“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t!” They’re called journals nowadays. “You know what, this is ridiculous. I have better things to do than play childish games with you.” We have a stare-off, the message between us clear. He knows I have nothing better to do, and I also know I have nothing better to do. “Okay, so, good day. Or night—whatever.” I turn my back to him and stand, facing my door. The one I don’t have the keys to. Drats! I can only hope he gets the hint and leaves.
“Move over.” A small yelp escapes my lips when two hands grip my waist and set me to the side.
“What? What are you doing…?”
He bends down, magically appearing with a set of tiny tools, and starts working on my door. I begin to open my mouth to tell him he’s not going to be able to get it open when the pop of my lock sounds, and he turns the knob. “What—how’d you do that?” He straightens out and pushes my door open.
“Thug mob life, remember? I’ve learned a few things.” Ugh! I should have just kept my mouth shut. I storm past him into my apartment. He doesn’t turn around and leave but welcomes himself inside and shuts the door behind him. I stomp toward my bedroom when he stops me. “Where the hell are you going? We’re not done talkin’ about what happened back there.”
I whip around. “Oh, I’m sorry, what exactly is it you want to harp on me about now?”
“Stop getting involved. If I tell you to stay fucking quiet, you do it.”
“Oh, sure. Anything for you, babe. And while we’re at it, stop kissing me. It’s like being mauled by a rabid animal.”
His expression morphs into shock just before his eyes narrow into slits. “Rabid animal, huh?”
“Yeah! It’s becoming annoying.” Oh crap. His sudden heated stare tries to break me down until I forfeit and admit I’m a complete liar and his kissing techniques are absolutely spectacular. “So…now that that’s out of the way, I’m going to just…yep.” I turn around without another glance and hurry into my bedroom, shutting the door. Why do I open my mouth? Rabid animal? Really, Addy?
I debate on locking myself in until he gets the hint and leaves. Sounds much easier than having to face him after that humiliating production. But I also know if he goes bye-bye, so do my chances of getting this story.
No matter how broody and gorgeous he is, I need to learn to get along with him. And if I’m being honest with myself, I really want to continue the kissing. It’s actually quite lovely, and I’m enjoying it immensely.
I grunt again and turn around, walking back into my tiny living room. “Okay, listen. We’re obviously stuck—”
My words die in my throat at the sound of glass shattering from my front window.
“Get down,” Logan barks as I dive to the floor. I cover my head but don’t miss the gun he draws from the back of his jeans.
“Wh—What is it?” My voice shakes.
“Stay the fuck down.” He runs out the door, and I stay frozen to the floor until he returns, his gun down. “It’s clear.”
I sit up. “What was it?”
“Kids playing with BB guns.” He walks over to the window to further assess the damage. “You need to call your landlord and have them come fix this.” He pulls the blinds back, and a gush of wind mixed with the onset of rain is let into my apartment. “Shit. Sit tight. I need to make a call.”
He disappears outside into the hallway. While he’s gone, I search out some supplies to rig the window covered.
I’m ripping off a piece of tape when Logan returns.
“Pack a bag.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you’re not safe here.”
I scoff at his ridiculousness. “I’m perfectly safe. It was an accident. You said so yourself.”
“And now I’m saying you’re not. Look, you may think you’re playing a fun game here, getting in Vincent’s good graces, but the only thing you’ve done is put a spotlight on yourself. He’s fascinated by you, which isn’t a good thing. He’s ruthless. Cruel. You think his little flirtation is for fun? It’s a show of dominance. You keep this shit up, he’s gonna make a move, and there won’t be shit I can do. No one gets in the way of what he wants. You want to play coy for a story? I promise you, you won’t make it long enough for that shit to hit print.”
I want to argue with him and tell him it’s not about a story, but it seems pointless.
“I want this story.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. Stop telling me what I want—”
“Someone needs to! You’re messing with the wrong man. When are you going to get that through your tiny brain?” I gasp at his cruel comment. “Fuck, that’s not what I—”
“Just get out.”
