by Nicole Fox
“Oh, okay.”
We eat the bacon in silence. When we’re both done I lean back on the couch, staring at Cora’s reflection in the TV. I can’t look at myself because then maybe I’ll see what an asshole I’m being. We sit like that for several minutes, a silent war to see who’ll talk first.
“If you want to pretend that last night didn’t happen, that’s fine. That’s your choice. But I don’t see that you have to be like this with me.”
“Like what?”
“Cold, distant, mean. Is that really necessary, Logan? I don’t see why we have to play these games.”
“I don’t see that I’m playing games,” I say, which is a damn lie. “I’m just enjoying my breakfast and relaxing.”
“Right,” she says. There’s a tremor in her voice, the sort of tremor which makes me think an eruption’s coming. “It’s just … surely you can see how weird this is for me. You can’t be—well, you can’t be like you were last night and then just turn into this. It’s … it isn’t exactly fair.”
“I wish I could help you with that,” I say. “I really, really do. But the thing is, I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Maybe you want me to act a certain way and I’m not doing it. Maybe you want me to be this super-emotional guy or somethin’, but that just ain’t who I am. Whatever happened last night, I was drunk. It’s a cruel goddamn woman who throws something a man did when he was drunk in his face.”
“So you’re telling me that it had no relationship to reality, absolutely none, that the way you behaved was just—what? Random? Is that what you want me to think? I’m not trying to drag anything up—”
“Yeah, you are.” I turn to face her briefly, but I can’t stand the look on her face: open, ready to understand. The last thing I need right now is a woman who’s ready to understand me. I’d prefer if she was shouting and slapping, spitting and growling. I’d prefer if she told me she never wanted to see me again. This openness is too much to handle. “You are,” I repeat, staring stubbornly at the table, the floor, the wall, anywhere but at her. “You want me to cry again. Maybe if gave you some sort of sick thrill. I don’t know what you got out of it. All I know is you want it to happen again.”
“So you admit it happened,” she cuts in, voice razor-sharp. “We’ve established that, at least.”
“You about done with that?” I pick up our plates and carry them into the kitchen, where I drop them into the sink. Then I go into the fridge and get myself a beer, crack it on the counter and drink down half.
“It’s not even noon,” she says with disgust.
“This is how I do things in my house,” I tell her. “If you don’t like it, the door’s right there.”
“You’re such an asshole.” She jumps to her feet, fists clenched. She looks cute and lethal at the same time, chaotic and orderly. It’s a combination of moods only she can pull off. She folds her arms and purses her lips. “You clearly like me. I feel self-conscious as fuck saying that, but it’s the truth. And now you’re gonna make me stand here like an absolute loser not knowing if you like me back. I get it. You’re a big tough biker and big tough bikers don’t share their feelings. Okay? Cool. That’s really, really awesome. But here’s the thing: last night I saw a side of you I bet you’ve never shared with anyone, and I think it’d be a real shame if we had to pretend it didn’t exist.”
I watch her for a long moment, wondering if I might really be a person, wondering if I might really let myself feel something. She’s right there, offering me the chance to change, even just a little, but maybe as time wears on I’ll change a little, a little more, and then one day I’ll be the sort of man who can take my lady to a barbecue and kiss the nape of her neck and all that tender shit, and not even have to feel awkward about it. Now wouldn’t that just be something …
But then I get potent flashbacks of crying, of being hunched over and weeping like a baby. I turn away from her so that her gaze can’t cast spells on me and drink the rest of my beer. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Cora.”
“Fine!” she snaps. She stomps around the apartment, collecting her things. “If that’s the game you want to play, fine! See if I care! You know, I made the effort, Logan! I came over here at almost midnight to try and—”
“What?” I shoot back, turning on her. “Why exactly did you come over here?” I march over to her, leaning close, so close that it would be no big thing to grab her thighs and tackle her to the couch, to push those thighs apart and lick the sweetness between them. I want to, and she wants me to—I can tell—but neither of us makes a move that way.
“I came here to …” She licks her lips, trailing off. “What do you care, anyway? You’re just an asshole.”
“Yep.” I step back. “I’m just an asshole.”
She walks to the door and turns back with it half-open. “I …” She sighs. “This morning could have gone so, so differently. I wanted to … There’s something here. Logan, you know there is. I don’t see you as any less of a man for being upset that your dad’s dead. Who’d think a horrible thing like that?”
She leaves, shutting the door softly behind her. I crack another beer and pace around the apartment, trying to stay angry, trying to convince myself I was in the right. But when I sit down and stare at myself in the TV screen, I can’t hold onto my anger, and I can’t pretend that I was in the right. All I can think of is her open face, waiting for me to drop the act, cut the shit, waiting for me to kiss her meaningfully, kiss her like I’m a man and not an outlaw.
I lay my head in my hands, trying to remember who I am.
