Six Night Stand (The Lexingtons Book 3)

by Kevin Sean

  And then there’s the painting of me: maybe I’m biased, but it’s one of the best paintings I’ve ever seen. No matter how Ben and I left things, I’d never deny that he’s an insanely talented artist.

  Before I can admire more art made by the man on my mind, I hear a sound I’ve come to resent: my phone’s notification ringtone. Someone from work just sent me some text messages. I check and see that they’re from Dan in the design department.

  DAN: Hey boss—we liked the color combinations you sent us earlier today, but they didn’t rate highly for retention rate.

  DAN: Which is to say… they’re pretty, but they won’t hook the customers on our app. We need colors which are easier on the eye to maximize the time people spend using ConnectMeet, that’s crucial for increasing ad revenue.

  I understand where Dan’s coming from and I trust his expertise, but I hate that we’re eschewing Ben’s beautiful hand-mixed colors just because they aren’t addictive enough to keep our customers mindlessly scrolling day and night.

  When I started LexTech a decade ago, my priority wasn’t picking the right colors which might compel people to use my apps to an obsessive degree. The only force powering me to the top of my field was a desire to succeed and to improve the lives of others while doing it. People liked my company’s products because they did a job and they did the job damn well, not because they were flashy. When did my priorities become so skewed?

  Ben was right when he called out social media and the tech industry of today for encouraging the ugly sides of humanity. Companies like LexTech and Photogram aren’t focused on doing good or connecting people anymore, it’s all about profit for the sake of profit and growth for the sake of growth.

  Maybe those material things have motivated me in the past, but they won’t anymore. I can’t invest so much time and energy into a company that it neuters my love life. Especially if that company isn’t making a positive change in the world.

  If I want to feel fulfilled again, I need to invest my time into something worth giving a fuck about. Something like love.

  Something like Ben Carpenter.

  It’s so clear to me now: I don’t give a damn about making a dating app version of ConnectMe. Not the way I give a damn about Ben. We had love, genuine love, blossoming between us, and I threw it all away.

  I’d give up my social media empire for Ben Carpenter in a heartbeat. I just hope it’s not too late to win him back.

  Feeling freed by this revelation and the sudden realignment of my priorities, I take one more weight off of my chest. I pull out my cell phone to record a voice memo for my nemesis.

  “Hey Dalton, Logan Lexington here. I just wanted to let you know… you win. I’m done with this never-ending rat race to make a deal with the devil. Being the face of corporate greed may appeal to your corrupt ass, but selling my soul isn’t for me. Have a nice life sucking other people dry. Good luck trying to come up with ideas when you can’t steal them from me!” It takes all my restraint not to cackle before stopping recording and sending the memo to Dalton Elijah.

  If I’m surrendering, why do I feel like a winner right now? I wish Ben were here to celebrate with me, but I’ll tell him all about the fresh page I’ve turned once we’ve made up.

  I only get a few moments to bask in the glory of telling Dalton off before I notice that the door exiting the hideaway to the garden is ajar. It’s been opened recently.

  Ben must have been in the hideaway before me, and he must have gone outside. It’s not raining anymore… maybe he just wanted to get a breath of fresh air.

  After I pull open the door and glance outside I’m greeted by another clue as to Ben’s whereabouts: splotches of paint, which must have been on the soles of his shoes, are dotting my lawn in a linear path until they disappear at the edge of the thick woods surrounding my house.

  My chest feels heavy. It’s hard to breathe. Ben is running away. I knew he was upset by our falling out earlier today, but I didn’t think he would flee the premises. How the hell does he even plan on escaping? It’s not like he can take the ferry back to the city, there are only powerboats at the dock.

  The powerboats.

  Right as a terrifying image of Ben being a hit by a wall of water while trying to navigate a tiny powerboat crosses my mind, lightning cracks across the sky. I look up and see that ominous clouds are closing in from all sides of the horizon. This temporary calm is ending. The storm could return at any moment.