“Addy—”
“Get out! You’re just like the rest. Throwing hurtful words at me, thinking I’m this frail little mouse with no backbone—little Addy who doesn’t shine as bright as the rest. I don’t care what any of you think of me. I’m a darn good journalist, and I will get this story. With or without you.” I turn on my heel and storm into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.
Dismissing Logan’s warnings, I snuggle into a pair of my favorite pizza patterned pajamas and pull out my journal. I left my laptop at work, so I need to document my findings old school. I scribble notes, trying to piece together all the information I learned today. I write down the name of the man on the file. Victor Norfolk. The ports that were highlighted. I memorized one of the barcodes in hopes of figuring out what it meant. One thing that keeps swarming in my head I can’t seem to move past, though: Vincent’s comment about the ports already being secured for their shipment. I know firsthand Mayor Brighton is the city official who oversees that port, but why would he have anything to do with drug smuggling? Being a dirty politician is one thing, but being in business with the drug cartel? Is it even possible?
I have to be missing something. A connection somehow. I reach for my phone to Google the barcode and Calumet Harbor when I remember Logan took it. “Darn it!” I toss myself back against my headboard. Now that we’re on the subject of googling, I wonder what would come up if I googled Logan. My fingers twitch, and I slam my closed fists against my bed. I should just go out there and demand my phone. But then I would have to face him. Not that that’s a bad thing. But he’s causing this strange feeling inside me, and I really don’t know how to decipher it. Girl crush butterflies? Or maybe it’s just fear that I’ve simply gotten myself into a big heap of trouble. It’s that. I’m going with that. I hear the TV turn on, which means he doesn’t plan on leaving. Gosh dang it!
I spend the next hour scribbling anything and everything I remember about what I saw on those files. In the morning, no matter what he says, I’m going to work. He’ll get bored of babysitting me sooner or later. Or get a call to go sell drugs to minors. Probably go play mysterious thug lover to his revolving door of women. With his looks, I bet he has a new woman in his bed nightly.
Eventually, my hand gets tired, and I take a break. I listen for the TV, and it sounds like an infomercial playing over and over. Unless he has horrible taste in shows, he’s probably fallen asleep. Bingo! This is my chance to try to steal my phone back. Even better—his. I bet he has important contacts. I slide off my bed, trying to be as quiet as possible. Cracking my door open, I peek outside. Yes! Fast asleep! I tiptoe to the couch, holding my breath so I don’t wake him. I don’t see my phone, but I sure do see his. Hitting the jackpot, I slowly bend down and reach for it next to him on the couch. I wrap my fingers around it and—
My high-pitched squeal slices through the air as I’m flipped and tossed onto the couch, the heavy weight of Logan hovering over me, his forearm jammed against my throat. “What the fuck are you doing?” he growls.
“I…I…I was getting something to drink. I was going to turn the TV off for you so you could sleep better. I have manners, you know…”
“And did you mistake my phone for the remote?”
Possibly.
; “Of course not! Oh, look at that.” I wave his phone in my hand. “Silly me. These devices nowadays, they all look the same.”
“What exactly were you going to do when you got my phone, baby girl?”
I’m absolutely ashamed of the tremor that runs down my body. “I was…”
“You were what?” he demands, leaning harder into me.
I struggle to finish my sentence. It’s not every day I have to answer a simple question while having a man built from steel with striking eyes and lips made from heaven staring down at me.
“Answer me!”
“Lips!” Shoot. “I mean, not lips—” He’s heavy against me, his chest pressed tightly against my—“nips—No!” Jesus, Addy! I squeeze my eyes shut. Get it together. “I’m trying to say…” Deep breaths. Act semi-normal. “Dips. Yes, dips. I was hungry and thought I’d make us some dips. I needed your phone to look up a recipe.”
I open my eyes to him studying me. He lowers his gaze down to transfix on my chest.
“Dips, huh?” I make the mistake of inhaling too sharply. With a painful slowness, he works his gaze back up and stops at my lips. “What kind of dip?”
