Chapter 6 Max
MAX
Iwon’t see heaven, and if Logan finds out what I’m planning before every piece conveniently falls into place, I’ll stand in front of the gates of hell sooner than I’d like to. But I knew she was the one when she took a cosmic brownie instead of an oatmeal bar.
After I brought Lily back to her cell, I asked Charlie to send me the voice recording of Mr. Holton’s interrogation. While I disagree with Logan’s opinion that Lily holds the criminal energy of Bonny Parker, I still wanted to check if her husband incriminated her.
He didn’t, and he also didn’t mention her. No questions about her whereabouts, no interest in finding out if she’s in our detainment or if we let her go. She could have been dead, or worse, but I guess it wasn’t of importance to him.
From the first time I saw this piece of shit, I knew he was an asshole and that Lily deserves better. I won’t name names, but I would never treat her like this. Hell, even Logan has more compassion, and that means something.
Spending time with Lily brought a smile to my face, which lasted for hours, but despite that, I slept like shit.
Logan and I rarely fight. Never, actually, because a proper discussion requires two people and a certain amount of communication.
Teasing each other, the odd superficial injury when we’re sparring, sure, but this yelling at each other and not talking thing is something we don’t do.
Couples do that, and Logan has made it clear from the start that I better not view what we have as a relationship.
And I’m okay with it, I really am. I happily accept his rules and his temper and everything else—as long as it makes him stay. But sometimes, I want more. More, something I’ll never get, so I push the thought aside.
I bite back my frustration and focus on brushing my teeth when someone enters my room. To his luck, I realize it’s Logan before I knock him down.
Instead of greeting him, I spit my toothpaste out and watch the foamy remains run down the drain.
“Still pouty, sunshine?”
He comes up behind me to burrow his face in the crook of my neck while his hands wander all over my body like it’s merely an extension of his own. Always at his disposal to use or to caress, and I wish I had the backbone to tell him to fuck off instead of leaning into his demanding touch.
“You were an absolute asshole yesterday,” I mumble. “Plus, I need to shower, so get out of here.”
“Could get you real dirty,” he growls, and the sound of his voice goes straight to my cock. He forces me to tilt my head to the side, licking a strip up my throat. “So it’s worth the shower.”
“You’re unbearable.”
The way my cock is straining the fabric of my boxers makes me think turning around isn’t the best idea. Yet, if I stay like this, I’ll be bent over the sink in approximately two minutes, which means I won’t be able to talk to him.
When I finally find the mental strength to move, I take in Logan’s outfit with raised eyebrows. He’s not in uniform, instead wearing a pair of cargos and one of those ridiculously tight shirts. The little slut came here with a clear mission.
“I need to talk to you about something,” I say, and he takes a step back.
“If it’s another lecture about how you want me to deal with captives—“
“It’s not,” I say, taking a deep breath before I continue. “I want to keep her.”
“Are you serious right now? Did you hit your head? Is there a gas leak somewhere in the building?”
“I am serious, Logan. She’s sweet, pretty, and—“ Feverishly, I try to come up with another killer argument. “And you brought up having a permanent third. She’s perfect, trust me.”
“I meant something like exchanging fucking phone numbers with a girl, Max. Honestly, that is the worst idea you’ve had in like—forever. This is deranged, even by our standards.”
“But—“
“No but,” he says, putting his hand over my mouth. “The sane one is talking.”
I paw at his hand, and he grips my face harder.
“She is a captive, Max, not someone we picked up at a bar. She is currently sitting in a cell because of her involvement in a crime, and now you want to keep her? Like she’s a puppy you found on the side of the road?”
After what feels like forever, Logan finally removes his hand from my face.
“She begged me to let her stay here,” I say, leaving out the fact that I planted the idea in her head.
“You are aware that your little obsession is married?”
“Fuck that guy, he doesn’t care about her,” I spit out.
“Just so you know, I’m this close to dragging you over to the medical wing because there’s clearly something wrong with you. Maybe it’ll help if I say it slowly: We kidnapped her, Max. Abducted, if you prefer that word. You’re dancing on the fine line to ending up in a true crime documentary.”
