Logan - a Preston Brothers Novel: A More Than Series Spin-Off

by Jay McLean

  “Who’s Laney? The girl trapped in your sex den?”

  “What the fuck?” I guffaw. “Laney’s my brother’s girl, and please, don’t ever, ever, say her name and sex in the same sentence again.” An involuntary shiver runs through me, literally shaking my bones.

  “Still. Your note was stupid. You could’ve elaborated.”

  “I had five minutes to go home, pack, and get on the road. I was in a rush. You’re lucky I managed to find a pen and a piece of paper.”

  She pulls back then, looks up at me. “Your note was stupid, Logan.”

  “My note was stupid,” I reluctantly concede, because she’s drunk and this is clearly going nowhere.

  “Good.” She nods. “Will you take me home even if I tell you I’m not sleeping with you?”

  I crack the tiniest of smiles. “Will you let me take you home even if I swear I won’t sleep with you?”

  “I have to tell Joy.”

  “Fuck Joy.”

  10

  Aubrey

  “Trust me, you’ll feel better after a shower, and I’m not here just because I’ll get to see you naked. What if something happens?” Logan’s in my bathroom, leaning against the counter, his arms crossed, staring down at me. In his presence, in the confines of this room, I feel tiny. It’s not as if I’d forgotten how tall he was, how built he was. It’s not as if I’d forgotten every slope of his body, every dip of his abs, every inch of his co—“Quit fucking me with your eyes and get naked,” he orders. “Quick. Before the hot water runs out.” The first thing he did when we walked into my house was take off his jacket, walk to the bathroom, and run the shower. He made sure to set it to his version of scalding, because that’s how I had it when we were both in there the first time he was here. He sighs, frustrated. “Are you going to make me get in there with you?”

  “No.” I kick off my boots and remove my top in the sloppiest, most childish, most brattish form. “I’ll get in.” I strip down to nothing and narrow my eyes at him when he gives me a crooked smile. He watches me through the glass screen, never once making a sound, never once taking his eyes off me. At any other time, I’d probably feel exhilarated, sexy. But honestly, I just feel light-headed and worn the hell out. This week has drained me, physically and emotionally. But he’s right. The shower does help, at least physically. When I dry off, I tell him that he can leave, that I’m fine. At least my feet are steady. He offers to make me something to eat before he goes, and I don’t argue. Once I’m alone, I take a long, steady breath and recall the events of the day.

  I wonder if he’d bother to find me if it weren’t for his brother.

  I wonder if he’d be here if chance hadn’t brought us to the same party.

  I wonder if he thought about me at all in the past three weeks.

  I decide the answers are no.

  I also decide that for tonight, just like our first night, I don’t care.

  Logan

  Aubrey’s sitting on the bathroom floor when I get back with the peanut butter sandwich. She still has the towel wrapped around her, tapping the end of a hairdryer on her palm. “It’s broke,” she says, pouting up at me.

  I sigh, place the sandwich on the counter and bend down to grab the cord. “It’s not plugged in, Aubs.”

  “Oh.”

  I plug the cord in, switch the hair dryer on and off to test it. Then I hand her the sandwich. She eyes the plate as if it’s poison. “What is it?” she asks, as if I’ve set out to kill her dead. She has no idea.

  “It’s peanut butter. It’s all you had. And FYI, I’m allergic to nuts, so I could’ve died making that for you.”

  She doesn’t respond, simply takes the hairdryer from me and tries to eat and blow dry at the same time. Which, going by the way the hair dryer is aimed at the wall and not at all on her head, is clearly a struggle. I take the hair dryer from her, start drying her hair.

  It’s almost dry by the time I realize that I’m turning into one of those guys. The one I’d promised I’d never be. I switch off the dryer, practically throw it on the counter. “You’re good,” I tell her, and she looks up from her half-eaten sandwich, smiles lazily.

  “That felt so nice,” she says. “I almost fell asleep.”

