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

by Jay McLean

  “It’s good that you do, though. Those memories will last forever, and those are things that you’ll probably pass down to your kids because you know how happy it made you feel.” I swallow the pain, the realization that I don’t have those types of memories.

  He taps my leg. “The other day, I was thinking about what you said, about your dad and not having any memories of him. I don’t think it’s because you didn’t pay enough attention when he was around. I just think… I mean, here, we’re lucky. Luce was fifteen, and she was the closest to Mom, so she’s always telling us stories. Saying things like, ‘Remember when Mom…’ and that would spark the memory. It’s not the same with you. It’s not your fault.”

  I lean up so I can look down at him, feeling the burn behind my eyes, my nose. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I really needed to hear that.”

  “Of course,” he says, fingering a strand of my hair. “You have so much hair.”

  “I know.”

  “I like when you wear it up.”

  “Because it’s less hobo?”

  “Because it doesn’t cover so much of your face. And your face is beautiful, Red. You shouldn’t hide it.”

  I try to contain my smile when I take the hair tie from my wrist, wrap my hair in a high bun. “Better?” I ask, and he grins, runs the backs of his fingers along my jaw.

  “Much.” He leans up, kisses my mouth, my cheek, my jaw, then blows a raspberry on my neck.

  “Ew!” I laugh out, wiping away his spit.

  He chuckles, his smile unconstrained. “I think I like these moments with you the most.”

  “What moments?”

  “Just this… existing with you. It’s good.”

  “It’s better than good,” I retort, and he nods.

  And then he’s moving, his body shifting beneath the covers. His arm reappears, boxers in his hand. He throws them across the room. And because he’s Logan, and I wouldn’t want him any other way, I laugh when he says, “Enough with this shit, Red. Hurry up and fuck my dick off.”

  Logan

  I bite down on Aubrey’s hip bone, smiling when she squirms beneath me.

  “Quit it,” she whispers, her hands in my hair. “It tickles.”

  I move up her body, my tongue running along the slight bump of her belly, higher again, and kiss between her breasts, the tip of each nipple. She sighs. Content. I’ve gotten off twice already; she says she’s lost count. We’re both spent, but I can’t seem to get enough of her. Her fingertips trail up and down my back, while I kiss the spot between her neck and shoulder, making her squirm again. “I said quit it,” she giggles, but there’s no fight in her words.

  The same song’s been playing on repeat, the soundtrack to our frustrations. I’d played it all night, fell asleep to it. Because the second she told me she was leaving yesterday, all I wanted to do was hold her, make her stay. But I pushed her away. Again.

  I lean up on my forearms, look down at her. The sunlight beats through the window, reflecting off her hair, reminding me of Mary when I set her ablaze. Her eyes are half closed, her lips red from my assault. She’s so perfectly imperfect, and perfect for me.

  “What?” she whispers.

  “You’re so beautiful.”

  She shakes her head. “Shut up.”

  “You are.”

  Her hands are in my hair again. “You make me feel beautiful.”

  I lower my body, cover her completely. I nuzzle her neck. Sniff her hair. “You smell like fall,” I mumble.

  “You smell like man.”

  I chuckle. “Like sweat and body odor?”

  “No,” she says, “like strength and”—she sniffs the air—“semen.”

  My shoulders shake with my silent laugh. “That so not hot.”

  “It’s incredibly hot.”

  I lift her leg, wrap it around my hip, ready for a third round, and that’s when the front door opens. “Shit!”

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” she says, and she’s out from beneath me, bare-ass naked in the middle of the room, spinning around trying to find her clothes. I find my boxers, slide them on. Then a pair of sweats.

  Fee-fi-fo-fum.

  “Get dressed,” I whisper, find her clothes at the foot of the bed and throw them at her head. I open the door just enough to step out and find Dad on the top step. I shut the door behind me, keep my hand on the knob. “Hey,” I say, but it comes out hoarse. I clear my throat, try again. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

  His gaze shifts from mine, to my door, over and over. “I know she’s here, Logan. Her bike’s still on the porch. Don’t hide a girl like that. It’ll make her feel as if you’re ashamed of her. Are you ashamed of her?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then why are you hiding her?” he grumbles.

