Chapter 18
Jasmine
I pace the master bedroom, eyes drawn to the nightstand where pictures of Logan and me sit while my body trembles, my breathing erratic.
In one, we’re at the beach, my back leaned against Logan’s shirtless front, his right arm wrapped around my waist, his left out long holding the camera and I’m grinning widely while Logan is kissing my cheek.
It was the first time I’d ever been to the beach before and now, it seems like such a lifetime ago. He was all I could see back then, all I wanted and I was na?ve to think my mother would just let me go.
I guess appearances mean more to her than I realized, I mean, why else would she fight so hard to get me with Bruce?
Why would she look the other way each time he tried to assault me?
Why would she try to kill her own grandchild?
A few tears fall but I quickly wipe them away and look from the photos to around the room that hasn’t changed at all since I ran.
All my stuff still sits on the vanity, my jacket that looks like it’s been washed a few times draped over the chair.
I really hurt him. At first I was angry when I came up here, but now I’m overwhelmed by guilt, and I don’t think I can ever forgive myself for what I did to him, what I kept from him.
Dammit, I can’t even be mad at him for going back to the cougar, can I? I want to be mad—really fricking mad—but I can’t. I left him without an explanation, I didn’t give him the chance to help me.
I should have trusted he would have put our daughter and me first, that he would have protected her against his mama and mine, and now, I’ve ruined everything.
Dammit, I sound like a fricking martyr.
Sniffling, I walk toward the walk-in closet and a few tears fall at the sight before me in the light grey room.
All my clothes hang in my side of the closet, or the side he gave me, my shoes still in the racks, and I shake my head at my stupidity as I walk over to the drawers, open them, and find my black leggings I used to live in when I knew we weren’t going out and I grab them before I look at his side of the closet, my eyes instantly going to the shirts I used to wear but can’t hung up, and disappointment fills me.
Stupid, stupid, stupid…. the thought echoes over and over in my mind.
Wiping away tears, I rummage through the tops, looking for one that hides my weight loss.
I don’t need Logan finding out I’m barely eating, and that everything I have goes to our daughter.
My body hums after a few minutes and my stomach tightens, warning me of his presence before I hear his soft “She’s gone,” and tension coils in me.
I hum without looking at him, if I did, I’d break—either I’d cry and beg for forgiveness or lash out at him for going there again.
Do I have a right? Probably not, but tell my heart that.
I never wanted a relationship, but this man, he became my everything, and I just made wrong decision after wrong decision.
I scrunch my nose in distaste, finding nothing to wear, and open the drawer next to my strappy tops to pull out my shirts—some actually Logan's.
Do you think I’ll get away with wearing one of them?
I hear him sigh as I debate my choices, feel him move, my body in tune with his steps, though I stay focused on my shirts, well, more his.
I really want to grab one of his.
“Here,” he says, and I frown and look his way, only my eyes land on one of the T-shirts he’s holding up for me.
I’m woman enough to say I don’t hesitate. I take the soft cotton from him, and everything in me relaxes as I take a step away from him and place it on the large bench seat in the middle of the room, keeping my eyes on it like it’s going to disappear.
I quickly put my leggings on, vaguely aware he’s watching me but my focus is on his shirt and without even thinking or remembering on one of the reasons why I wanted it, or at least one of them to begin with, I lift my dress over my head.
I hear him suck in a breath, and I try not to freeze as I grab his shirt and quickly put it on.
Dammit, I didn’t want him to know I haven’t been eating.
“You’ve still got your tat, huh?” he asks instead of questioning my ribs that he most likely could see.
I snort, not bothering to answer him. Instead, I chuck my torn dress near the trash can in here knowing I have plenty of my old clothes surrounding me which I have to admit is a relief because my clothes at the apartment are on their last legs before I finally turn towards him, cross my arms over my chest and give him a raised brow, ready to lay into him.
But not about the cougar. As much as it hurts, it’s none of my business anymore.
He frowns and asks, “What?” completely confused.
“Your cut, Logan? Where is it?” I demand.
Even shirtless, he always wore that leather, and I get it, at the hospital he can’t, which by the way, I am so goddamn proud of him for achieving, but at home?
“Well?” I push, and he sighs as he leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms over his chest.
“I gave it back,” he admits, and my eyes widen as I drop my arms. “Actually,” he adds, “I threw it on the clubhouse floor before you took my daughter to that shitty apartment….”
“Why?” I ask, ignoring the shitty apartment comment.
I’ve tried my hardest to keep her safe and happy. I don’t need him putting me down for that, even if I caused him hurt and pain, our daughter has always come first and I know he knows that otherwise he would have commented on the fact you can see my ribcage.
My comfort, food, clothes, my own happiness, my job, it has always been her put first.
He scoffs, “Really, buttercup? After what Mama threatened you? Causing you to run to begin with? Did you really think I was going to stay in that club?”
