by Nicole Fox
No, he wouldn’t ruin this night for Francesca for anything. Keeping himself in check was hard, but he could manage.
And the light in Francesca’s eyes was worth every second of it.
The night wore on and Francesca’s brother, Marston, approached them. He’d managed to catch them in the middle of one of their rare moments outside of conversations with some of the other patrons. He had a stupid smile across his handsome face that Logan didn’t like.
“I’m the brother, Marston,” he said, his face filled with a kind mischievousness that Logan didn’t like. He was too old for the types of pranks he was playing; what grown adult bet his sister money over her newly broken heart? Not a kind one, Logan thought as he inched closer to Francesca.
“I’m Logan,” he answered stoically, placing a protective hand over Francesca’s shoulder. “You must be the fool with the deep pockets making bets with Francesca.”
Marston laughed, a very unpleasant sound. “Yeah, man. And she got so worked up that she actually took the bait. And you are losing, little sis. Don’t forget it!” He walked away, smiling at everyone he walked by. There was no an ounce of empathy anywhere inside of that man’s body; he must have been one of the successful, ruthless psychopaths who make their money through the misery of others.
The bastard even walked right over to a very drunken Davis, smiling as he chatted with him, probably about the same thing he had with Francesca.
Furious, Logan had to bite down on his anger, keeping it in check even as Francesca muttered curses under her breath in Marston’s direction.
Surprisingly, however, it wasn’t Marston or even Davis that managed to ruin the evening completely. No, that honor was reserved for Logan himself, despite his best behavior and killer suit.
But despite Davis and Marston, the evening was going quite well. Until the cops showed up.
When the police entered the ball, people scattered to the walls like marbles rolling away, leaving the center of the Gala completely bare. Logan stared them down, feeling his muscles tighten involuntarily, as if his body was preparing to flee without him. Francesca clung hard to his arm, her fingers digging deep into the flesh of his elbow. But he barely felt it over the waves of horror that flooded him as the police swept the crowd with their eyes.
They were looking for him, he was sure.
Holding his breath, Logan watched them as they looked from face to face, dismissing each before moving on to the next. It wouldn’t be long before they came to him.
“I almost forgot tonight that Francesca’s world wasn’t meant to have men like me in it. I suppose this is my punishment for forgetting that I can never be part of her world with her.”
So when the police came forward, their hard eyes locked on him, his name on their lips, he didn’t resist. He didn’t fight them. But most importantly, he didn’t look back. He wasn’t sure he could handle the devastation on Francesca’s face and the smirk he knew would be on Davis Thorne’s.
Chapter Twenty
Francesca
Nikki was holding hard onto Francesca’s hand, but she couldn’t even feel it. Even when her bones creaked under Nikki’s too-tight grip, she still didn’t feel it. Francesca couldn’t really seem to feel anything except the gaping emptiness that threatened to swallow her whole. She knew she’d become attached to Logan, but this massive black hole in her body seemed to speak of something deeper than she’d ever imagined.
Caught up in those thoughts, Francesca barely noticed as Quentin Maloney finally came into his office. There were deep, black smudges under both of his eyes, and his tie was on wrong, like he’d loosened it and tied it back several times. His clothes were wrinkled like he’d been wearing the same suit for days. And given his state of mind, Francesca was convinced he had.
“I’ve told yah before, I can’t help with your friend and his legal troubles,” Quentin said for the third time. “I can’t even help myself right now, yah know?”
Nikki made an exasperated noise in the back of her throat. “You told us you were being watched; we’re not asking you to do anything illegal. Just looking for some protection from Logan getting locked up and lost in the system. You know none of those cops are going to look further into the case because he ran from them.”
“Look, Nikki, sweetheart, I know all this. I still can’t help yah,” Quentin made a weird gesture of helpless, exaggeratedly swinging his arms around at the office. “I’m gonna lose my office this week, so I have to start packing. It’s hard to pay your bills when half of your business disappears overnight, yah know?”
Francesca, her eyes swollen from lack of sleep, stared at him, her expression empty and cold. “How much?” she asked, her voice sounding robotic and icy.
Quentin looked at her like he didn’t recognize her. Perhaps, right now, I wouldn’t even recognize myself. But she continued to stare at him, unblinking.
“How much for what?” he stammered in reply.
“Your lease. How much do you owe the landlord?” Francesca whispered, her voice quiet even in the silence of the office space.
Looking nervous, Quentin glanced at Nikki, who shrugged. “About three grand, but that’s not — ”
Francesca reached into her purse which was nestled on her lap, pulling out a small stack of hundred dollar bills and threw it onto his desk. The motion scattered the money like a draft through an open window. Quentin stared down at his desk, his eyes so wide, she could see the whites all the way around his irises. He looked like a frightened horse that was ready to buck his rider and run in the opposite direction.