  “The rules,” I say stupidly.

  Dad shakes his head. “You’re nineteen years old, and you’re grounded because you clearly can’t follow the rules of society. The laws, Logan.” He takes a moment to sniff the air. I’m sure he can smell the weed in my room, on me. He adds, “The rules of this house mean nothing to you. Now, get Aubrey and meet me downstairs. I need to have a word with both of you.”

  Aubrey sits on the couch next to me, her hands clasped on her lap, her knees bouncing, her cheeks flushed. Dad sits on the coffee table opposite, glaring at the both of us. “This is the last time this happens,” Dad says. He focuses on Aubrey. “I let you come over to check in on him because I knew you were worried.” Then to me: “Now, I hope you discussed whatever you needed to and got whatever out of your systems, because grounded is grounded, Logan. That means no visitors. No phone. No Internet.”

  “Are you serious?” I huff out.

  “As a heart attack,” he answers, hand out waiting.

  I murmur, “My phone’s upstairs.”

  “Well, go get it.”

  I do as he says, hand it to him.

  “When the twins get home, they’re changing all the Internet and computer passwords. I’m boarding up your bedroom window. You will not smoke that shit in the house. And I’m changing the code on the house alarm. You will not leave the house while I’m not home.”

  “Savage,” I mumble.

  “Believe me, boy. You haven’t seen savage, yet. And I can make it three weeks if you keep it up.”

  I look down at my lap. “Two weeks is good.”

  Dad clears his throat. “Are we all on the same page?”

  “Yes, sir,” Aubrey and I say in unison, as if he’s the principal and we’re in fucking elementary school. I say, “Can I… can I at least have five minutes with Aubrey, in private? We need to talk about—”

  “No.”

  “Dad!”

  “Rules are rules, Logan, and what is it that you kids are always saying? You play stupid games…?”

  “You win stupid prizes,” I finish for him.

  “May I please speak, Mr. Preston?” Aubrey says, her voice meek. I shake my head, annoyed that Dad’s put this level of fear in her.

  Dad nods.

  “I just wanted to say thank you for yesterday, for helping to board up my window. You didn’t have to do any of it, and I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Preston. And please say thank you to Lucas, too, for doing what he did.”

  My stomach drops. “What do you mean?” I face Dad. “What did Luke do?”

  “Logan,” Dad warns. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” He’s talking to Aubrey, but his words are meant for me.

  “What did he do?” I press. “Don’t tell me he fucking apologized to that motherfu—”

  “Logan,” says Aubrey.

  “No. I’m so sick of him treating me like this, like I’m his responsibility. Like I need a babysitter. I smoke weed. I’m not out there selling my body for crack.”

  “Logan.” Aubrey again.

  Dad yells, his anger and frustration aimed right at me, “The last thing this family needs is another court case. Another chance of one of you boys spending time in goddamn prison for assaul
t!” When he’s really angry, a vein appears on his forehead. When we were kids, we’d all snicker about it, waiting for it to pop. It never did. It might now. After a few calming breaths, he adds, “Your brother fixed your screw-up, Logan. You should be thanking him.”

  My jaw tenses, and I refrain from saying anything more. I don’t want to have this conversation. Not now. Definitely not with Aubrey right fucking here.

  He says, “I’ll give you a ride home, Aubrey.”

  “My bike…”

  “Your rear tire is busted. Logan can fix it tonight when I get home from work. It’ll be outside your shop tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh… okay, sir. Thank you.”

  Dad stands, says to me, “Lucas is coming home to take you to your appointment.”

  I stand with a groan, wait for Aubrey to do the same. Then I kiss her on the forehead.

  “Appointment? As in therapy?” she asks.

  Rolling my eyes, I say, “It’s part of my punishment.” I tug on a strand of her hair. “I’ll miss ya, Red.”

