“I don’t like this, Logan,” I say, crossing my arms. A chill rides up my spine—the same feeling I got when Logan’s mom said she didn’t want to lose her son again. “Something’s not right about this. Something’s off.”
Logan rolls his eyes. “You’re over thinking this. I’m pretty sure they won’t do anything now that I have their money. It’s all about the money, baby.”
Even if that’s true, I don’t believe him. These guys have waited too long to get their money.
“I just don’t like this,” I say again.
“You don’t have to do anything, except sit in the car. I’ll hand them the package, and then we can leave.” He kisses my hair and squeezes me against his chest. “How does that sound?”
I take a deep breath and exhale. “Sounds good.”
“It’s times like this when I want H,” Logan says, so quietly my brain questions whether he really said it.
Never removing my eyes from his face, I whisper, “You don’t mean that.”
He frowns. “But I do. When I’m stressed, that’s when I miss it the most.”
Headlights beam around the corner, blinding us. They quickly shut off, and the black SUV creeps to a halt several yards away. Whoever is driving kills the engine. I hold my breath as all four doors open. There are four of them, not just Big P. Usually, Logan only talks about Big P, Ice, and B. That’s it. Needless to say, they’ve added a fourth groupie, another man.
The main guy, the man I’m sure is Big P, flicks two fingers over his shoulder, signaling the others to follow. “I’m surprised you contacted me, Logan, after what we did to your friend. I’m also surprised you weren’t smart enough to meet us in a more convenient location, somewhere that has witnesses.” His lips pull back in a sneer, and his eyes burnish with delight.
Logan says, “You knew I’d eventually pay you back, but you also knew my situation. How could I have come up with five thousand dollars when I was homeless?”
“Not my problem, kid. You knew what you were getting yourself into when you bought the H from me, and you knew you had to pay interest for every day you were late. That due date came and went, so now you have to pay more.”
“More?” Logan looks like Big P just decked him. “I don’t have more. I barely got this much.”
“Then we’ll take care of the problem,” Big P says calmly. He snaps his fingers and one of his men stalks in my direction. His biceps are the size of cantaloupes, and there’s light perspiration sheen on his bald head. I race around the back of the vehicle and take off running. I hate leaving Logan, but if this means I can escape and get help, then I’ll gladly do it. I just hope they don’t do some serious damage to him while I’m—
Oomph. I plow into the ground, knocking the air out of my lungs. I’m immediately flipped on my back as the giant laughs maniacally.
“Don’t fucking touch her!” screams Logan. Dazed, my head rotates from side to side. I glance over at Logan. Big P’s other two men are restraining him, but Logan is still fighting. “Chloe, run!” he yells as his eyes connect with mine.
I want to, but I have this big guy lying on top of me, forcing my hands up over my head and pinning them to the ground. Oh, no. I begin to kick him off, but he sits on my legs.
“I’m going to have fun with you,” he says, grinning. “You’re a little spitfire.” Then, he leans forward so I smell his acrid breath. I close my eyes and move my head away, but he roughly grabs my chin and jerks it toward him. “And you know what I like to do with fires? Put them out.” The last bit is whispered, just for my ears.
I scream, but he hastily covers my open mouth with his, shoving his tongue to the back of my throat. I bite down. Hard. The second I taste his blood, I spit it out.
“Bitch!” he roars, freeing one of his hands to slap me across the face. White flecks dance across my vision. When my head rolls around, I search for Logan. He’s crumpled on his knees, sobbing.
“That pretty boy of yours ain’t gonna do shit,” says the monster looming above me.
Focus, Chloe. Focus on getting out of here alive, to save yourself, and Logan.
The more I try to focus, the dreamier this reality becomes. Again, I try to release my legs from this man’s weight and kick him, but it doesn’t work. So I lay here, mentally and physically preparing myself for the worse.
He rips my shirt down the front, buttons popping off, and pushes the remnants off to my sides, practically drooling when my bra is exposed. With one swift stroke, he tugs my bra down, revealing my breasts. Licking his lips, he dips his head and begins sucking. I cry out, kicking and flailing even more.
