by Maisey Yates
He turned his laser focus to her. “What’s your point?”
“Patience, I’m getting to it. If you’re allowed your dramatics, it seems only fair that you let me have mine. Anyway, do you have any idea how many times I’ve wished I was a million miles away, not listening to whatever egotistical, inane conversation I’m being subjected to? A lot of times. But if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s how to stand there, poised and looking completely engaged, no matter what’s actually happening in my mind.”
“Which would be valuable, if my issue were simply fear of falling asleep while being exposed to boring conversation.”
“I think I can teach you to escape. At least in your mind.”
Logan arched an eyebrow. “I thought the idea was to make me seem less crazy.”
“Yes, seem less crazy. I didn’t say anything about making you less crazy.”
“I think I should be offended by that.”
Addison shrugged, ignoring the little pop of electricity that skittered along her veins. Adrenaline, excitement and a little bit of fear. “Yes, but you aren’t.”
“True.”
“Let me help you, Logan. That’s what I’m here for. I’m your assistant, and this is the most pressing thing you need assistance with.”
Logan turned to face her, crossing his arms over his chest. “All right, Addison. Assist me.”
Addison blinked a couple of times, shocked by his easy acquiescence. Okay, so it wasn’t easy by most people’s standards, but considering it was Logan, it could have been worse.
“Okay, my mother has always said that image is everything. It doesn’t matter what’s happening on the inside, as long as what you’re showing on the outside is what the people around you want to see.”
“I seem to have lost the ability to…fake it, I guess.”
“I have actually noticed that, yes.”
“Well, fix it for me.”
“You might want to start with eliminating commands like that from your vocabulary.”
A cold smile curved his lips. “Probably not.”
“At least keep it under control when you’re in front of people.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “And if you wanted to practice by being a little bit nicer to me, I wouldn’t complain.”
“Forgive me.” He inclined his head in a mock bow. “I am largely uncivilized.”
“I’m aware. So let’s just focus on making you look less uncivilized.” She studied him, standing in front of her, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, large hands folded in front of him. The animalistic quality to him was almost indefinable. He was wearing a suit; he looked perfectly groomed. And yet she could sense the wildness about him. “Okay, honestly? I strongly fear civilized is never going to happen. But I don’t see why we can’t make that work for us.”
“You’re contradicting yourself.”
“No, I’m not. Civility and sanity aren’t necessarily linked. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re perfectly sane.” That wasn’t entirely true, but she didn’t think he was as beyond help as he believed either. “I think you’ve been smart, though. Bending everyone so they have to conform to your strengths, rather than revealing your weaknesses. I see no reason why you can’t continue to do that.”
“One compelling reason would be that I seem to have trouble controlling myself when I’m outside my preferred environment.”
“Which is where the distraction comes in. What makes you happy, Logan?”
*
Logan stared down at Addison, the blackness of memory crowding in on him. Her question opened up a yawning void, where there was nothing but darkness. What made him happy? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d asked himself that question. He could hardly remember the last time he would’ve cared about the answer.
“Nothing.”
“Seriously? Nothing? Not…making money? Visiting your mother, Building a successful company. Sex?” Addison’s cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink when she said the word sex, and it sent his mind down a shadowy path it had no business wandering on.
“There are things I believe in. A reason I’m still breathing. There must be. Otherwise there truly is no justice in the world.”
“It’s a miracle that you survived.”
His chest tightened, his stomach twisting hard. The simple, illicit pleasure he’d felt, watching Addison’s skin blush rose, was demolished now.
Hundreds of people had said that to him. It had been in countless newspaper articles. And he always let it go, no matter how uncomfortably it sat with him. Not right now. Not today.
“Is that what you think?” he asked, watching the color in her cheeks heighten again, for an entirely different reason this time.
“What else could it be?” she asked.
“Let me tell you this, Addison, there was no great hand that reached down and saved me. The clouds didn’t part. No light shone forth and guided the way. I was alone. Fighting in the dark, waiting every morning to see if I would wake up. Hoping sometimes I wouldn’t. If that’s a miracle, then I pray that you’re spared from ever experiencing one.”
“You survived,” she said, her jaw set, her eyebrows locked together.
“Because I fought for it.”
“Why?” she asked. “If there’s nothing on earth that makes you happy, why bother to fight for it?”
“Most days there was nothing else to do.”
“You’re making my job very difficult.”
“Sorry about that, princess. Was there a place in the brochure for the internship that promised this would be fun? Because I’ll tell you right now, it lied.”
“Sadly for me, dealing with you is still more fun than dealing with the press.”
“Yes, sadly for you indeed.”
“You aren’t taking this seriously.”
“I can only take my life so seriously before I start wanting to jump off a building.”
Addison paled, swallowing hard. “A woman deciding to jump off a building was the trigger for the devolution of my life. If you could go ahead and refrain, I would really appreciate that.”
Almost as foreign as the sexual desire that Addison made him feel was the guilt, which squeezed his windpipe, made him regret his words. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel guilt; he felt it daily. It was simply that he was so accustomed to it he was no longer conscious of it.