  Dad asks Aubrey, “You know about his therapy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I say, “Aubrey knows more about me than almost anyone.”

  Dad’s smile is slight, hidden beneath his beard. “Good, good,” he says, then leads Aubrey to the front door with his hand on her back.

  She looks over her shoulder at me. “I’m sorry,” she mouths.

  I mouth back, “Me, too.”

  And then she’s gone, taking our unanswered questions with her.

  At therapy, I write down one word, and one word only:

  Hopeful.

  34

  Aubrey

  It’s amazing how getting a brick thrown through your window is the only way to get people in this town to actually know you exist. Even with the one window still boarded up, I show up to work Wednesday morning, fifteen minutes late, to see a line of people waiting outside for me to open. It’s by far the busiest day I’ve ever had, and by lunchtime, I’ve sold more product than I normally do in two weeks.

  After yesterday at the Preston house, I wasn’t sure if Mr. Preston would still let Lachlan come around. I spend most of the afternoon watching the door, excitement then disappointment filling me every time the person entering isn’t him.

  Two hours after school lets out, Lachlan arrives, his eyes wide in surprise that people are actually in the store. “So, the rumors are true, huh?”

  “What rumors?” I ask, clearing his desk for him.

  “That some fudge nugget threw something through your window and Logan beat his face in? I heard my family whispering something, and I know Logan’s on lockdown, but I didn’t know why. Dad told me he did something stupid. When I got to school, everyone was talking about it.”

  I cringe. “I’m sorry you had to hear about it. People shouldn’t gossip, though. It’s not right, especially when they know who you are and—”

  His shrug cuts me off. “Gossip is the only way this town runs. You’ll figure it out soon, Miss Red,” he says, removing his backpack and hanging it off the back of the chair. He unzips the top, reaches in, and pulls out a scrunched-up piece of paper. With a grin that splits his face in two, he hands it to me, says, “Logan paid me a hundred dollars to give this to you.”

  “A hundred dollars!” I gasp.

  Lachlan giggles. “He must really want you to read it.”

  I narrow my eyes at him, playfully, and wonder what he could possibly have to say that’s worth a Benjamin. “Wait,” I say, eyeing the paper and then him. “You didn’t read this, did you?”

  Lachlan smirks. “Why? You think it’s a dirty letter? I’ve read some of the stuff in Lucy’s books. Trust me. I’ve seen dirty.”

  Pocketing the letter, I leave him with his sketches and attend to the customers in the store, my mind racing, dazed, all thoughts focused on Logan’s letter. As soon as Cameron comes to collect Lachlan, I close up the store, sit in the office with the words that set my pulse, my heart, my world ablaze:

  Sigh. My Pillows smell like you.

  I can’t ask you to stay, Red. Because asking you to stay would mean asking you to stay for me, and I can’t do that. I won’t. What if I fail you?

  The next day, I plead with Cameron to pass on my reply to Logan. When he refuses, not wanting to go against his father-in-law, I turn to Lucy. “Please, Lucy. You're a sucker for romance, right?”

  She sighs.

  I beg some more.

  Nodding, she silently takes the letter from me with the only four words I could think to write in response:

  What if we try?

  The following day, the twins come to my shop. They've never been here before, so I'm already smiling by the time Liam pulls the same letter from his back pocket. “How much did he pay you?” I joke.

  They laugh. “One fifty each.”

  That makes a total of $450 Logan’s spent just to communicate with me.

  The boy’s an idiot.

  My idiot.

  I don't wait for them to leave before reading it.

  What if that was all I could promise you?

  At home, I pace the living room, holding the letter to my heart. Hopefulness tears at my insides, and I try to push it away. To ignore it. But it’s there. Every breath, every pulse is dedicated to that one feeling. I sit down at my coffee table and imagine him doing the same at his desk in his room. I wonder if he struggles to come up with words as badly as I do.

  This time, I write down one extra word than the time before.