“Now, will you help Logan?”
Quentin opened his mouth and then closed it several times, like a fish trying to breathe air. Then he closed his mouth, picked up all of the money Francesca had given to him, and walked out of the door with it. He was only gone for a few moments before he returned, a big smile on his face. “Well, I get to stay in my office, my rent’s all figured out for awhile, and I happen to have the next two days off. I had been planning to use that time to move my office to my house, but I’m gonna use it to help your boyfriend out of jail now.”
For the first time since this whole thing started, Francesca felt her heart swell a little in her chest. The void seemed to shrink a little, and then she took a deep breath and steadied herself. Some like hope kindled in her, setting fires in her veins. “Then let’s make a plan to make sure that Logan gets out of trouble. Whatever it takes.”
Nikki was worried, but looked a little happier now that they seemed to actually have something of a plan. Quentin looked like Francesca had smacked him over the head with a two-by-four. Secretly, Francesca felt bad for him. Had no one ever done anything nice for this poor slob in his whole life?
Quentin looked at her, his eyes still too-wide. He still looked stunned as he said, “So, start from the beginning, Francesca. And tell me everything.”
# # #
Logan
Sitting in the back of the transport van, Logan stared down at the handcuffs around his wrists. It had been years since he’d been arrested last, and the memory wasn’t a fond one. Jail had been like a cage for him, pressing in closer every day until the walls squeezed him like a juicer.
The world felt like it was tilting a little, and he wanted nothing more than to run. Break out of this van and run as fast as he could. But that’s what got you in this deep in the first place. I never should have run in the first place. I never should have left my people.
But never running would have meant never meeting Francesca. And even if he spent the rest of his life in jail, he would remember that week living at Francesca’s white mansion in the desert as the happiest of his entire life. Being with her had taught him so many things; he wished he’d been someone else when they met. Someone completely unlike himself.
The van continued to rumble on, the roads bumping up through the world’s worst shocks and jarring Logan’s spine. He was the only one in the back of the police van; the only criminal being transported to th
e East Coast from Nevada, he supposed. It would be a very long and lonely ride with nothing but his memories to keep him company.
“I hope Francesca is okay. I hope Francesca takes care of my bike for me. I wonder if Francesca is thinking of me right now.”
Every thought of Francesca was like a shank to his ribs, pain lancing through him. But every thought was about Francesca. In the short few days they’d known each other, she’d turned from a mystery he couldn’t touch to his everything. The whole empty world didn’t matter without her in it.
“How did someone like her become so important?” It didn’t make sense; it was like some kind of Disney movie where the big bad beast falls in love with the pretty girl. Even though he knew she could never love him back. Logan wondered if Francesca thought about him now at all, or if she just shrugged him off and fell back into the arms of her ex.
No, he realized with such certainty that it shook him, she wouldn’t have. In spite of what happened at the Gala, Logan knew that Francesca had feelings for him. She wouldn’t have jumped back into Davis’s arms.
Although his hands were bound and the benches in the van were not exactly designed for comfort, Logan managed to lie down somewhat comfortably. He hoped to at least get a bit of sleep. If he was going to make it out of this, he would need his wits and to be ready for whatever the interrogators threw at him.
He slept fitfully, his dreams clogged with memories of Francesca’s skin, her laugh, and her house that somehow now felt like home. Or it felt more like home than the Boston he was heading back to.
In the long hours back to the east coast, Logan tried to build a plan in his mind. He stared at the sides of the van for hours, its ugly white walls looking like they hadn’t been cleaned in decades. After a long hour of thought and a heavy sigh, he said, “I need to do what Francesca wants me to do,” to the walls. He wasn’t expecting a response, but saying it out loud helped to quiet some of his thoughts. “I need to do what would make Francesca proud.”
He would talk to the police. He would tell them the truth. He would make Zook pay, but through legal channels. He would give the police everything he had, hoping something he said would make them doubt just a little bit. Doubt enough to put some legwork into the case again.
This time, he would be the good guy. And no matter what happened next, he planned to stay that way. For Francesca.
Chapter Twenty-One
Francesca
“What are we doing here?” Francesca asked, glancing around the inside of the bar. It looked like a shady little place, filled with people that looked like mugshots on a grimy wall. She’d dressed down for this occasion, forcing Nikki to dress down, too. But even in their bargain bin jeans with tears in them and ill-fitting Walmart t-shirts, they still looked too good for this place.
The wood walls were ancient, lanced with a thousand holes from darts and broken glass. The clear coat over the top of the bar looked inches deep, added one layer at time over decades, grime and the soot of cigarette smoke caught between the layers.