“That’s rich, coming from you,” I say as I step out of my boxers and into the shower cabin. “Given that I had to help you pull your hand out of someone’s ribcage a few months ago, but sure, I am the problem.”
The sound of running water drowns out Logan’s mumbled complaints.
“Let me sum this up for you,” he says, ripping the flimsy shower curtain open. “I have to get myself in trouble for keeping her hidden on base because you, for whatever reason, suspect she’s perfect. A sentiment I do not share, in case that wasn’t clear yet.”
“Yep,” I say. “And an apology would be appropriate, you know, since you threatened to break her hands.”
“I’ll apologize by fucking her pretty face; that enough for you?” he growls, closing the shower curtain when I spray him with water.
“Maybe apologize before doing that.”
“I hate you.”
I rush through the rest of my morning routine and wrap a towel around my hips before stepping out of the small shower cabin. Logan runs his hand over his buzz cut when I lean against the sink, his wish to destroy my plan written all over his face.
“If you mess this up, it’s on you. And trust me, sunshine, you do not want to fuck this up because the way I’ll punish you if you do—“
Unable to keep myself from smiling, I hook my fingers into his belt loops. He lets me pull him closer until his body is pressed against mine, but we’re interrupted by a knock on my door.
“My office, five minutes,” Rockwell’s voice blares through the flimsy wood.
“Think I can make you come in five minutes?”
Logan answers by pushing me away.
“Like a bitch in heat,” he says, sighing as he adjusts his pants. As if he didn’t come to my room with the intention of railing me. “What are you waiting for? Need my help to get dressed?”
I push past him and rush to put on my clothes. Logan doesn’t like to wait, so when I trot after him to the stairwell, I’m still trying to pull my shirt all the way down.
While I’m not sure if things are back to normal between us, it still feels good that he was the one who came crawling back this time. It’s a rare phenomenon, and it has only happened once. After he shot me. Accidentally, according to him.
We’re the last ones to arrive in Rockwell’s office, the others already sitting around the small conference table.
Charlie looks up from his notepad to greet me with a tired smile.
He joined almost a year ago and was supposed to be a full member of our task force.
With the clear objective of infiltrating, capturing, and killing, if necessary.
Instead, Charlie decided to be Rockwell’s assistant, and because Rockwell has a soft spot for him, that hasn’t changed so far.
Sam smiles down at his phone, but Rockwell clears his throat before I can say something that’ll surely annoy him. Like a dad, he can smell mischief while the perfect sentence to provoke Sam is still forming in my brain.
It’s not my fault he married my female counterpart. The one time I said that out loud, he chased me over the entire training ground and slapped the back of my head so hard I’m sure he permanently dented it.
“We’ll make this quick. I have somewhere to be,” Rockwell says, sounding frustrated.
“Like I already expected, Mr. Holton will stay with us a little longer. The 203 has too many men in jail. He’d be dead meat before the first lunch hour, and you can’t get intel out of a corpse. Am I right, Mr. Cabrera?”
“Mhm,” Logan mumbles, his lips pressed into a thin line.
For last year’s Secret Santa, I got him a mug that says no pulse = no intel. He called it stupid but uses it as a penholder in his office, so he obviously loves it.
“Sam and I think he’s holding back information. Sooner or later, he’ll start talking.”
“I could…” Logan offers.
“No,” Rockwell says sternly. “General Cantrell informed me that you’re close to exceeding your limit this quarter.”
“Why am I the only one with a kill-limit?”
“Maybe ask yourself why Cantrell felt he had to give you one in the first place?” Sam laughs, and Logan crosses his arms in front of his chest.
“We want you to work for us, Mr. Cabrera,” he mumbles to himself. “Yes, killing for money. But not too much. This institution is a fucking joke.”
“Are you done?” Rockwell asks when Logan finally shuts up.
“For now.”
“Great. Max, I got your report,” our captain says with a sigh, and I sit up straight. “From my end, Mrs. Holton is good to go. Sort it out with her and apologize for the inconvenience, will you?”
Apparently, it takes me too long to react because Logan kicks my shin under the table. I answer with a polite nod, and Rockwell looks down at his watch.