I hate him. And myself. Mostly my word vomit. “I—I don’t know. Maybe…uh…French kiss—I mean dip. French onion dip.” He tortures me with his silence, and his unwavering attention on my lips. “Do you like dip? I mean, I’ve never had it. I don’t really like French food, but I like ranch. I can actually make ranch.” I just want to disappear into my couch.
His forearm loosens up on my throat and slides down my neck, stopping just above my breastbone. “Nice try.”
“So, no dip?”
Just like that, his serious face returns. “What are you up to? What do I have to do to convince you you don’t want to go through with this story?”
“Normally pizza would get me to—” Ugh, stay focused! “Nothing. Because I’m going to go through with it.”
“You know I’m gonna shut you down every chance I get. Every corner you turn, thinking you’re being sly, I’m going to be there stopping you.”
“That sounds like you have a lot of work on your hands.”
He stares at me too long, and the weight of him suddenly feels heavier. His eyes flicker to my lips as they part. As if living out a real-life fantasy from my romance book, I pull a classic move and lick my lower lip. A fire ignites in Logan’s gaze, and I chuckle on the inside. It looks like that does work.
His head dips lower, inch by inch, and I close my eyes and part my lips. He may be a grump and super bossy, but holy cow, he knows how to kiss, and I ache to have his lips back on mine.
Logan’s phone goes off.
My eyes reopen as he jumps off me, looking at the screen. “I gotta take this. Go back to bed, Addy.” Without another word, he walks out my front door.
I sit there for a few seconds, pouting. “Go to bed, Addy,” I mock. How dare he talk to me like I’m a child. He wants to treat me like one? I’ll act like one. I get up, walk over to my front door, lock it, and go back to bed. Take that.
I stir in bed. My mouth widens into a huge yawn, and I stretch my arms above my head. I slowly open my eyes and—
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” I screech, finding Logan standing at my bedside staring down at me.
“Get up. We got shit to do today.”
Is he ever not bossy? “What kinds of things? I have a job, you know. Responsibilities. A life.”
His brow goes up at the last one. Darn it. “Okay, fine, I have a job. People aren’t going to kill themselves, so why don’t you get to yours, and I’ll get to mine?”
“You have fifteen minutes,” he says, then storms out of my bedroom.
I sit up, throw off my sheets, and climb out of bed. With a scowl on my face, I rush around, completing my morning routine. When I remember he’s not the boss of me, I lay down on my bed, counting the cracks in my ceiling until my clock shows sixteen minutes have passed, and emerge from my bedroom.
“What are you even doing here? I thought you left last night?” I ask Logan, internally laughing at locking him out. His sneer tells me he doesn’t think it was funny.
“I told you to get dressed. Why the fuck are you still in those ridiculous pajamas?”
I look down at my pizza pattern pajamas. “What’s wrong with them?” These happen to be extremely comfortable. And how can someone appear so angered by a pair of pajamas? “What do you not like now?” His phone goes off, and he puts his finger up. Saved by the ringtone once again. “Jesus, never mind. Just get fucking dressed. Real dressed. I’ve got to take this.” And out the door he goes. I consider locking the door again, but it’s obvious he knows how to get back in. Despite his demands, I need to get to work. I stare at my front door, then peer over at the broken window—the window that leads out to the escape ladder…
“You’re gonna have to do your errands on your own, pal.” I run to the window and climb out, careful not to cut myself on the shattered glass, and drop the ladder. Once I’m down the steps, I run across the street and hail a cab.
I bust through the doors of Celebrity Dirt like a madman on a mission. Justin, Bill, and Rebecca all whip around staring at me like I’m missing my head, and I wave lamely.
“Morning to you too,” I say, whipping open my laptop. I need to Google those names. Maybe I should start with Logan’s.
“That’s all you have to say?” Justin pipes in.
“Um…is there something else I should say?” I open my browser and type in: Logan Justice.