  The heaviness which started in my chest has spread and overtaken my entire body. I feel numb. If Ben is trying to escape on one of my boats in this weather, he’s in big trouble. And if I’m going to save him, I need to act fast.

  17

  BEN

  Right now I’m regretting not paying more attention at boy scout meetings. As a kid I only cared about crafting and painting, not the survival skills.

  Huge mistake.

  I’m caked in mud. Tree branches have scratched me all over. I’m dripping wet (I’m not sure if that’s sweat or rain) and I’m trying to untie a tricky knot for what feels like the thousandth time.

  I had sufficient cell reception to google the basics of steering powerboats and dealing with nautical knots, but that information has done me little good.

  I assumed it would take a minute at most for me to untie this boat and be on my merry way. That was half an hour ago, and I’m still shivering on the dock. This is hopeless. I tried to escape from one mess and created an even bigger one. I just want to get the hell out of here while I still can. Frustrated, I tug even harder on the knot that’s vexing me.

  The droplets of water landing on my head and the changing colors of the horizon above indicate that the storm is coming back with a vengeance. I’ve wasted precious time on navigable calm waters due to my ineptitude. This is bad. Very bad.

  Not to mention that I’m getting rope burn. “Fuck!” I yell out loud, hoping that swearing will release the anger building up inside of me. No such luck. All that’s released is the rope from my fingers. The nylon line falls to the ground—still knotted—while I just feel all the more frustrated.

  Why the hell didn’t I come to the dock sooner? I could be halfway home by now if I’d fled the second my fight with Logan ended.

  In my defense, I’d never planned on making an escape by boat until I was already at the dock. Even if I had intended to end up here, I arrived to this island at night and haven’t gone outside since. It wouldn’t have been easy to orient myself without lanterns to guide my path from Logan’s house to the shore.

  The thought of never setting foot in the mansion again sends a soft ripple of sadness through me. It’s silly, but this place felt like something close to home for a few days.

  But this place isn’t my home. There’s so much I don’t know on this island, just like there’s so much I don’t know about Logan.

  I wonder if Logan has even noticed that I’m gone.

  I’m annoyed by my thought as soon as it enters my consciousness. So what if Logan knows I’m gone? It’s not like he’d care very much, anyway. He can find someone to warm his bed by tomorrow. Maybe Katarzyna would do it for a pay raise.

  I don’t know how Logan will react to my escape and I don’t plan on being on this island long enough to find out. That’s why I trudged through mud and branches, and that’s why I will get this goddamn knot untied—or die trying.

  I must do something correct because the knot goes loose and gives way, letting me untie the rope and free the boat. The vessel is very luxurious and modern looking and is made entirely out of iridescent white metal and panels of sleek dark wood. The boat bobs with enthusiasm, as if beckoning me to take it out on the bay. Lets get out of here.

  I jump in to the powerboat and sit down, resting my palm on the passenger’s seat next to me for support. The empty spot makes me picture Logan, sitting in my seat at the helm and taking me out for a boat ride like he’d promised. A wave of regret washes over me, and I reconsider whether I ought to escape.
r />   But I know we’ll both only end up in more pain if I stay here with Logan. There’s so many things he’s hiding from me. There are so many words that should have been said but instead have gone unspoken between us.

  I’m not innocent either… I mean, look at me, I’m running away.

  Yes, I’m leaving Logan Lexington and my week with him behind. Firmly in the past. Me walking away is for the good of both of us, for our own sakes and for our own sanity.

  I gaze up to the sky, looking for a sign, but I’m met with no clarity or peace of mind. Only pouring rain made all the more vicious by the wind. If I’m going, I need to go right now. It’s clear that the storm will be back sooner than later, and I don’t plan on being on this island anymore by the time that that happens. I’m not a meteorologist by any means (I can’t even remember the last time I watched the weather channel) but I’m sure I don’t have a very wide window of opportunity to escape.