The few stragglers that were in the bar at this hour glanced up at the three of them with a mix of wariness and anger. Francesca tried not to look at any of them too long, ignoring the mottled tattoos that bled out into their skin with time, like she was looking at them through etched glass. A few of the patrons had missing teeth. Something made the inside of the bar smell like trash and body odor.
“There better be a damned good reason we’re here.” Nikki glanced around with a look of barely concealed disgust; it must have matched the expression the Francesca herself was wearing.
Quentin just grinned at them. His lackluster appearance fit this place in a way that the girls never could. It was probably the poorly tied tie and mustard stains on his clothing. “You remember how you asked your mom’s private investigator for tips? Well, one of them contacted me; he found that this bar was a frequent haunt of your boyfriend’s people. And I think we might find something here if we look hard enough.”
Francesca winced. “What kind of looking will we be doing?”
“Watch and learn, Princess,” Quentin said, snapping at the bartender.
The old man came over, his rock hard expression matching his rock hard body. He looked to be about sixty and was completely gray, but looked like time had not touched his muscles. The man seemed like he could tie their limbs together with those bulging arms. He looked like he’d seen some things that Francesca could only imagine in her deepest nightmares.
She had a hard time meeting his clear, ice blue eyes that were as cold as snowfall.
“Greetings, I would like a beer and two of something girly,” Quentin said, waving dismissively at the two ladies. He then handed the bartender a enough money to pay for all of their drinks and stock in the bar while they were at it. Francesca frowned at the obvious bribery, and the bartender did, too.
“What are you digging for?” the man asked, his voice like cigarette smoke and gravel. “I most likely can’t help the likes of you.” His eyes ran over Francesca and Nikki. Not in a sexual way, though; it was more like he was sizing them up, reading their pasts and personalities in every inch of their skin. It was too obvious they didn’t belong here, no matter what Francesca was wearing.
She took their glasses of wine without so much as a grimace. Francesca even managed to sip hers without making a face.
“I hear that Logan Pendergrass and his boys in the Satan’s Chaos frequented this place.” Quentin glanced around, his eyes tracing the outlines of the bar’s ceiling. “I also hear Logan might have been arrested two nights ago.”
The bartender’s bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrows flew up into his hair, his icy eyes becoming unbelievably huge in his tanned face. “Who told you all that?”
“A friend,” Quentin said, ignoring the glare from the bartender. Francesca glanced around, but none of the other patrons seemed to be able to hear them speaking, for which she was thankful. “We know he was set up by Zook, and we want to ensure Logan isn’t doing time for someone else’s crime.”
“Logan?” The bartender looked surprised, then suspicious. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? You could be anyone.”
“We might be anyone, sir,” Francesca whispered, wincing as those cold eyes landed on her face. But she forced herself to stare him in the face. “But I need Logan out of jail.” She didn’t have to fake the wobble in her voice. It had been there since the moment Logan had been dragged off of the floor and out of her arms. “If there is anything you can do to help us…” Her voice trailed off, but she kept her eyes locked with his.
It was the bartender that turned away first.
“Alright, I might have something to help you.” The bartender called to his backup to watch the bar as he took the three of them into the back. His shoulders looked tense and unhappy. “Here.” He handed Francesca a tape. It was unmarked. “This tape has Zook threatening the guy Logan supposedly killed, telling the guy he was going to kill him. Logan is a good guy and he had no beef with Snake Eyes.” The old man crossed his arms over his shoulders. “I thought Logan had disappeared, gone into hiding. I didn’t think I’d ever have to turn this over to anyone.”
“Do you only have the one copy?” Quentin asked, a smirk in his voice.
The bartender nodded. “But you can get Billy to make you a copy, if you need it. He’s down on 5th Avenue; has a video repair place. He’s trustworthy.”
Quentin grinned. “Thank you, sir. Yah have a good day.”
Francesca clasped the tape to her chest, and it warmed her all the way through. Perhaps there was some hope in this fool’s errand. Now she just needed to find someone at the police station to listen to her. “How hard can that be?”
# # #
Logan
Logan glanced down at the photos of him, prominently displayed, next to Francesca in a gossip magazine. “You two look cute together,” the detective said, a wicked smile on his mouth. Logan rolled his eyes, his jaw tightening as he kept his mouth closed aro
und the angry retort. “So what made you run to her?”
“She’d broken down on the side of the road, and I gave her a ride back home,” Logan answered smoothly, his eyes locked with the wall behind the policeman. He felt nervous; cops always made him nervous. But he repeated his mantra over and over in his head, trying to keep cool. “Do what Francesca would want you to do ...”
The interrogation room looked just like they showed on TV; ugly drop ceilings, a single chair and table in the center. The police had offered him coffee and water, both of which he had declined politely.