  I don’t tell her that, yeah, it felt nice for me, too. Because I’m not a goddamn pussy. I’m not my brothers or my brother-in-law. “Finish your food and let’s get you to bed.”

  She rushes through the rest of her sandwich, and I watch her crawl into bed, ignoring the fact that she’s fucking naked, that she’s on her hands and knees while she pulls down the covers, that those thick thighs of hers are what I envisioned while I jerked off into hotel towels the first week I was in Cambodia. The covers are to her chin now, while scarlet fans across her pillow. She blinks up at me. Once. Twice. Her lashes are the same color as her hair, a few shades darker than her freckles. “Are you leaving now?”

  I tap at my pocket, nervous energy crawling, nipping at my fingertips.

  “You can smoke in my garage,” she tells me.

  “Sure?”

  “Or you can leave; whatever you want.”

  I want to leave.

  I want to smoke in her garage.

  I want to stay in this room and watch her fall asleep the way I did three weeks ago.

  Obviously, I don’t know what the fuck I want.

  “I’ll be back.”

  I go to her garage.

  Spend time with Mary.

  Inhale her as if she’s my last breath.

  And then go through every single emotion I’ve felt the past three weeks.

  I didn’t want to wake up thinking about her. I didn’t want to fall asleep lost in thoughts of her. Because remembering her meant that it was real, whatever I’d felt, whatever we had, and then today…

  I heard her voice.

  I saw her.

  I held her.

  I allowed my lips to touch her.

  For a second, I allowed myself to want her.

  The problem with wanting something, or someone, is that you can’t control how long you keep them for. Or the hurt it might cause when you lose them. And that… that’s the reason why I go back to Aubrey’s room, just to the doorway, and lean against it, my hands shoved deep in my pockets.

  I ignore the twisting in my gut when I look at her. “I tried to add you on Facebook.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  I nod. “It’s a fake name. Long story.”

  She reaches for her phone. “The only friend request is sitting in purgatory. From Bing Bong. The profile says, Contact me for cheap Ray Bans. That’s you?”

  I nod again.

  “Oh.”

  “I just wanted you to know that I tried, Aubrey. I tried to contact you, but the only way I could think to do it was through Joy. And I didn’t care whether or not she knew, but you guys are friends… she’s your only friend and—”

  “I get it,” she cuts in. “I’m not mad about it…”

  Another nod. “Anyway… I’m pretty jet-lagged… so…”

  “Yeah?” She scoots over, making room for me. She’s hopeful.

  I crush her hope. “So, I think I’m just going to head home.”

  She stares at me, right into my eyes, into my insecurities. “Okay.” She scoots back to the middle of the bed.

  I turn to leave, but she calls out after me. “Logan?”

  My body stills, but I don’t turn around. “Yeah?”

  “Can you make sure you lock the door?”

  11

  Aubrey

  Four beers do not a hangover make. Thank God. Because I’d be further into Struggle Town at work today if it did. It’s quiet. I’ve had a total of three customers walk in. I guess people here don’t like stationery as much as they do in Raleigh. I should’ve opted for a different shop, but this was my job back home, and so I know the suppliers, know how to run the place. What I don’t know is how to market it or bring in the customers.

  I stand behind the count
er, check my phone.

  Bing Bong.

  What the fuck even is that?

  I don’t go on Facebook often, because social media is a place where exes go to die. Here’s an example of what I know since I left Raleigh:

  Carter is working full-time at his dad’s BMW dealership.

  His sister turned sixteen.

  His mom turned forty-five.

  His new girlfriend is a knockout.

  He loves her already.

  He loves her.

  He loves her.

  He loves her.

  He loves her more than he ever loved me.

  I know, because he posts about it right there, for the world to see.

  He never posted about me.

  And when I realized that, I felt dead inside.

  Hence, social media is a place where exes go to die.

  So do friendships.

