only way to get them, so be it.” Except now I have so many more questions.
Logan’s gaze roams mine in silence. I’d pay anything to know what is going through his thoughts.
“So, Jay was into it after all.” This fairy tale that he was a good guy who got pulled into a Murphy mess like Logan was just that—a fairy tale.
“Yeah, tell me you didn’t already know that.”
“I’d heard a few things, here and there, but nothing solid.
” Mostly useless rumors from CIs who never amounted to anything.
Things I would never repeat to Annie. “Why didn’t your lawyer use Dorsey’s threats in the assault case?
It could have helped you.” But I already know the answer—because Logan never reported any of them, making it one convict’s word over another, and one of those convicts ended up in a coma.
“It would have dragged more shit to the surface for everyone but Jay. God only knows what he did and who he might have hurt.” Logan shakes his head. “And I didn’t want you knowing.”
“You mean that some fucking rapist threatened to pay me and my kid a visit?” I snap.
“I made sure that wasn’t gonna happen, didn’t I?” His jaw hardens. “But now you know everything. You got your answers.” Logan eases past me and climbs the stairs, his chest brushing against my arm. “I’m tired. ’Night, Em.”
The last thing I can think about is going to bed. I race up after him, plowing through the door before he can shut it.
Logan spares me an indecipherable look before he shrugs off his button-down shirt, leaving him in a T-shirt, his muscular arms on display.
“The other night, you told me you had no secrets from me.” My voice cracks. I sound like a petulant child.
He chuckles as he crouches in front of the unlit wood stove, opening the glass door.
“It’s not funny!”
“You’re right. It’s not.” He strikes a match and ignites the crumpled newspaper waiting alongside the kindling, already prepped for a fire. There’s a faint draft in here, but it can’t be from the broken window. Annie confirmed the repairman came to fix it.
My attention drifts around the studio apartment as Logan quietly watches the flame catch.
I haven’t been in here for years, since Sarah gave me the grand tour after the renovation.
I remember being equal parts thankful that the space was transformed and bitter that she and Jon had erased the backdrop for so many of my fondest memories.
It’s much the same—small, cozy, rustic, with few belongings to clutter it.
A jacket here, a pair of sneakers there.
The bed’s been made, the corners tucked in.
A stack of books sits on the nightstand beside it.
The kitchen is spotless save for a coffee mug next to the maker.
I doubt Logan has used the oven. Annie would insist her long-lost son eat with them every night.
Confident with the fire, Logan eases onto the couch just long enough to unfasten the laces of his work boots, kicking them in a heap, before he crosses the room to the fridge to fish out two bottles of beer. “Want a drink?”
“Uh … sure.”
He smirks as he cracks them open, setting one on the counter for me. “Don’t worry. Glen gave me permission.”
“Your PO?”
“Yeah, seems like a stand-up guy.”
“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.” I’m struggling to read Logan at all. It could be all the wine I’ve had tonight—far more than I’d usually drink while out in public—or, more likely, the rapidly growing tension inside this room.
“I guess we’ll find out.” He taps the neck of my bottle against his in silent cheers, his heavy gaze never leaving mine as he takes a long sip.
“First real drink in twenty years?”
“Yup.” He sets the beer down, his thumb smoothing over the label. “I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
“On drinking?”
“On everything.” He wanders over to the five-disc carousel stereo system I remember from our childhood, and hits power, then play.
A few clicks and a whir sound and then music crackles over the well-worn speakers.
Nostalgia floods my senses. “I can’t believe that clunky thing still works.”
“Crazy, right? Figured it would have died years ago.”
“They don’t make ’em like they used to.” I echo words my father muttered every time an appliance broke down.
“Nobody uses those anymore. Everything’s digital now.
You can pay for subscriptions to entire music catalogues with, like, 100 million songs that you can play over a wireless Bluetooth speaker. ”
“Yeah, I’ll get there. Eventually. I still like the CDs, though.”
