by Ella Frank
Tate licked his lips and grimaced as he pulled the sun visor down to take a look at himself. “Oh man, I do look like shit.”
Logan decided it was best not to comment as Tate ran a hand over his face. But when he turned to him and said, “I don’t like it when you smoke. Just isn’t right,” Logan couldn’t hold his tongue.
“Touché, so do us both a fucking favor and quit.”
“Okay,” Tate agreed and slumped back in the seat. “Let’s get this over with. Head out and make a right.”
Logan put the car in gear, and as they drove out of the garage, he wondered what the hell he was driving into.
* * *
Twenty-seven tension-filled minutes later, Tate stared at the familiar streets of Elmhurst, IL. Ever since he’d mentioned where they were headed, Logan had gotten quiet—really quiet.
“Make a left here,” he mumbled, and when Logan looked over at him, he repeated louder. “A left. Here. At the end of the street.”
This was such a stupid idea, and the longer he sat in the car, the more apparent it was becoming. What the hell was he going to say when his parents opened the front door?
“Hi, Mom and Dad. This is Logan, my boyfriend.”
His mother wouldn’t even take his calls. He couldn’t begin to imagine her reaction to this. And the closer they got to his childhood home, the more uncomfortable he became.
It was easy to be strong in your convictions when no one was questioning them.
Isn’t that what Logan said? He hated to admit that he was right.
“Over there. The white two-story on the right.”
Tate could see his sister’s car and—
“Oh, fuck.” He was going to kill his mother.
Logan put the car in park and turned to face him. “Hey. It’ll be okay.”
Tate brought his hands up to his face and pushed his fingers against his forehead—hard—trying to calm his breathing. Finally, he lowered his hands to look at a confused Logan.
“The black Lexus—that’s Diana’s car.”
Logan glanced back out through the windshield. “You’re fucking kidding me?”
“Do I sound like I’m laughing?”
Logan looked back at him with narrowed eyes. “No, but you seem extremely wound up.”
Tate rested his head back on the seat and sighed. “I know. I’m feeling a little…I don’t know...”
“Do you always get like this around family?” Logan asked.
“No. Only when I bring home my boyfriends.” Tate knew his voice was laced with sarcasm, and as Logan silently watched him, he felt guilty—guilty for being such a prick. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s twice in the last hour,” Logan stated as he undid his seatbelt.
“Huh?”
“Twice you’ve apologized to me.”
As the seatbelt retracted and Logan opened the car door, Tate reached across and put his hand on his arm. Logan turned to face him, and Tate could see the strain on his handsome face.
Logan was just as anxious as he was.
“Then let me say it again in advance for anything I might say tonight that’s wrong.”
Logan pulled his arm away and reached back to grab his jacket. “Such as?”
“I don’t know,” Tate admitted. “But I’m sure I’m bound to fuck this up in some way. I just want you to know beforehand that I don’t mean it.”
Tate watched the usually talkative man beside him climb out of the car, shut the door, and shrug into his jacket. He followed suit, and when he came around to Logan’s side and shoved his hands in his pocket, he once again felt…guilty.
“Look,” Logan started and then stopped.
Tate didn’t have anything to say, so he waited and hoped like hell Logan had some magic words to calm him the fuck down.
“I know you must be freaking out, because I am too. But try and remember I’m on your side.”
He knew that—he did—but right now, it wasn’t helping.
“Let’s just get this over with,” Logan suggested. “So we can leave.”
Tate agreed and made his way up the paved walkway to the white steps he’d helped his father paint the year before. He stopped, took a deep breath, and climbed up with Logan close behind.
He felt sick. As if he were literally going to be sick.
He raised his hand and was about to knock, but then he lowered it and turned to find himself between Logan and his parents’ front door.
He looked into the blue eyes focused on him and remembered how much fun he’d had with Logan these past few weeks and days. Then he thought of Friday night and Logan’s family and then the intense pleasure he’d gotten from Logan’s body—from making him his.
Logan’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Whatever you want to do in there, whatever you want to say about us...I stand behind you.”
You. I want you.
“Do whatever you need.”
What do I need? He looked at Logan and managed, “Thank you,” right before the door behind him opened.
* * *
Logan glanced past Tate’s shoulder to the woman in the doorway and was almost happy to see it was Miss Fucking Cline.
Now here is someone I know how to deal with.
He felt all of his apprehension at the situation turn to annoyance that bubbled up through his veins and surfaced in the form of a smug-as-fuck smile.
Her eyes narrowed on him and then moved to the back of Tate’s head. Her voice cut through the air.
“Tate.”
Logan saw Tate’s shoulders visibly tense, and when their eyes connected, Logan raised a brow.
It was showtime.
16.
Tate concentrated on Logan and told himself not to panic.
I’m okay. This is family.
They might freak out at first, but they loved him, and he knew that, eventually, they’d be okay.
Closing his eyes, he thought, Do it. Just turn the fuck around and deal with her. But before he could open his mouth, Logan did.