“STOOOP!” I shriek, but he bites down, sending a surge of pain through my chest.
“That’s for biting my tongue, you fucking bitch. Now, spread your legs for me. I want to make sure your pussy is nice and wet before I ram my cock in you.”
My tears are blinding. I can’t think straight. Somewhere in my mind, I know I should fight this, but my body is giving up; I’m not strong enough to fight this man off. “Stop! Please, stop!” I screech again.
He laughs as he unbuttons and unzips my shorts. Grabbing hold at the waist, he yanks them down, along with my underwear, far enough that he has a view of everything below my waist. He jams two fingers inside me and wiggles them around. I throw my head back, crying out. But he doesn’t stop. He takes my protesting as confirmation to continue his sick game.
“So wet, baby,” he says excitedly. I pinch my eyes shut and face away.
POP! POP!
Shots ring out in Logan’s direction. I scream his name before I analyze the scene. From this point, everything plays out in slow motion. Logan aims a gun at Big P, whose hands are in mid-air as a sign of surrender. Big P’s other two men, who were restraining Logan, are lying face down on the pavement, blood pooling around their bodies.
“Don’t move,” Logan orders Big P. He marches over to where I am, lifts his hand, and points the gun at the beefy guy who just molested me. “She’s not your fucking baby,” he says, and pulls the trigger. The sound is deafening, and blood sprays my face and body as the man slumps over. I push him off of me as I scurry a few feet away.
I’ve never seen Logan so, so . . . lethal. Pissed isn’t the correct term to describe him right now. He’s enraged. Obviously willing to murder. And one look at me lying half-naked on the ground, covered in blood, washes away all emotion from his face. He lays the gun down and reaches out, pulling me into his lap. I’ve never felt so elated in my life, just to know I’m safe in his arms.
“Oh, baby. I’m so sorry,” he chokes out. We both cry; for what we just went through, for how close we were to losing each other, for the implications Logan may face once this is all over. “I’m so sorry,” Logan repeats again and again. He kisses my forehead, my cheeks, my nose, my chin, and, finally, my lips, even though I’m covered in someone else’s blood. “If I could go back and do this all over again, I would. I wouldn’t have brought you with me. I just knew this was a bad idea. Can you forgive me?”
“What’s there to forgive? It’s not your fault,” I say, sniffling.
“Are you kidding? All of this is my fault. I never should’ve picked up drugs in the first place.”
Clasping his face with my hands, I tell him, “If you hadn’t picked up the habit, we wouldn’t be together. It’s been an extreme ride, but I’ve loved every second I’ve spent with you.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
He wipes away the tears from my cheeks and tenderly kisses me. Pulling back, he says, “C’mon. Let’s get out of here. I need to tell my dad what happened.” He arranges my clothes into a semblance of order, carefully zipping my shorts and tugging the remaining portion of my shirt over my exposed breasts, which I push back into my bra. “There,” he says. “Chloe . . .” He shakes his head, and I know what he’s about to say. Another “sorry.” Exactly what I don’t need. I don’t want to be reminded of that man’s filthy hands on and inside me; I just
want to be cleansed of him and any reminder of his touch.
I press my index finger over Logan’s lips to silence him. “No more, okay?”
Over Logan’s shoulder, I catch a flicker of movement. Big P reaches toward his back and pulls out a metal object glinting in the light of the street lamps. A gun.
“You’re not going anywhere, not after the mess you’ve made,” says Big P.
“Logan!” I scream, but it’s too late. Big P fires off two rounds, straight into Logan’s back. Logan’s body freezes, his eyes bulging from his skull, and then he sputters and falls over. “Logan, baby! LOGAN!” I shake him, but his eyes are dulling out, losing their vivacity.
“Ice may have done a number on you, baby girl, but it’s nothing compared to what I’m going to do,” says Big P.
“Please don’t hurt me,” I beg.