Until now. Until her.
“I’m sorry.” The words on his lips were more foreign than any of the aforementioned feelings.
“We’re going out to lunch,” Addison said, her tone crisp, the lack of acceptance of his apology not going unnoticed.
Dread quickly replaced the guilt. “Perhaps it escaped your notice last time we went out, but I have a bit of an issue with leaving the hotel.”
She only stared back at him, eyes as hard and cold as blue steel. “I know. And it’s time you got over it.”
*
It felt as if there were fire burning beneath the heavy fabric of his suit. Like a flame resting over the surface of his skin, trapped there by his clothing. He could deal with that. That wasn’t unusual. There were days in Black Book when he felt like this. It was the dark spots hovering on the edge of his vision that really caused him concern.
The unsteadiness of his legs, brought about by the rolling feeling of the ground beneath his feet. Seasickness on land. He felt that there was some poetic justice to that. That he was destined to feel as if he were on board a ship, being tossed by the waves, when so many people had spent their last moments on earth in that exact same situation because of him.
In many ways, this anxiety, these feelings, were his purgatory. His holding cell until he made it down into hell where he belonged.
He imagined not many people thought of purgatory as a well-appointed, trendy café, in the center of Manhattan. But he knew better.
“How did you manage to get us into a place like this?” he asked, looking over at Addison, who was keeping her focus firmly ahead, her expressi
on tense, her grip on her handbag tight as she surveyed the dining room.
“What? You mean a place this in demand? I’m a Treffen, Logan. The fact that my name is social suicide in private is a problem when securing invitations to house parties. However, to clubs and restaurants, that makes me highly desirable. I’m only hoping the press doesn’t show up. But places like this won’t keep their good reputation if they let the media crash.”
“Protecting us both?”
She smiled, not a hint of the previous strain evident on her face. “Of course. That’s what good socialites do.” She turned and started talking with the host, expressing a desire for a table at the back of the room.
He imagined she was trying to get them away from the window, out of view. But he would’ve found it a bit easier to deal with if he was slightly nearer an exit. Actually he had a feeling he was lying to himself. He had a feeling nothing would make this easier.
Still, he’d been out in public for nearly twenty-five minutes and hadn’t lost his shit entirely. All things considered, that was progress.
He followed Addison to their table, watching as every diner in the room turned to watch her progress. He couldn’t blame them. She was captivating. She would credit the fact that she was a Treffen, that she was a walking scandal, and while he was certain that was part of it, he knew it wasn’t all of it.
She was the epitome of beauty. An uncommonly rare bit of loveliness, wrapped in expensive silk. Both untouchable and irresistible. Impossible to look away from.
She sat at the table, and dimly he realized he probably should’ve pulled her chair out for her. Past Logan would’ve done it back in his former life. Then past Logan would’ve taken her, such a beautiful, pristine creature, back to his penthouse. And there, he would’ve screwed her and then never called her again.
Past Logan might have appeared more civilized than the man he was now, but it had been a lie. He didn’t deserve to touch her now, and he knew that. But the truth was, he had never deserved it. It was just that before he wouldn’t have cared. Because back then he’d thought the world had existed for him. Back then he’d imagined himself untouchable.
How wrong he’d been. How quickly he’d found out that there was no horror on this earth that he was above.
“Have you looked at the menu?” Addison asked.
“No,” he said, looking beyond her at the sea of people and immediately feeling nauseated. He looked at her instead. At the way she was fiddling with her earring. Long, elegant fingers sliding over the jewel.
There was something unconsciously sensual about it. He found it fascinating. Both the motion, and the fact that he found it sensual, when that part of him had been dormant for so long. Yet Addison called the response from him effortlessly, made him crave things, things he thought lost to him. Things he’d prayed were lost to him. Because desiring her, having the physical ability, the physical need, didn’t change the fact that he couldn’t have her.
“Do you need me to order for you?” A small smile curved her lips, mischief lighting her eyes. It was a welcome change from the forced neutrality, and from the occasional, fleeting sadness he saw there.
“What would you order me?”
“I don’t know. What’s the current food trend among eccentric, skittish billionaires?”
“I have no idea. That’s the problem with eccentric billionaires given to bouts of agoraphobia. We don’t often attend meetings. Or speak to each other.”
“I imagine not.” She ran her fingertips over the edge of the menu. “We could get the special.”
He really didn’t care what he ate. He’d spent two years subsisting on plants, berries, and crudely cooked, undesirable meat. All of which had been trial and error. He wasn’t overly picky about what he consumed these days.
“Suits me.”
Addison flagged down the waiter and put in their order, getting water for both of them, rather than the suggested wine.
The noise in the restaurant was beginning to grate, the low hum of conversation scraping over his nerves like sandpaper over raw flesh. Then, next to them, a woman knocked her wine over, the glass splintering as it crashed against the silverware on the table, the sound piercing through him, slicing through the tentative control that he’d only just been managing to cling to.