“Miss Cline. We meet again.” Logan’s voice dripped of saccharine sweetness and was Tate’s only warning before he stepped around him and added, “How unfortunate.”
Tate steeled himself against what he would find when he turned, but nothing could’ve prepared him.
There, in front of him, were the two people who’d both ignited something inside him at one time or another—Diana a long time ago, and Logan only weeks, minutes, and, hell, every second he was standing near him. If he’d thought his life was complicated already, seeing his current lover facing off with his ex made this experience totally surreal.
“What are you doing here?” Diana asked Logan as she stepped onto the porch, the front door shutting behind her. Thank God.
Logan pushed his hands into his pockets, making his jacket spread open, and Tate didn’t miss the way her eyes lowered down over Logan’s body.
“I was invited by your ex. Which makes me wonder…Why are you here?”
Tate decided it was time to finally deal with the problem that was Diana and stepped up beside Logan. He was careful not to touch him though, as to not add fuel to the current fire.
“That’s a good question, Diana. Why are you here?”
Her eyes finally came over to meet his, and the urge to grab her and strangle her with the string of pearls wrapped around her neck was very real.
She gave off a regal disposition with her hands on her hips and her chin tipped up, but instead of portraying the classy image she was hoping for, she looked like a grade-A snob.
As usual, she was dressed to perfection. Her brown hair was pulled back into a tight top-notch bun at the back of her head, and a cream pencil skirt with the black cowl-neck sweater all molded perfectly to her curvaceous figure.
“I’ve always been here on Sundays. Or did you conveniently forget that sometime this week along with the fact you’ve been straight your entire life?”
Tate glared at her, but out of the corner of his eye,
he saw Logan turn toward him.
“She always comes to these things?” Tate was about to answer until Logan mumbled, “A heads-up would’ve been appreciated.”
“Tate’s never been great at remembering details,” Diana contributed, making his teeth clench, but Logan was more than happy to deal with her.
“I don’t remember asking you. And while we’re on the subject, he seems pretty clear about one important detail.”
Diana was too smart to ask what, and Logan didn’t bother waiting.
“He doesn’t want you here.”
Her shrewd eyes moved back and forth between them, but before she could open her mouth, Logan leaned in until their noses almost touched and spoke loud enough that Tate could make it out.
“Have to say, it takes balls to show up where you’re not wanted, so maybe it isn’t such a surprise that Tate likes me after all. Your pair’s almost as big as mine.”
Tate was sure that he’d misheard Logan until Diana turned her face and said, “You’re disgusting.”
To which Logan replied, as only he could, “You have no idea.”
Finally coming to his senses, Tate spoke up. “Diana?”
“What?” she snapped, taking a quick step back as if she just realized how close she and Logan were standing.
“You need to stop coming over here. We’re divorced.”
Diana crossed her arms almost in challenge. “Not yet, we’re not.”
He heard Logan chuckle beside him, but he couldn’t seem to find any humor in their current situation.
“I’m sorry,” Logan said innocently enough. “But she actually said that as if she has a chance of getting back together with you.”
Diana outwardly fumed. “Do you ever shut up?”
“Now that is an interesting question. Would you like to answer her, or should I?”
Tate knew what Logan was thinking, and he had no doubt that the words would fall right out of his mouth, so instead of allowing that to happen, he decided to take over.
“This isn’t about Logan. This is about you. You shouldn’t still be coming to my family’s home. We’re separated. Divorcing. It’s uncomfortable enough in this house without you showing up, and honestly, it makes you look desperate.”
“It’s true. Looks really desperate,” Logan added, helpful as ever.
“Ha,” Diana laughed, and the sound was ugly as she ran her eyes over him. There’d been a time when Tate would’ve responded to that with something other than annoyance. “You think I look desperate? And how do you think you look? You’re with a man for God’s sake.”
Tate was beyond frustrated and he hadn’t even stepped foot inside his house.
Why am I standing on this porch having yet another argument with her?
“This is going nowhere. I’m not trying to be cruel—”
“I am, just so it’s noted,” Logan interrupted.
Tate frowned at him, but Logan had a point. It wasn’t as if she were even trying to be cordial.
“Are my mom and dad inside?”
A bitter sneer curled her lips. “Yes. Along with your sister and Sam. This, I can’t wait to see.”
Tate pushed past her and opened the door.
As he walked inside and Logan followed, he heard, “What’s killing you the most? The fact that you don’t have him or that I do?”
Tate didn’t wait around for Diana’s answer. Instead, he continued along the original wood floors and down the narrow hall until he came to the family room.
When he realized what he was about to do, he stopped so suddenly that Logan ran into him and they both ended up stepping into the archway.
Four pairs of eyes found them, and all Tate could think was, What a fucking entrance.
* * *
Logan stood beside Tate and had a revelation.
This must be how suspects feel in a police lineup.
He did a quick scan of the room and spotted yet another familiar face from last week’s stop in hell—Tate’s sister. She was looking at the both of them with an expression of total shock.