“I would do it, but I have to help with the ACFT. Sanders,” he grumbles.
“Fucking bastard,” Logan says, shrugging when we all turn to stare at him. “What? Thought this office was a safe space.”
“Cabrera, Vaughn, you are dismissed,” Rockwell says, rubbing his temples. “Rvyes, Hunter, you stay; we still have to sort out some things. Regarding Mr. Holton,” he adds when I turn to look at Sam, who avoids my gaze.
Logan leaves the room before I can question this apparent secret meeting, forcing me to run after him.
“Let me guess, you did not change your mind?” he asks as we walk up the stairs.
“Nope.”
“Wonderful. Where do you plan to hide your puppy?”
“Fourth floor, at the far end of the hallway, where we keep the old reports—“ I try not to get hit in the face by the closing stairwell door before I continue. “There’s a hidden storage room; I found it while— I just found it. Don’t think anyone has been there in the past ten years, so we should be safe until I find a better solution.”
I enter Logan’s room right behind him and flop down on the couch I could call my bed at this point.
It’s where I get to sleep on the nights Logan wants me near, but not close.
The nights he tells me to fuck off and go to my own room, but if we’re honest, this is kind of my room.
Logan would probably beg to differ, but I have a toothbrush in his bathroom, which means I have rights.
And no matter how often he says he can’t stand me, he wouldn’t dare to throw my toothbrush out.
“How did you get through psych-eval?” he asks once he finally looks at me.
“How did you get through psych-eval?”
“I didn’t,” he says with a self-righteous grin on his handsome face. “No shrink, had it included in my contract.”
I swallow the comment about how he, of all people, would benefit from talking to a professional.
“The room needs to be set up first, and once we’re done, we have to bring her up there. It would be a good idea to leave the compound for a few hours to make it look like we’ve dropped her off somewhere…” When I look at Logan, he’s focused on the handle of his favorite knife.
“Are you even listening?”
“Barely.”
Is this how Rockwell feels when he’s dealing with us? No wonder he’s going gray.
“Do you have something to contribute to the conversation?” I ask, nudging his feet with mine.
“Yeah, well, have fun.”
“Yeah, well, no,” I repeat mockingly. “You’re going to help me.”
With narrowed eyes, he looks up from his knife.
“There’s an inflatable bed in my closet; go over and fetch it while I take care of the rest.”
“Do I want to know why you have that?” he asks, and the way the words roll off his tongue makes me want to tell him a lie about a certain 6’10” someone who I know he can’t stand and who’s currently in Europe. Who has also never been in my room or my bed, but sometimes, I enjoy seeing Logan jealous.
It’s a little treat. One you regret having, like eating a wheel of Brie as a lactose intolerant person.
The actual story behind the bed is pretty simple and not raunchy at all.
We’re allowed to furnish our rooms how we want—to a certain degree.
Apparently, waterbeds are “a danger to the structural integrity of the building in case of a leak,” so I got an inflatable bed for the nights I can’t bring myself to sleep on bricks held together by sadness.
“Anything else I should pack for your princess? Towels, some fragrance sticks, a bottle of champagne?”
“Just the bed is fine,” I reply, ignoring the rest. “It’s folded, but you can’t miss it when you open my closet.”
“You call this shit folded?” Logan huffs when he joins me in room 4.7 about ten minutes later. God knows how, but he shoved the bed in a military backpack that now looks close to bursting at the seams.
While he took his sweet time, I got a pillow from the rec room, a spare blanket from our supply closet, and I even found a battery-powered night light for Lily. Found isn’t the right word. I stole it from Charlie when I hopped by his room, but he’ll get over it.
“What is wrong with you?” Logan yells as I rip a piece of plywood from the wall at the room's far end.
“You want to give her a bucket for when she has to go to the toilet?” I yell back. “No one uses this floor, so calm the fuck down. Right here,” I point at the new-old hole in the wall, “is a bathroom. It’ll do for now.”
“For now, for now.” Logan hisses profanities, trying to get the bed out of the backpack. “You don’t know what you’re going to do with her, right?” He asks, his glare turning even icier upon hearing my answer.
“We, Logan. This is a group project.”