A tremor ran through his body, pulling at his stomach, a seed of nausea that grew and expanded until it began to take over. A creeping vine that wrapped itself around his vital organs and squeezed tight.
He gritted his teeth, trying to keep himself rooted to the present, rooted to reality. Logically, he knew that he was in a restaurant. That nothing could happen here. That the icy depths of the ocean, and the icy fingers of those who were now at the bottom of it because of him, were not going to reach up and grab him.
But logic had no place in these moments. That was the most terrifying thing about them. He couldn’t outthink them, he couldn’t outrun them. When they took him over, they took him over completely. Utterly and without mercy.
A cold sweat broke out over his brow, spreading down the back of his neck, icy pinpricks that dotted his skin all over. And he felt himself drifting, moving further away from the present, as his vision tunneled.
“Logan?” The softness of Addison’s voice pierced the hum of their surroundings, broke through the crashing sound that had taken over his brain.
He fought through the blackness and looked up, looked toward the sound of her voice, at her face. Pink lips, pink cheeks, pale skin. Like rose petals on the snow. Life in a frozen wasteland.
And he wanted to touch her, more than anything. To feel her warmth beneath his hands. To feel her breath against his lips. To cover her mouth with his and take that breath in for himself. To make himself feel again, to make himself alive again.
Logan, help me.
But it wasn’t Addison’s voice coming through the darkness now. It wasn’t the voice of the living, but the dead. A reminder of why he couldn’t touch her. Why he couldn’t use her to anchor him now. No, he deserved this half-life. Anything more was for better men.
“Logan, we can go if you need to.”
He curled his hand around the fork to his left, squeezing hard, the tines breaking through to his skin, the pain doing what he wouldn’t allow Addison to do. Anchoring him. Bringing him back.
As his vision cleared, he could see the look of horror on her face, the terror in her blue eyes, as she realized what he had done to himself.
“Yes,” he said, still not feeling the pain in his hand. He knew it was there, and he knew he would feel it eventually, but right now it provided nothing but relief. Provided nothing but an escape from the black memories that coated him like oil, leaving a film that would never wash away.
“You need to go?” she asked.
“It would perhaps be for the best,” he said, the measured monotone words coming out in stranger’s voice.
“I’ll just get the food to go.”
“Forget about the food,” he said, his tone rough, the pain from his self-inflicted wound starting to burn, the reality of the situation he was in, the reality of what he was, far too real now.
He was a man with blood on his hands, literally right now, a crimson trail dripping down his wrist, staining the pristine cuff of his shirt. He was a man who couldn’t sit in a restaurant and eat a meal without suffering from a debilitating flashback. From anxiety that wrapped its jaws around his throat shook hard, threatening to suffocate him.
“All right,” she said, “let’s go.”
This time, she didn’t try to touch him. Didn’t try to use her hands to offer comfort. It was what he wanted. What he should want. But he found himself grieving the loss of that offer. Grieving the loss of his one chance at human connection since he’d returned from the island.
He stood, keeping his eyes fixed on the exit door, on his limo beyond that, parked against the curb. And he turned all his concentration on making it to that point. On putting one foot in front of the other. On
not falling to his knees. On not throwing up on the carpet.
If the media ever got a hold of the story, they would lap it up like cats after cream. Logan Black, Manhattan’s most notorious playboy, reduced to a whimpering child at the prospect of going into public.
The thought of that headline, needling at pride he’d thought long lost to him, kept him moving. He didn’t deserve to cling to a shred of pride, not after what had happened. But whether he deserved it or not, he would hold on to it.
If he would deny himself Addison, then he would damn well keep this.
Only when they were inside the limo did he breathe again.
Beside him, Addison was shaking.
“I am sorry your experiment didn’t work,” he bit out.
“Not half as sorry as I am,” she said.
“You think that disturbed you more than it disturbed me?”
“I’m responsible for putting you in that situation.” Her tone was fierce, regretful, and it made him angry. Because he didn’t deserve her regret. Addison Treffen was too good to waste a moment feeling guilty for causing him pain.
“No, Addison, I am responsible for putting me in the situation. No one else. I did this to me. Just like I ended the lives of everyone on board that yacht.”
“You’re not God, Logan. You have to stop taking credit for things that were beyond your control.” Addison leaned back in her seat, lifting a shaking hand at her forehead and pushing golden hair away from her face.
“I can tell it bothers you to think I might be responsible for what happened. But I’m under no illusions about my fault in it. And you shouldn’t be either.”
“Do you think I care? Do you think I care for me? I care for you. Because you’re wasting this life on unnecessary guilt. You’re wasting the extra time you’ve been given acting like you’re dead.”
“Is that what you think, Addison? That I’ve been given a gift? That my years spent on that godforsaken island were a gift?” Logan closed his eyes while the sounds of that night ran through his mind. He had very little in the way of visual memory of the night the yacht sank. It had been dark, the chaos around them so intense it had been hard to see anything. But he’d heard. He’d heard everything. “The only reason I survived was that somebody had to be the messenger.”