  It’s time to go. It’s time for me to leave. Without further ado I follow the steering manual and boating guide I found on the internet, throwing the switches and pushing buttons in a mad dash to start the boat. It’s a daunting task, considering the dozens of levers and dashboards laid out in front of me, but somehow my frantic assault on the control panel works and the vessel’s engine comes roaring to life. After it’s settled to more of a purr I hold my breath, grip the steering wheel, and pull on the lever marked accelerate.

  Just like that, I’m off, jetting across the brilliant blue waters of the San Francisco Bay in a multimillion-dollar powerboat—which I’m navigating by myself. Steering this thing is terrifying. I can’t tell if my entire body is shaking from nervousness or the boat’s vibrations. Being behind the wheel of this nautical machine, I’m reminded of the first time I drove a car and was convinced I would kill someone if I averted my gaze to check the rearview mirror for even a split second. I am almighty but also about to wet myself from fear.

  For reference, I lock my eyes on San Francisco’s skyline ahead. If I can keep the boat headed toward the city I’ll be home in no time. I don’t have the prior experience to accurately gauge how fast the boat is going, but it’s definitely speedier than the ferry which carried Pierre and I across the water days ago.

  All of five minutes pass before I realize that going in a straight line from Logan’s Island to San Francisco is much easier said than done. A current keeps pulling the ship sideways, no matter how many times I spin the wheel back into place and redirect the boat. The wind is picking up now, and the waves rock me from side to side. It’s unpleasant. I feel sick in my stomach.

  The breeze turns to full-blown gale in no time at all, and before I know it, the boat is navigating through waves nearly as tall as a house. There are windshields in front of the captain’s controls and to the side but there’s no protective barrier behind me, so wind is whipping the back of my neck and making me feel even less in control of this boat. It’s starting to feel like we’re going in circles. Not only that, but it’s also getting foggier and darker out.

  I can barely even see the city’s skyline anymore.

  The deafening howling of the wind isn’t helping matters, either. I can’t hear my own thoughts over the whipping and whistling of the gusts of air sending the powerboat in every direction besides homeward bound. The worse the wind gets, the worse the waves get, which means I have to grip the steering wheel extra tight to maintain our path towards the sparkling lights of the city.

  A powerful wave strikes on the side and sends the boat into a rightward tailspin. Reflexively, I crank the steering wheel in the opposite direction to course correct. Even though the wheel resists, I push harder, determined not to veer off course. I don’t want to end up in the middle of the Pacific.

  I’m forcing the wheel to comply when the entire mechanism snaps out of place, accompanied by the hideous crack of metal and wood disfiguring. For a moment I stand with a severed steering wheel in my hand, dumbfounded and utterly unaware of what to do next. With no steering wheel, I’m at the mercy of the wind—and this storm has no mercy.

  I have a feeling I won’t be able to google my way out of this conundrum.

  Destroyed steering wheel still in hand, I race to the side of the boat and lean over, screaming “Help!” at the top of my lungs.

  Silence answers my pleas. Of course. There isn’t a single other soul out here on the open water to hear my calls for help. Why would there be, considering the ongoing freak storm?

  Anybody at all coming to my rescue would as welcome as it is unlikely. Hell, I’d receive my ex Zach and his new boyfriend with open arms and French kisses for each of them if they came to save me right now. But I especially want Logan to come back for me. I want Logan to care about me. I want Logan, period.

  Funny, that he’s all I can think about right now. I’m about to die, and Logan is inundating my mind. Sexy, hilarious, heartfelt Logan. This isn’t what I thought would flash before my eyes in my last moments.

  All at once I’m overwhelmed with clarity. What I desire right now—in what just might be my very last minutes on earth—is to be with Logan Lexington. I would give anything, everything, to reunite with the man I just ran away from. To feel him near me, inside me, one last time.

  Why did I have to realize I’m in love with Logan now, when it’s far too late?

  As if the situation couldn’t get any more helpless, water splashes over the sides of the boat. In less than a half a minute it rises past my ankles. I’m sure it won’t be long until this entire thing goes under.