The man beside her, who Logan presumed was her husband, was in blue jeans and a flannel shirt, and he was looking at him as if he were an alien.
Yeah? Well, welcome to the fucking club. This isn’t exactly a normal Sunday for me either, pal.
That left the final two occupants of the room.
Tate’s father was seated over on a couch with his mother against the far wall. Once she spotted the two of them, the smile she had on her face twisted into a cruel, unforgiving line.
Mrs. Morrison stood and clasped her hands in front of herself.
Her short, brown hair was cut into a blunt bob and pushed back behind her ears. She was dressed for church. Her floral-print dress was very respectable, and she was exactly as Logan had imagined—unyielding.
As he continued to observe her, Logan noticed the way she completely ignored his existence and zeroed in on Tate as she straightened her shoulders until her back was rigid.
She was not happy that he’d brought the pervert to her house.
“William…” she started as he turned back to check on Tate.
Logan watched the way she approached her son as if he were a stranger. Then she stopped and turned her head his way to pin him with a look that spoke volumes.
The revulsion directed toward him was fierce, unlike anything Logan had ever encountered, and even though he’d sworn he wouldn’t care, he did.
“Mom,” Tate said, once again capturing her attention.
“I told you not to bring him here,” she spat out as her hands clenched by her sides.
Wow.
“His name is Logan.”
She didn’t even bother with a second glance as she answered in a tone so icy Logan was surprised it didn’t freeze Tate into a human Popsicle. “I don’t care what his name is.”
“Mom!” Tate shouted, clearly shocked by her rudeness.
“Tate, it’s okay,” he offered.
What did he care if she didn’t want to acknowledge his existence? It was nothing worse than his own father had done when he’d been alive.
“Don’t you call him that,” she told him, finally walking over to stand in front of him. “His name is William.”
Logan bit his tongue so hard he could have sworn he tasted blood.
He stood there, trying to remember that, as an adult, you were supposed to show respect to your elders, but did that apply when the elder was a cruel, ignorant—
“Stop being so rude,” Tate said for him.
Logan took a step back, not wanting to be close when the shit hit the fan. This woman was vibrating with rage, and it was all directed at him.
“How dare you talk to me like that.”
“Me? You’re the one acting as if I brought a murderer home,” Tate spat out, and Logan could see his hands had balled into fists by his side.
Her head swiveled toward her son as she announced, “You might as well have.”
“What did you say?” Tate demanded.
Mrs. Morrison looked back at him as if he really had committed the most heinous of crimes, and then turned back to Tate. “I don’t want him in my house. He’s taken what used to be good and pure, and—”
“And what?” Tate finally exploded. “What has he done to me, your good and pure son? I’m almost thirty for fuck’s sake! I’m separated because I married a woman who got bored and went elsewhere when I was out working two jobs. Yet she still sits next to you in church and comes over for Sunday fucking lunch!”
The room was so combustible that Logan was afraid to breathe, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tate’s father stand. He’d never seen Tate more furious. They’d both had their fair share of arguments, but not like this. Tate’s temper was riding him.
“He hasn’t done anything to you. He hasn’t even said hello and you’re treating him like he’s got the plague. I can’t believe you’re acting like this.”
“And I can’t believe you’d ha
ve sexual relations with a man and bring him to lunch like you think we’d be okay with it! That we’d share a meal with this...this queer.”
And there it is—the moment of truth.
This was the turning point into either acceptance or denial, and Logan could actually feel his palms sweating as he waited for Tate’s answer.
The room was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop.
Logan’s eyes moved over the other spectators until he reached Tate’s father. He was still over by the couch, but he was now watching him with suspicious eyes—Tate’s eyes. There, right in front of him, was a close-to-perfect duplicate of Tate twenty years from now. It was disconcerting.
“Unreal,” Tate murmured before he started laughing.
It was an odd, humorless sound that Logan never wanted to hear after today. It was the sound of someone cracking, falling apart, and not understanding why.
“It was stupid of me to think you would try and understand my side of things instead of the gossipy bullshit that Diana and Jill brought back to you. But yes, since it seems like that fact needs confirming. I am having sex with Logan, and you know what? I’ve never been more satisfied in my entire life.”
Well, I’ll be damned.
Logan was stunned, and as his eyes found Diana’s, he was more than slightly pleased that she was too. No one had shocked him more than Tate had right then. He was pretty sure Tate’s mother felt the same, because she sucked in her breath and then pointed to what looked like a side door.
“Leave.”
Tate tilted his head to the side as if he didn’t understand, but Logan did. His heart ached for what he knew was about to happen.
“Excuse me?” Tate asked.
“I said leave. Get out of my house.”
Logan watched Tate closely as the words seemed to register.
He blinked several times and then raised a hand to push it back through his hair. When he dropped it down and his palm hit his thigh, it was the only sound in the otherwise silent room.
“You want me to leave?” he asked again, his tone flat, disbelieving.