Chapter 22 Sierra
Twenty Two
Sierra
For the first time in two weeks of steady, mind-blowing sex, I beg off for a break. Logan agrees to it, but pouts and attempts to seduce me when we kiss goodnight.
“One night,” I say. I don’t even know why I’m so adamant about it, but I feel like I am getting swept away by him. I need some space to give my endorphins a chance to cool off.
I regret it almost immediately. I have trouble sleeping for missing him.
When I wake up, I can sense exactly where he is in the house—lying in his bed.
I picture him curled around a pillow. Bulging arms wrapped tight around it, thick legs with a light dusting of hair tangled in the sheets, abs and chest pressed along the pillow’s length.
His hair mussed, his expression soft and dazed from sleep, face half-buried in the pillowcase.
It should be me. Why am I being so stubborn?
Stupid, slutty pillow.
I want to crawl back to him, to roll over him like I’m bathing in his pheromones. To throw that pillow aside and take my rightful place in his arms.
Dear god, I’m going stir-crazy. That explains the obsession.
I’ve been hiding out in the house for four weeks, and cabin fever is setting in with a vengeance.
It must be why I’m eager for some risk. I mean, what if I am able to go around without being seen by Marshal Dawson? It’s too tempting not to push my luck.
So when Logan asks if I’ll hand out flyers on Main Street for the Blackstone Legacy Poetry and Futon Drift Concert, I don’t hesitate.
“You can start with the new businesses, I’ll take the old ones,” Logan says, splitting the stack of flyers down the middle. “We can do the first one together.”
The nearest shop is a Southwest knick-knack place. Native American pottery and baskets line the windows, copper jewelry and Sagebrush and Arizona T-shirts coat every surface.
“Logan!” The woman behind the counter rushes out. She’s in her late sixties, her short silver hair styled to perfection, silver and copper bracelets stacked on her arms like medieval arm guards.
“Clarice,” Logan greets her warmly. “How’s your day going?”
“Better now that you’re here! To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“We’re promoting a new poetry event,” he says. “This is Sierra, my assistant.”
“Hello, dear. A poetry event, you say? How wonderful. I’ll take a few of those for the counter.”
“Would you mind if we put one up in the window too? We brought tape.”
“Of course, of course! You know, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the parking situation down here.
There needs to be some limitations. I had to walk all the way from Collins Street today!
You’ve got such sway with Mayor Ortiz, and of course, you’re the reason the town has such a healthy budget. I think you could really convince her—”
And just like that, we’re trapped. Clarice launches into a list of grievances and gossip about every business owner on the block. Logan listens patiently, all charm and empathy, trying every polite exit—“Lovely to catch up,” “So many stops to make”—but she barrels on.
He flicks a subtle look my way. Help.
“Logan, sorry to pull you away,” I say quickly, “but we need to get going or you’ll be late to that meeting.”
He checks his phone. “You’re right! Clarice, always a pleasure.”
“You’re welcome anytime, dear!” she says, shoving a handful of business decals into my hand.
The plan to divide and conquer dissolves fast. Clarice isn’t the only one who fawns over Logan.
It’s like walking around with a celebrity.
We get treated to Thai teas at the Thai place.
Scones at Little Lotte’s Lattes. Every shop owner has a story, a complaint, something only for Logan LaSalle’s golden ears.
The crystal shop owner, Tim, is the most effusive. “I can’t get over your aura, Logan. It takes my breath away every time. You were born for greatness.”
Logan is gentle, patient, charming. He sympathizes with complaints, laughs at funny vignettes, and listens attentively to everyone. No one can resist him, and I can feel myself falling under his spell too.
Whenever Logan glances at me, I know it’s my cue to step in like a paid bodyguard.
I take advantage of the opportunity to guide him out with a touch.
Fingers on his forearm, a hand on his back.
Every brush feels dangerous and electrifying, his body a powerful aphrodisiac.
I find myself swaying toward him, cheeks burning when he dips his head closer to mine for a quick murmur of thanks.
I force myself to step away for fear of anyone watching and suspecting our less-than-chaste relationship.
I don’t know who we’d be fooling, though. Forget my reaction to him. The way Logan looks at me, for anyone paying attention, it’s obvious. He can’t seem to help himself. And I can’t bring myself to tell him to stop.
“How on earth did you put up all the Candlelight Tour flyers by yourself last time?” I ask as we barely escape the third antique store.
“It took two days.”
I laugh. “You poor thing. How does it feel to be universally beloved?”
“Exhausting,” he admits. His hand brushes mine as we walk, but I don’t move away. “But it makes everyone so happy to see me. They see me as an extension of Sagebrush’s success, so it’s rewarding. Do you feel vindicated?”
“Vindicated?”
“You used to get so mad at me when I called this place Sagetrash. ‘It just needs a second chance and someone to believe in it,’ you said.” He gestures around us. “You always saw so much potential, and you were right. Behold: the fresh start.”
My throat goes dry. It’s bittersweet, seeing this place finally get its second chance.
I want one too.