Probably because they were all Jay’s. Logan’s brother would rush out to buy the latest albums as soon as they were released. He’d share them with Logan—and by default, me.
Logan scratches at the thin layer of bristle coating his chin. “Ran into Millie Crawford at the bar tonight. Sorry, Amelia.”
Despite myself, I smile. We seem able to shift in and out of somber conversation with little effort. “Yeah, she’s a staple around there. She unloads her four kids on her parents every Friday night to go barhopping.”
Logan’s eyebrows arch. “Four kids?”
“She didn’t mention that? Did she tell you about her newly single status? From what I’ve heard, she often leads with it.” A couple of the guys from work have shared stories about her pickup lines.
“No. She just said we should grab coffee or dinner or something soon.”
“Huh. You should totally hit that again.” It’s meant to be a joke. Logan always said how much he regretted hooking up with her way back when, and he knew how much I hated knowing she was his first.
“I’m thinking about it. She doesn’t seem to care that I’m a criminal,” he says through another sip.
The humor dies inside me. I just got used to Logan being out and he’s already on the prowl for a woman? The idea of it spikes a gut-twisting pain that I struggle to hide. “You’re not wasting time.”
His eyes flash with a knowing look. If that was a test, I think I failed. “Why are you here, Em?” His voice was already naturally deep. Now it vibrates in my chest as he closes the distance.
I stand my ground, resisting the urge to back away—not because I want to get away from him, but because being this close without touching him is almost unbearable. “I told you, I want answers.”
“You already got all your answers.” His golden-hazel eyes search mine, an earnest look in them. “So, is that all?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” But I’m quickly losing control of this conversation, of the situation, of myself. “What do you want me to say?” The question comes out in a whisper.
“How about something like …” Logan reaches up to collect a strand of my hair before cupping the side of my neck with a gentle palm.
His body heat radiates. “‘Hey Logan, can we go back to that day when we were up here together?’” Agony flashes in his eyes.
“‘You know, before you made the worst decision you’ll ever make in your life, and you ruined everything.’”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. In place of them, hot tears spill down my cheeks.
He leans in to touch his forehead against mine and closes his eyes. “Just for tonight. Please, Em. Can we go back in time, just this once.” There’s so much raw emotion in his pleading.
I know the right answer. It’s a deafening scream inside my head.
And yet my poor, battered heart wins.
“Yes,” I manage to choke out.
Logan’s eyes flash open with momentary shock. It quickly vanishes, though, as he rushes in, his lips claiming mine with a ferocity I wasn’t expecting, as if afraid I’ll soon change my mind.
It only takes me a beat to match his enthusiasm. I won’t change my mind, because Logan’s not the only one who has waited twenty years, who has wished for this even just one more time.
My hands rake over his chest, his shoulders, unsure where to find purchase as our tongues dance together in a furious rhythm, until finally they find the hem of his T-shirt and guide it upward.
Logan’s mouth breaks free long enough to tug the cotton over his head and toss it aside before he’s back, only this time he’s pushing my leather jacket off my shoulders.
It drops with a soft thud on the floor.
He makes quick work of my shirt and my bra next.
A raspy sigh escapes me as his palms find the underside of my breasts.
“Fuck. They’re just like I remember them,” he whispers, the soft pad of his thumbs teasing my nipples.
Not likely, thanks to age and breastfeeding, but I let him believe that fantasy while my fingers roam over his taut stomach, stalling to trace the scar, before they move south to unfasten his belt and jeans.
Strong hands grip my waist as he hoists me onto the tiny kitchen counter. A clatter sounds. I’ve accidentally knocked his beer bottle into the sink. The scent of hops permeates the air.
“I spilled your first real drink in twenty years.”
“That’s okay. I’m more focused on my first fuck.” His mouth reclaims mine as he tugs my boots off and tosses them aside. Guiding my hips to the edge of the counter, he fits himself in between my thighs and grinds his hard length against my center.