“You see, Logan’s already killed three of my boys, so it’s only fitting I do what I want with you and then dump your body where nobody will find it. Maybe the lake. Maybe the ocean. So, if Logan does live through this, and I doubt he will, he’ll never see you again, just like I’ll never see my boys again.” He aims the gun at my head.
I grasp Logan’s lifeless hand in mine and squeeze. Stay with me, Logan. Be alive. Don’t leave me.
Tires squeal as three cars tear around the corner, red and blue lights flashing, sirens blaring. All three policemen throw their vehicles into park and use their car doors as barriers between them and Big P.
“Drop your weapon!” one of the officers shouts.
“Drop your weapon and get on the ground!” yells another.
I can see it in Big P’s eyes: a look of pure suffering. He wants to kill me. He wants to avenge the deaths of his friends, his boys, so he’s weighing his decision. The wheels are turning in his mind, and it’s almost as if I can hear his thoughts: I can kill her before they take me, and my boys’ murders will be justified, even if that means a longer sentence.
“Sir, we’re not telling you again. Drop your weapon!”
Another one hollers, “Drop it!”
Big P’s finger fumbles on the trigger, but, determined, he pulls.
Nineteen • Chloe
It jams.
In moments such as these, it’s the minor seconds that count. Seconds that can make or break you. Seconds that can save your life. And, lucky for me, one of the police officers seizes the opportunity, the second, to pull his trigger.
It doesn’t jam.
Big P stills, and then collapses on the asphalt. All three police officers run to me, one of which is Logan’s dad.
“Are you all right? Are you hurt?” Phil asks, squatting down in front of me. “I followed you two after dinner. I just had a bad feeling about all of this.” He waves toward the crime scene in front of us.
All I can do is mutter incoherently and bawl my eyes out.
He places a hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to be all right, sweetie.” He pivots toward his son and presses the radio on his shoulder, mumbling a numeric code. Within minutes, more sirens wail and appear in a show of flashing lights. Paramedics wheel a stretcher to where Logan lies. One of them checks his heart rate, while the other uncovers his fresh wounds. Carefully, they load his unconscious body onto the stretcher and into the back of the ambulance, poking him with an IV and other miscellaneous gadgets.
I watch the ambulance leave with Logan and almost lose my composure. As I stand up, Phil encircles me with one arm, and I sag against him, crying out.
“They’re going to take good care of him,” he says, his voice catching on a couple of words. “It’s all right. He’s going to be all right.” He hugs me even tighter. “Why don’t you come to the station with me? I’ll need a recap of the events, in detail. Can you do that? Better yet, can you do it for Logan?”
I nod.
“Okay, let’s get you situated, then.” He leads me over to his patrol car, and I sit down in the backseat.
During the ride, all I think about is Logan, whether he’s going to make it, how we’ve come this far, and how horrible it’ll be if he doesn’t pull through. Everything will have been in vain. Phil is quiet, mostly. Is he thinking about Logan as much as I am? He has to be. If I were in his place, I’d be rehashing if there was anything I could’ve done differently.
Phil parks in front of a square, brick building, where, directly in front of us, the police department logo and name are proudly displayed on a rectangular sign. “Chloe, you don’t have to do this right now, you know. You can wait, if it’s too painful.”
I sniffle. “Doesn’t matter if I do it now or five years from now; it’s something that’ll never leave my mind. So, let’s get this over with.”
Phil nods his head once in understanding, but doesn’t say anything. Irritably, I wipe the tears from my cheeks before I exit the car, before anybody sees me as an awful mess. I tug my shirt together and cross my arms, holding it in place. The lobby is filled with angry drunks and battered and bruised people, none of which pay attention to me as I pass by.
Phil takes me to an interrogation room located in the back of the building. The room is cold, the walls gray and uninviting. I glance up and note that Phil is watching me like he’s afraid I’ll spontaneously combust any second now.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says once again.
“No, I know. I want to do this. For Logan.” This time, I manage a weak smile.
“All right,” says Phil. “I’ll just . . .” He points toward the double-sided mirror behind him.