“Dude, you were dragged out of here by some gladiator and never came back to work. And now, you show up, late again, which is—well, completely normal for you, wearing pajamas that are horrendous,” Justin points out.
Well, that gladiator is actually a mob thug, and there was no time to dress for the day while throwing myself down the window escape. “It’s pajama day. Not my fault you didn’t get the memo.” Drats! When I press enter, nothing comes up. That’s impossible. I try a different spelling: Logen Justyce. Nothing again. “How is that possible?” I think out loud.
“Good question, because I swear on my right testicle we’ve never had a pajama day. What’s up with you?” I gaze up at Justin, giving him my look of disgust. I don’t need to know anything about his private parts.
“Sorry, I was thinking out—listen, I just have work to do. As I’m sure you guys do.” I need them to stop talking to me. I give up on Logan and try that name on the list. Or the barcode! 55433856333—
The slamming of our office door captures everyone’s attention but mine. I have a good feeling I know who it is. I’m hurriedly typing on my keyboard, trying to get the full number entered to get any sort of lead, when I have to pull my fingers away to avoid them being crushed by my laptop being slammed shut.
“Babe,” Logan hums. I’m sure Rebecca is drooling in her chair at his deep, seductive voice. Too bad she hasn’t figured out there’s nothing but danger lurking in his tone.
“Hi, lover boy. What brings you to my work again?” I look up at him, fluttering my eyelashes in hopes of winning him over and seeing another day.
His hard stare holds my gaze captive. Yep. Not gonna fight this one. “Did you miss me that bad? I told you I would be home after I got some work done.” You know what they say about poking the bear? Actually, I have no idea, but it’s probably a bad idea.
He reaches down and snags my bicep. “Baby girl, you know I don’t like it when you leave the house without your umbrella. You’ll get sick in this rain. Let’s go and buy you a new one. Anything you want. Any color. Then maybe we can take a detour to my place. Do that thing you like.”
Bill chokes on his coffee while Justin loses his balance and tips over in his chair. I catch Rebecca out of the corner of my eye looking like she wants to murder me. Step in line, sister.
His tight grip doesn’t give me any choice but to stand up. This time, I grab my laptop and my purse that I carelessly left yesterday. “Mmm…can’t wait.” I turn to my
team. “Tell Craig I’m off on an assignment, will you?” Then I allow Logan to drag me out of my office for the second day in a row.
The second we step foot outside, I tear my arm from his grip. “Did you seriously have to say that? Now they’re going to think I’m some sort of hussy.”
The rain has picked up. He takes off his jacket and throws it over my shoulders. “Good, then you’re playing the part of Francesca Vaughn just perfectly,” he snarls, opening the passenger side of his car. “Get in.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No!” Let’s be honest, I have about one more back and forth before I drown out here in the rain.
“Addy—”
“Fine,” I huff, and throw myself into the car and snuggle farther into his jacket. Logan jumps in and peels off into traffic. He doesn’t seem like he’s going to be the first to talk, so I take the lead. “How come nothing comes up when I google you?”
“’Cause I want it that way,” he responds, not taking his eyes off the road.
“Yeah, but whether you want it or not, everyone is on the web. You have to be a ghost not to have something there…unless…Logan Justice isn’t your real name.”
He finally grants me his attention, rolling his eyes. “And you call yourself a good journalist?”
I scoff. “I do! You call yourself a good mob thug? You let your prisoner escape right under your nose.”
“I didn’t know my prisoner was stupid enough to jump out a window wearing some god-awful pajamas. Speaking of prisoner, if that’s what you’re calling yourself, maybe I should treat you more like one. Open the glove compartment.” My eyes widen, and I search out the glove compartment latch. “Open it.”
So darn bossy! I open it, and a pair of handcuffs fall into my lap. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes, lover girl. Put ’em on.”
“You’re out of your mind if you think for one second—” He sits forward and reaches for the back of his jeans, exposing his gun. “And on they go.” I latch one around my wrist, faking snapping the second one.
Celebrity Dirt: A Fake Relationship Romantic Suspense Standalone Page 6