“Logan, she’s just an old lady, those are your brothers!” I growl, pissed that he would do this.
That fricking club is his life. As much as he wants to deny it, as much as he wants to tell himself he did it all for Doc, he lived and breathed that club—the brotherhood!
“And they sided with my mother when Doc told Dad to kick her out,” he says coldly, and I shake my head at the idiot.
“Because he didn’t give them a reason, I heard his call, Logan, he acted on emotion instead of demanding a meeting with all the brothers. She’s been in that club all your life,” I exasperate. “She’s been their friend, their family member. They probably only saw the sweet, kind woman she portrayed!”
“Why do you even care, Jas?” he asks with frustration, and I snap, “Because that club is your life!”
“You were my fucking life!” he shouts as he stands straight, pointing at me, and I jump back and look away from his heartbreak. “I was going to hand the cut in before you left, Jasmine,” he admits, and I suck in a breath as I squeeze my eyes tight.
"Why?" I question as I look his way, bracing myself for the anger that might flare in his eyes. My heart tightens with uncertainty as I add softly, “You have to have known I wouldn’t have let you give up your brotherhood, Logan.”
He gives me a ‘are you stupid’ look and chuckles, “You hated the club, Jas, you didn’t want me to claim you, fuck, you refused for my club to know about us, so how in the fuck could I have stayed?”
My mouth parts as I take a step back, and I shake my head.
"Logan, I knew my mother would try to destroy your club if I had taken your cut. It wasn't because I didn't want anything to do with the club, I was just trying to figure out a way to be able to be a part of it without Mama’s wrath. They are your family." I whisper.
“But you were my everything, Jasmine. I would have chosen you over them any day,” he says quietly, and I flinch, his words hitting me right in the chest, and the need to bawl becomes overwhelming.
Were… The word lingers heavy in the silence.
I keep my eyes averted for a moment, stung by his words before swallowing hard, I force myself to meet his gaze and ask, "Where is our daughter?"
Logan puts his defenses up at the sudden change of subject as he crosses his arms over his chest and states, “Showing her grandpa her new room, you ain’t leaving.”
I look down at my bare feet. He just doesn’t want to lose his daughter, and rightfully so. Her room comes back to me—her room, fit for a princess.
I went to wake Aisling, ready to take her home but was shocked at the room she was in.
She was already awake, wanting some milk but I couldn’t help but look around her room, seeing everything Logan has done for her in just two weeks.
My heart sank because in the five years since she was born, I haven’t given her even a quarter of that.
I love my little girl so much, but have I been punishing her by keeping her with me?
She has a real bed for a child her age, not a mattress on the floor like at home. She’s got a closet full of clothes in her size, not second-hand ones that are two sizes too big. Toys, books, everything. Christ, I’d bet she even has hot water in her en suite.
He’s given her so much when I haven’t managed to give her any of that.
So am I punishing her?
I feel like I am, and every bit of me aches with the realization and even though his dad knows about her, I know Logan will keep her safe despite what I said with anger downstairs, allowing my mouth to run with the hurt I felt.
I squeeze my eyes tightly and murmur, “I have a life back in Huntingdon, Logan. I need to go back.”
“You are not fucking taking my daughter back to that dump!” he growls, and I flinch.
“That dump is my home, that I fought for with blood and tears,” I lie through my teeth, my pride taking one hell of a bruising right now.
“I don’t give a shit, she’s not going, end of!” he snaps, his voice full of authority.
I nod, take a deep breath, and, my heart shattering piece by piece—the same as when I left Logan—I walk toward the door.
Just before passing him, I whisper, “I’ll allow her to stay until I can get enough money together to buy a better apartment in Huntingdon.
Then we’ll set up a childcare schedule but if word gets out about her to my mother, or even yours, then I’ll take her back whether you like it or not, I didn’t sacrifice my life to keep her safe and you, just for you to get her harmed. ”
The decision tugs between sacrifice and heartbreak but it’s about time I put Aisling first because right now, seeing what he has to offer her, I feel like I haven’t put her first.
With my chin wobbling, I continue my path to find my daughter, but tense when he says tensely, “I won’t fucking repeat myself you are not leaving, I’ve already locked all the doors and windows and the fact you are willing to leave your own child, it proves you certainly are not the woman I fucking thought you were all those years ago, it makes you a selfish bitch! ”
Wow.
I flinch hard at his words, my tears falling unseen as I keep walking beyond his bedroom.
The ache sharpens—knowing I’ll have to stay in the guest room tonight since he’s locked me in.
Tomorrow, as his angry words echo in my head, I’ll figure out what to do.
I realize, with painful clarity, that even friendship between us may be impossible now, anger and resentment filling the space between us.
I was trying to do right by my daughter and him, only to fail everyone.