The thought hits me hard, and it takes a second for the fear to abate. There’s only one way to see if it’s even possible, and it’s to be seen.
“Let’s go in there,” I say, pointing to the hair salon, Sahaira, one of the oldest establishments in Sagebrush.
Logan does a double-take. “Yeah?” he says carefully.
“Yeah. If you come with me.”
“I’ll be with you the whole time.”
The place is buzzing with locals. Mrs. Grove—my old English teacher—is in a chair, getting her hair trimmed by Patty, one of the LaSalles’ neighbors. They all look up when we enter.
There’s a scream, and then I’m smothered by a cloud of soft lavender hair and sparkling cake-batter perfume.
“Oh my god, Sierra!” The cloud is Izzy—another of the LaSalle family’s unofficial strays growing up. “What are you doing here? Oh man, I can’t believe it!” She hugs me tight. “We were so worried when you disappeared.”
Monica, the owner, pulls me away from Izzy and smushes me against her. “How long have you been back?” she demands of me, before turning to Logan. “You’ve been keeping her from us!”
Mrs. Grove is next, and her words are a little hard to hear over the clamor. “Oh, my dear. You look so well,” Mrs. Grove says. There are tears in her eyes. “How are you?”
Patty’s already on the phone with her sister. “Lisa, Sierra’s back! She’s at Sahaira!”
“Why didn’t your mom say anything?” Monica scolds Logan. “She was here just the other day. Sierra, you have to come to dinner. My husband was one of the first to help Logan search for you on Compass Mountain when you went missing. He’ll be thrilled to see you alive and well.”
“You knew she was alive,” Logan protests.
“Your PI saying so isn’t the same as seeing her in person!”
Shame and guilt and confusion rock through me. People missed me? The whole town searched for me?
“Do you need a haircut?” Izzy says. “My appointment just canceled. On the house.”
Before I can argue, she pushes me into a chair, fingers already in my hair. “Your hair,” she sighs. “Still so thick and gorgeous. It’d be cruel to deny me a chance to play with it, Sierra!”
I shoot a slightly panicked expression at Logan.
Logan merely smiles. “You’ll be all right if I go? I can stay.”
I hesitate. Then I shake my head. Like our heart-to-heart in the cave, it’s time. “I’ll be fine. Go hit some of the other shops.”
Patty lifts a lock of my hair, inspecting the ends with a frown. “When’s the last time you had a trim?”
“Uh, it’s been a while,” I admit. Dinner always beats haircuts in my budget. I don’t want this to turn into anyone interrogating me, so I quickly parry the conversation away. “Tell me what you’ve been up to, Patty.”
Patty dives in right away, and I’m swept along with her into the warm current of Sagebrush gossip. I’m relieved when it seems like they have no intention of grilling me about where I’ve been or what happened seven years ago.
Instead, Patty tells me about her rascally boys growing up and heading off to college, Monica recounts locals’ weddings and births, while Mrs. Grove fills me in on the teachers who are still around.
It is nice sitting here. Like I’m part of something again. Climbers are great, but that world’s always got an edge, a quiet competition about who’s the most hardcore, the most anti-normie. This? This is easy. This feels like belonging.
They also tease Izzy about the trail of broken hearts she’s left behind.
“Chuck wasn’t the man for me,” Izzy says as she deftly snips away at my hair.
“Or Chris, or Charlie,” teases Monica.
“Memo to self to avoid all men with names that start with CH,” says Izzy. “Must be a red flag.”
“The two consonants thing in a row is suspicious,” I agree. “How greedy must they be to have two consonants?”
“What about the LaSalle boys?” Patty asks her. “They’re nice.”
“Ethan, nice?” Izzy asks. “That’s a stretch to call him that.”
I watch her reflection in the mirror. Interesting that he’s the only one she mentions. She studiously chops at my hair like she’s performing heart surgery and does not look up at me, even though it’s clear she can feel me watching her.
“Or Cole or Seth,” I say.
Izzy’s body relaxes at the suggestion, then shrugs. “Cole was a good high school friend, but I don’t see him as anything more. Seth’s not my type.”
It takes more effort than I thought to name the last LaSalle boy. Izzy is beautiful and kind, and more importantly, she seems content to stay in Sagebrush. I gulp against the sudden bad taste in my mouth.
“And of course…we can’t forget Logan.”
She pats my shoulder. “Oh, Sierra, who do you take me for? I know he belongs to you.”
“He doesn’t…” I begin weakly.
“Okay, you may not think that, but he does. I could tell the minute you guys walked in that he is still pining after you.”
It should alarm me. I don’t want to break his heart—it’s why I suggested a no-strings-attached relationship to begin with. But, for some reason, warmth spreads through me at the thought of him pining for me.
God, I’m a narcissistic psychopath.
“Anyway, LaSalle boys aside, I’ve actually started seeing this new guy whose name starts with an H. We’ve been dating for a few weeks now.”
The ladies ooh over that.
When my hair is done, all of them give me one more bone-crushing hug before I leave.
When I step out of the hair salon, my hair feels shinier and silkier than it has ever felt. My whole being feels shinier and silkier than ever before too.