Chapter Fourteen
Cora
I drive back to my apartment feeling like a total failure. The LA sun isn’t as blisteringly hot as it can be, but I feel it like a supernova in the car. Sweat drips down my forehead into my eyes, causing me to blink almost continuously, and I can smell myself: the scent of a newly-pregnant woman, the scent of ever-present sickness. I was supposed to tell him about the baby, and I failed. I failed hard. Not only did I fail to tell him about the baby, but I failed to make any sort of connection with him. I clench the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white, thinking about all the things I could have said to him.
Maybe it’d just be better if I got rid of the baby without telling him. Is that cruel, or would he prefer that? The question has changed from yesterday because Logan is a new man now. Before, he was this tough berserker, this man’s man. Maybe he still is that, but there’s more under that shield of toughness than I ever guessed. I thought he was like the hard face of a rock mountain, his eyes carved from stone, his mouth set like volcanic boulder. But now I can feel the heat beneath, hear the echoes of emotional explosions. I know what hides behind his hard, emotionless face. I just wish he didn’t have to be such an asshole about it. I get that he wants to be tough, wants to make me believe that nothing gets to him, but his dad’s dead. What does he think I’m going to do—laugh at him?
So I’ll get rid of the child, then, and do without the inheritance. Something strange happens when this thought occurs to me. My insides twist, but not physically. It’s like there’s a loom inside of me and the woman working it seizes up for a moment, tugging all the separate strands of me together. For a moment I consider what it would be like if I kept the child. I wonder what it would be like to hold it in my arms, to look down at it and see its little face scrunch up in love. Perhaps it’d be a him, or a her, and she or he would love me more than anybody’s ever loved. I’d be a single mother, but there are worse things to be, surely. Perhaps I could make it work. Perhaps we’d be happy. But then I wouldn’t be able to become a rock star. No way. But then, am I ever going to become one anyway?
I bring the car to a stop outside my apartment, taking a deep breath, trying to clear my head. If I let myself, I’ll go around and around this for months, trying to figure it out right up until the moment the baby is born, still wondering if I want him or her when she or he is in my arms. I need to make a decision.
I know something’s wrong as soon as I step from the car and see him, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, a cigarette dangling out the side of his mouth. He has slicked-back hair and a suave look about him … or he would have, if it wasn’t for the bulging gut and the glimpse of a food-stained vest poking out just above his silver belt buckle. I try to ignore him as I pass, hoping that he isn’t here for me, but somehow sensing that he is. He pushes away from the wall and nods a hello.
“Melissa,” he says. “Melissa Collins?”
I pretend not to hear him, but my veins turn to ice. Melissa, not Cora … this man knows my real name! I swallow and march to the door, but he’s quicker than he looks and blocks my path.
“You are Melissa, right? Crash’s daughter?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I take a step back. That’s when I see it: the outline of a pistol under his jacket. I open and close my fingers, wondering if I can fight him if I have to, wondering if I’d have a chance.
“I’m sure I recognize you,” he says, wagging his forefinger at me. “I’m certain I do. You’re the rich girl, aren’t you? What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” I mutter, wondering if I sound as terrified aloud as I do in my head. “You know, it isn’t polite to wait outside people’s apartments like this.”
“Polite.” He flashes his teeth at me. Some of them are so rotten they are black in places, while others are bone-white, and a couple more are golden-plated. It’s a patchwork mouth. “Well, you see, I never claimed to be polite. Melissa. Melissa Collins. You see? When I say that name your face sort of jolts, like there’s electricity running through it. You ever seen a paramedic try to bring someone back to life with one of those fancy machines? Clear! And then the person jolts all funny? That’s what you just looked like, Melissa.”
“If you don’t get out of my way, I’ll call the cops.”
He laughs, shrugs, and then steps aside. “That’s all right, Melissa. There’s no need for that. Have a good day.”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks away, whistling a jaunty tune.
I charge up the stairs, heart pounding in the back of my throat, so scared I fumble my keys twice before opening my door. I double-lock the door behind me and then rush into the bathroom, vomiting and sitting on the cool tiles, wondering who he was and how he found me, wondering if this is the end of Cora Ash and the fiction that I could outrun my past.
I splash cold water in my face, more than anything wishing that Logan was here to protect me, which is funny because I’ve never felt like I needed protecting until now.
Chapter Fifteen
Logan
For the next few days I throw myself into my work, which mainly involves keeping track of my men and chasing down this Melissa Collins woman. I go by the Ink Stop in LA and get some information about the women who go by there, following down ten or so solid leads. All of them lead into the dirt, and I’m left none the wiser than when I started. I go through all my police contacts, trying to track the woman down. They lead nowhere. Apparently, Melissa Collins was a normal college girl—studying literature and history—before dropping out of college and off the face of the earth at the same time. I can’t find any employment details, social security details, anything.