  This morning, just as I was opening the shop, I got a DM from Joy. Attached, a screenshot from someone’s profile with a picture from last night’s party. In the background, Logan is holding me, aka: helping me stand. She asked if I fucked him last night. I said no. She asked if I’ve fucked him ever. I said yes.

  She didn’t respond.

  She didn’t have to.

  And now I’m back to square one.

  When I’d first told my mom my plans, she asked me why I chose here. Besides the fact that I’d been fascinated with small towns (thank you, CW Network) the names of the towns around here were kind of familiar. When I was around seven or eight, we lived in a town similar to this. I don’t remember exactly where, and my mom refuses to talk about anything “Pre-Dad-Death,” so this was as close as I could get. It’s nothing like I imagined. Yes, everyone knows everyone, people wave in the streets, greet using their names… if they’ve lived here forever. They’re not so welcoming to the newbies. It feels almost as if they think I’m a threat. To what? I have no idea. It’s not like I’m out to steal people’s boyfriends or businesses.

  I’m just here.

  Existing.

  Barely.

  Soon enough, I’ll run out of the money from my inheritance. And then… then I don’t know what I’ll do.

  I pull up a map of the town on the computer and look at the aerial view. There are too many trees, so you can’t make up much. I zoom in. Roofs. Trees. Lake.

  Lake.

  I shut the browser when the bell above the door chimes, put on my fakest smile, and with the cheeriest voice I can muster, I say, “How are you today?”

  I’m one of those shop owners.

  Lachlan Preston is poking his head inside. Just his head. Not an inch of anything else. Outside, a huge, Goliath of a man in a flannel button-up stares down at the boy with his jaw set, his eyes narrowed—eyes bluer than blue.

  Lachlan shouts, “Hi, Red! Bye, Red!” and then he’s gone, his shoulders lifting when the man ruffles his hair.

  The man looks in through the shop window, offers a smile, a head nod. And maybe I’m slow, because I don’t realize it until I see his profile that he’s Logan’s dad. Jesus. Mr. Preston is a silver fox.

  Gross? Maybe.

  Truth? Definitely.

  Three hours and a single customer later, I get a delivery. A huge, heavy delivery contained in five large boxes. I don’t remember ordering that much stuff, but sometimes, when my insomnia hits, I order random shit online at four in the morning. The delivery guy’s name is Peter. I know, because I see him almost every day. He calls me Audrey. He rushes me to sign off on the delivery and farts in my store before leaving. He couldn’t have waited until he was outside where the wind can travel the stench away?

  Seriously, my life is so fascinating. If they made a show about it, they’d call it, The Girl Who Breathes or The Girl Who Blinks or The Girl Who Is Pathetic.

  I don’t check the boxes. Not until an hour later when a woman walks in; tiny, shiny, perfect, like a porcelain doll made of diamonds and crystal. She looks at the boxes I haven’t bothered to move off the showroom floor. What’s the point? Then she looks at the small box she carried in with her. “I think Peter gave you the wrong delivery,” she states, not looking at me: The Threat.

  “Well, that makes sense,” I mumble.

  “Did he fart in your shop, too?”

  I laugh at that, and her eyes snap to me. Her head tilts, taking me in. Head to toe. Head to toe. “You’re cute.” She says it so matter of fact that for a second, I believe her. “You’re new, right?”

  “As of, like, four months ago.”

  “This town…” she says, dropping my delivery on the counter as she jerks her head toward the door, “…we don’t get a lot of new people. Stragglers, yes. Visitors, yes. Tourists, fuck no. But no one ever stays.”

  I nod, bring my package closer to me. “So, how long do you think I have to stay before I stop being ‘new’?”

  “Until someone else comes along. You look young. Are you here with your parents? Is this their shop?”

  “I’m eighteen,” I tell her, “and it’s my shop.”

  “Good for you.” She doesn’t say it in a condescending way. It’s more like encouraging.

  “Thanks.”

  “Okay, I better get going.” She walks over to her boxes piled higher than her head and attempts to lift one. It doesn’t budge. “Jesus fuck, what the fuck is in this?”