  Well, this is it. I’m done for.

  Realizing I’ve run out of options, I decide to get one last message out into the world while I have the chance. I remember spotting a walkie talkie in the boat’s glove box when I was looking for a manual. I know it’s a stretch, but maybe I can talk into the device I have here and communicate with him back on the island.

  I race to the glove box, whip out the handset and start speaking. “I love you, Logan.” I croak the words into the walkie-talkie, my confession crackly and distorted in the plastic machine’s tinny echo. “I love you,” I repeat, projecting more confidence when I speak this time, as if saying I love you a mere decibel louder is the key to boosting the communication device’s range.

  There’s no answer. I didn’t expect to hear one, but I’m still disappointed.

  I’m positive now that Logan isn’t in close enough range to receive my messages, but I need to make amends for walking out on him—even if I’m talking into the void. “I’m so sorry, Logan,” I whisper.

  I don’t repeat my message this time. Before I have the chance, a wall of seawater slams against the boat and sends me tumbling down to my feet. My head smashes against the ship’s metal flooring, and suddenly I feel everything and nothing. My vision goes out, replaced with a kaleidoscope of ocean blues and boat-siding cream white. I’m so numb and so, so overwhelmed. My mouth tastes like metal. My body feels light as a feather.

  The plastic walkie talkie slips from my hands while I stumble, swirling in the air like a Russian gymnast before swan diving and making an ugly clunk as it collides with serrated metal. Clunk. The walkie talkie bounces out of my reach. I can’t see anything but stars and strips of prismatic light. Clunk. Clunk. But I hear. I hear the walkie talkie sliding away from me. Clunkclunkclunkclunkclunk. And then nothing.

  The last potential link to Logan is gone. The walkie talkie has disappeared forever into the murky blue depths of the San Francisco Bay. In just a moment, the boat and I are about to pull the same involuntary disappearing act.

  “I love you, Logan,” I whisper one more time into the empty void of the storm. As I’m enveloped in icy blankets of seawater, I close my eyes and prepare to face my fate. I only have the energy to utter one final word: “Goodbye.”

  18

  LOGAN

  “Ben! Where are you? Ben, please come back!”

  I know I sound like a broken record that’s stuck playing on repeat, but I can’t help calling out for th
e lover I made the mistake of letting go.

  I wait, hoping to hear Ben’s sweet heartbroken voice echoing back in my direction. I would be so happy, so overjoyed, if he were to walk up to me right now. Even if he was only approaching so that he could tear me a new one and chew me out. I would relish arguing with Ben right now—at least it would mean he was safe and sound.

  But I see nothing, I hear nothing… except for the wind, which has begun to howl again and is picking up in intensity at an exponential speed.

  I have no sense of time out here, what with my mind in such a state of distress. It’s discombobulating to go out into the world after being cooped inside for so many days… after experiencing so much for so many days. Everything looks and feels different after experiencing Ben.

  I’m wandering through gardens, once finely manicured, which are now in Chernobyl levels of disarray. It’s as if I’m the protagonist of an apocalyptic epic. I’ve emerged from my house to find the entire world in smoking ruins. It sure feels like the end of the world, what with my current level of off-the-charts anxiety and Ben’s disappearance.

  Where could he be? I keep turning in mad circles, swiveling and scanning, waiting for my lost lover to re-emerge from the woods.

  I’m praying with all of my might that in a matter of minutes Ben and I will be cuddled up by a fire indoors while we rehash this silly misunderstanding. My daydreams of mending things up between us with the snap of a finger are bordering on delusional, but hanging on to that hope of being able to get Ben back is what’s keeping the fire under my ass. Hope helps me keep going despite the increasingly ominous forecast.

  I feel something on my nose. On my scalp. On my hands, which are reaching out in no particular direction hoping to lay fingers on a lost companion. It’s raining again. The water falls lightly at first, but within a minute increases in intensity and makes its message loud and clear: this storm is coming back in full force.