I look into Cora, using the same police contacts, and everything seems kosher. She was born in Cali and lived with her dad and then moved to town to start her music career. Either Cora Ash and Melissa Collins are different people or Cora’s got some very impressive contacts, or the money to buy some very impressive contacts. I try not to think about the emotional shit as I go about my work. I try not to think about tears, or her open face. But I can’t help it. I wake up every night rock-hard, thinking of that round ass, that snake tattoo begging to be bitten. And then, once the animal lust passes, I think about holding her.
I tell myself it’s just business as I ride to her apartment. Maybe she has some more information about her tattoo, like what made her get it. If it was because some celebrity had it, or she found it on some forum, or even if she remembers hearing anything when she was sitting in the waiting room … anything could be useful at this point. But I can’t ignore the other aspect, either, which is that I think my balls and my chest will explode if I don’t see her. I had some club girl coming onto me last night, all hot and heavy. I wanted nothing to do with her. All I could see was Cora.
I come to a stop outside her apartment building. A light rain is falling, the first one in weeks, pattering on the sidewalk and sliding down my eyes. It’s like I’m crying again. I laugh grimly at the thought. I don’t approach her apartment right away, the hairs on the back of my neck pricking up. This happens sometimes, my instincts kicking in before I know why. I scan the area, spotting him on my second pass-through. There’s a mafia-looking man sitting in a mud-colored sedan across the street. He’s got slicked-back hair and a gold chain around his neck, his manicured hands tapping the steering wheel. I watch him a while. He glances at Cora’s apartment every so often, trying to seem inconspicuous.
After around ten minutes, I notice a change in him. It’s a change I’ve seen in men all through my life, the change that ripples across a room when it’s time to tool up. He sits up straight and checks something on the passenger seat. I’m guessing it’s his gun. Then he talks to someone on the phone for a couple of minutes. After that he sits bolt upright, chest pressed almost against the steering wheel, eyes locked on Cora’s apartment. I take my leather off and stuff it in the storage compartment of my bike, keeping my head down as I approach the building’s main door. I purposefully walk like a shy guy, one of those fellas I’ve seen in the supermarket, walking like the floor is made of nails, hoping he won’t spot me as a biker.
Cora answers after the second buzz. “Hello?” she says, making it a question.
“It’s me,” I say. “Let me up. Don’t ask any questions.”
“Logan? Um, okay.”
She buzzes me up. I close the door behind me, making sure it’s locked—not that that’ll do much good if things really are going south—and then take the stairs two at a time. The last thing I need right now is to get trapped in the elevator. I push open her door without knocking and then lock and bolt it behind me.
She’s on her feet, wearing shorts that make me want to forget the urgency, and a tank top with no bra on underneath. I look at her for a full five seconds, a whole host of dirty thoughts going through my mind, and then I reluctantly say, “Get dressed, quickly.”
She nods and goes into the bedroom, emerging soon after in jeans and a T-shirt and boots. “What is it?” she asks, but her voice is taut and it’s like she already knows that something is up.
I close all the curtains. “We need to go somewhere to talk,” I say. “This place could be bugged.”
“Bugged?” She shakes her head as though the idea is ridiculous.
“Yeah. Bugged. Wait a second. Come here.”
I lead her into the kitchen and blast the faucet. Making sure to speak quietly so that the water drowns out my voice, I explain to her about the guy outside. “I think something’s going to happen within the hour,” I say. “So we need to get out of here, all right?”
“Oh, God.” She touches her forehead. “Not again. This can’t be happening again.”
“Wait a second.” I touch her hand, nudging it so that she’s not covering her face. “What do you mean, not again? Has this happened before?”
“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” she says, and then she tells me. “When my dad died, right after, some guy approached me in a bar. I had no idea who he was, but I was vulnerable and I … well, the next morning I woke up and he was going crazy at me, throwing stuff all over my apartment and demanding to know where my bank information was. He tried to make me sign into my laptop, but I was able to hit him in the balls and get away. He wanted money out of me, I guess.”
“So you are …” She looks down; I tou
ch her face and force her to meet my gaze. “So you are Melissa Collins, then.”
She freezes, going as still as prey hiding from a predator. Barely moving her lips, she says, “Logan, you’re not going to hurt me, are you?”
“Hurt you …” I drop my hand and take a step back. “I’d never hurt you.” Although there’s some twisted humor in there, because surely that’s what Dad wanted me to do, find the girl who owes us money and do whatever it took to get it. But Dad never guessed that I’d start falling for the girl, never guessed that his son had it in him to go all soft for a woman. “But you haven’t answered my question, Cora. Are you Melissa?”
“You came here to protect me,” she says. “That’s why you’re here right now, because you don’t want anything to happen to me.” She watches me closely. I realize I mistook her freezing for fear. It’s not fear. It’s more like the way a spider will freeze, waiting for a fly. She isn’t prey; she’s the predator, watching me, gauging me. She’s never looked so sexy. “That’s right, isn’t it?”