  “Dead bodies?” I suggest. A joke, obviously.

  “You’d think they’d chop them up into limbs to make them easier to carry, right?” She smiles. Genuine. Her hair’s the shade of auburn I wish I had. She looks like a littler version of Rory Gilmore from Gilmore Girls. Stars Hollow. Small Town. Irony.

  “Right,” I answer. “Maybe if we both try… I’m not very strong. Where’s your shop, anyway?”

  “A couple doors down.”

  I get on the other side of the boxes, wait for her to get into position. We both try. It lifts… about a quarter of an inch.

  We laugh it off.

  “I hate to say this…” she starts. “But I think we need a man.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “You got a man?”

  I shake my head. “Not even close to one.”

  She eyes me up and down again. “Shame.”

  I like her.

  Not like like her, but… and maybe I’m jumping the gun here, but maybe, just maybe, I could possibly gain a new friend.

  She’s on her phone, typing out a text.

  “So…” I begin, “I take it you’re one of the forever here-ers?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Just then, a man walks in, tall, masculine, rugged. Hot. If this woman is Rory, this guy is Dean.

  Dean and Rory were a disaster (sorry).

  I was always Team Logan.

  Fuck me. I can’t escape the boy.

  The man’s eyes glaze over me, goes straight to the woman. “You raaaang,” he says, his voice Lurch-like.

  The woman points to the boxes. “Carry them for me, dear husband?”

  He picks up the top one as if it’s filled with feathers.

  I giggle. “We suck,” I say to the woman.

  “No,” she says, squeezing her husband’s arm. “He’s just strong.” Then she points to me. “This is—I never caught your name.”

  “Aubrey.”

  And before I get a chance to ask them for theirs, she says to her husband, “Isn’t she cute, babe?”

  As if the husband needed permission to actually look at me, he sizes me up, just like his wife did. “Yeah, babe, she’s cute.” He kisses the top of her head.

  I blush like mad, look down at my hot pink Doc Martens.

  “Like, really cute,” she says.

  “Sure, babe. Really cute.”

  “You made any friends since you’ve been here?” she asks me.

  “Not really.” It comes out a jumbled whisper.

  “You should come over for dinner tonight. Right, husband?” It’s kind of adorable that she calls him that instead of his na
me, even though I really want to know what it is.

  “For sure. I’ll cook, though, babe. You’ve uh… worked hard today. I’m going to get the hand trolley from the shop so I can get these boxes out of the way.” He kisses her again.

  Gosh, they’re sweet. And Logan (mine, not Rory Gilmore’s) says that romance is dead. The woman takes a business card from the holder on the counter. “I’ll text you the time and address!” she says, already walking out the door with her husband. I wave goodbye, a little too enthusiastically.

  When the man returns with the trolley, he doesn’t speak, except to say, “I’ll see you tonight?”

  “Sure.”

  And then he’s gone.

  And I’m back to existing.

  Barely.

  Two hours, no customers later, a text comes through with an address and the time. I save the number in my phone under Rory.

  An hour after that, I close the shop. Walk home. It’s on that walk home that I play over everything in my head.

  The woman.

  The man.

  The way she looked at me.

  The way she kept insisting that I was cute.

  The way she asked her husband if he thought I was cute.

  The way she’d asked if I’d made any friends.

  The instant invite to dinner at their house.

  Oh.

  Shit.

  All the warning signs were there.

  How did I not see them?

  The Girl Who Is Pathetic.

  Oh.

  My.

  Shit.

  I’ve just been invited to a threesome.

  I freeze in the middle of the sidewalk, grab my phone out of my bag, and text the only person I could possibly classify as a “friend.”

  Aubrey: How do you feel about threesomes?

  Logan: Yes.

  12

  Aubrey

  Logan is being… Logan.

  Sitting behind the wheel of his truck, he’s giving me the glares he used to give me before. “Red, when you said threesome, I thought you meant me plus two girls.”