I nod.
Five minutes later, he returns with another officer. “Chloe, this is Officer Rodriguez. He’s going to be asking you questions.”
I glance up at him, wide-eyed. “What? Where are you going?”
“To the hospital, to be with Logan.”
Of course. How stupid am I? Logan might be dying on a table due to his gunshot wounds and here I am, playing the role of damsel in distress. Except, this time, Logan’s not here to climb up the lattice and rescue me. I’m on my own, as is he.
“Right. Okay.”
“Hi, Ms. Sullivan,” says Officer Rodriguez. He sits down across from me at the table, and I wave goodbye to Phil as he closes the door behind him.
“Hi,” I reply meekly.
Officer Rodriguez says, “Let’s start from the beginning.”
So I do. I tell him everything: from the first time Logan and I met, to the death of Jake, to the encounter Logan had with Big P in town. How Phil’s reputation would have suffered if the whole town found out a police officer had a drug-addicted son. Above all else, I tell him what happened tonight, because that’s what he’s most interested in. By the time I’m finished, Officer Rodriguez looks more than a little shocked.
“Well,” he says, “we appreciate your story. I know it’s a lot to take in, and there are counselors I can recommend to you, if that’s what you want.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s okay. I just want to forget all of this ever happened.” And it’s not like I can prosecute anyone; they’re all dead.
“Is there anything I can get for you? Coffee? Water?”
“Can you give me a ride?” I ask. Glancing down at my shirt, Officer Rodriguez takes the hint: I need a new top since mine was ripped.
“Sure,” he says, gathering his paperwork and standing up. “I’m just going to run this to my office, and then I’ll be back.”
I step into the hallway as he disappears around the corner. From here, I can see the lobby, where drunks and other strange people have congregated. Some are handcuffed and chained to long rows of chairs, others are arguing with officers at the front desk. Are they in here for anything similar to what I went through? I doubt it. These look like regulars; they’re too calm about their transgressions not to be.
“All set,” Officer Rodriguez says, startling me. I follow him out a backdoor, where his patrol car sits in a parking lot.
Thirty minutes or so later, we pull into the driveway of the lake house. Offic
er Rodriguez pulls out a couple of cards from his front shirt pocket. “Here,” he says, handing them to me. “One is mine, and the other is my wife’s. She’s a local counselor. Call either of us if you need anything, all right?”
I nod and open the passenger door. “Thanks.”
Apparently, my mom has been worried about me and noticed the police car in the driveway, because she’s waiting at the front door when I walk across the lawn. Her face is contorted in anxiety, and one of her hands covers her mouth.
She holds the door open for me. “Chloe, what’s happened? What’s going on?” One look at my shirt and her eyes fill with horror. “What the hell happened? Are you all right?”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Instead, I collapse into her arms and cry hysterically all over again. She pets my hair, hugs me tightly against her tiny frame, and gently shushes my out-of-control wailing.
When I finally regain my voice, I wipe away tears and say, “Oh, Mom, I have so much to tell you.”
Twenty • Logan
Thoughts:
I hate bright lights.
If I’m vaguely sensing them, does this mean I’ve crossed over, that I’m dead?
Opening my mouth, I rasp, “Chloe.”
Where is she?
Where is she?
Big P. Chloe. Gun.
It’s all coming back.
Holy shit.
I don’t know what’s worse:
Knowing I’m dead, knowing I can’t be there for her ever again, or narrowly escaping fatality and, as an alternative, Death trading my soul for Chloe’s.
A single tear slides down the side of my face, and I can’t move my arms to stop it.
Twenty-one • Chloe
I’ve told my mom everything. There’s not a single detail I left out; no skeletons in the closet. Amazingly, she doesn’t behave like I thought. Instead, she wraps her arms around me and whispers how our predicament will work out on its own, how Logan’s going to pull through and live. But, most of all, she wants to meet him, even if he’s on his death bed. For all I know, he might be gone already.
Last Summer Page 14