  By Saturday, I’ve folded and unfolded and reread the letter more times than I want to admit. By lunchtime, I start to lose patience. Then Leo Preston appears. “Home for the weekend?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant, as if seeing him doesn’t fill the hope bubble building in my heart.

  Leo chuckles, just like the twins did. “For three hundred dollars, wouldn’t you?”

  “Jesus,” I murmur.

  Leo clucks his tongue. “Damn, girl. I don’t think Logan’s ever spent a cent on anyone before. He’s fallen for ya, Aubrey. And he’s fallen hard. Tomorrow, hell might freeze over.”

  I offer him the letter, and he takes it. “Have you spoken to him? Is he… is he okay?”

  Leo smiles. “He’s…” He breaks off on another chuckle. “Dad says he’s been a pain in the ass. I’m just glad I’m not home to have to deal with him.”

  He leaves the store with my words of hope shoved deep in his pocket:

  What if that was enough?

  The rest of the afternoon is crazy busy. It seems like everyone and their dog come through those doors. Literally, their dogs.

  At 4:55, just as who I assume is the last customer for the day leaves the store, Mr. Preston walks in, fisting the letter Logan and I have been passing back and forth. “I think this belongs to you, young lady.”

  Blood drains from my face, my entire body. “I’m sorry, Mr. Preston,” I plead. “I just couldn’t… couldn’t…” I trail off. I couldn’t keep away from your son.

  He sighs. “I think you can start calling me Tom, Miss Red.”

  “Okay…. Tom?”

  “Besides, it’s better than Silver Fox.”

  My body flames with embarrassment, and he chuckles, hands me the letter.

  I hold it to my chest.

  He asks, “Well, are you going to read it?”

  “Have—have you read it?”

  “Should I?” he asks, quirking his eyebrow.

  I don’t respond, simply unfold the paper:

  I can’t ask you to stay, Red… but please don’t leave.

  - Logan.

  35

  Logan

  “What the fuck?!” I sit upright, bent at my waist, my eyes adjusting to the dampness leaking into them. This is the worst type of Mayhem: the ones that wake you from a deep sleep because it can take seconds, sometimes even minutes, to understand what the hell is happening. I open my mouth to speak, and that’s when the powder is thrown at me: cocoa. “Fuck off!” I
shout, and Lachy’s laughter becomes the soundtrack to my assault.

  “Go!” Leo yells.

  I barely get to wipe my eyes before I’m pounded in the chest with Nerf bullets, one after the other. It doesn’t hurt, but it scares the shit out of me. I’m almost out of bed, ready to attack my little shit of a brother when Leo gets on me, pins me back down onto the bed and straddles my fucking chest. He forces something in my mouth, a nozzle of some sort, and then cheese. It fills my fucking mouth, and I’m gurgling, choking on a mixture of Eezy Cheese, cocoa and saliva.

  Within seconds, I overpower my older brother, push him off me until he’s on the floor. The loudness of his and Lachlan’s laughter grates on my nerves and must wake the twins, because they come storming in, take one look at me, and join my other brothers. “Best day ever!” Lachlan shouts, and I should be mad, but I find myself laughing with them. It’s the first time since Aubrey was here that I feel something other than annoyance and desperation. “You wait,” I warn all of them, spitting cheese onto my already ruined bed sheets.

  Dad calls the twins downstairs to help with Sunday Family Breakfast, and once they’re gone, I strip my bed—minus the pillowcase… because Aubrey. Leo attempts and fails to open my nailed down window.

  “That bad, huh?” I ask, already knowing why he needs the fresh air. It’s not because of the cheese. Or the weed. It’s because I haven’t showered all week. I smell like shit.

  Lachy sniffs the air, asks, “What’s that smell? Is it that weed you smoke?”

  My gaze snaps to his. “Where did you hear that?”

  Shrugging, my youngest brother says, “Mitchell at school told me. He says you smoke weed and that it’s illegal. He says you do other things, too, and that you’re a junkie. That’s why you beat the crap out of that guy, because you were coming down. What’s a junkie, and what does coming down mean?”