With a yelp, I flung mine, hitting him in the hip—yeah, lousy aim. I wheeled around, and his next balloon whacked me on my butt.
Pivoting, I glowered at him. Another landed on my chest. It didn’t sting, but dammit, I was wet. How the heck did he get his to break so fast? Mine had just bounced off him.
I grimaced at the yellow paint running down my shorts and legs and into my black sneakers. God only knew what color my backside was.
At his low laughter, I pulled out another and smacked him dead in the groin.
“There. Now you get to look like a rainbow, too.” Grinning, I pelted him with two more. His jeans were no longer blue, but turning into a lovely purple fusion of dripping red and blue.
At his narrowed eyes, cheering gleefully, I sprinted off and secreted myself between two bales. Then I checked my satchel. Four left. Max still had more weapons than me, but I was smeared with a lot more paint. But, hey, I was winning…I hoped.
“Gotcha!”
“Eeep!” Shrieking, I jerked back and fell on my ass, landing on an open bale of hay.
Max approached me like a darn predator, bouncing another balloon in his hand, sporting a Machiavellian grin.
The brilliant move of evasion I’d been gloating over died a sudden death. There was no way I could escape him. Damn, I’d trapped myself in a dead-end zone, cornered by stacks of hay all around, and Max blocked my only escape. Eyes squeezed tightly, I waited for the slam.
When nothing happening, I opened one eye and found him hunkered down in front of me.
“Do you really think I’d mess up a defenseless girl?”
I sat up straighter. Hope renewed. “You won’t?”
“Absolutely…” He squirted the green paint over my hair, chest, and arms instead. Laughter bearing down on me, I grabbed a balloon and slammed it on his head. It didn’t break.
“Gah, I should have had a pin or—”
“—a buckle, like me.” With a wicked smile that made my insides go warm, he lifted his shirt, indicating the dull silver buckle of his paint-splattered belt, giving me a brief glimpse of washboard abs that I desperately wanted to run my tongue over.
“Oh, you cheat.” Laughing, I pulled back my arm to lob him with a balloon again when he said, “Only for things that don’t matter.”
My heart lurched. My laughter faded. I lowered my head, swiping the wet paint dripping down my bangs and face.
“Don’t hide what you feel from me, Logan,” he said quietly. “Don’t you understand? I want that, I want everything that is you.”
I looked up and, faced with those penetrating green eyes and kissable lips, all I could think about was his mouth on mine.
He removed the balloon from my unresisting fingers and tossed it aside. Lowering to the bale, he pulled me onto his lap. But it had to be said. “You lost.”
“Did I?”
“Well, you still have more balloons.”
“Perhaps, but I won something I never believed possible. I have you, don’t I? So what will my punishment be?”
My heart ricocheting in my ribcage like a trapped butterfly, my words came out in a husky whisper. “Don’t rush me, I’m thinking…”
“While you do that, I want this.” He pulled me around to straddle him, didn’t seem to care that I was messed with paint. Putting his mouth on mine, he then simply obliterated every thought in my head. His lips parted mine, his tongue tracing my mouth. A rush of sensation streamed through me. Blood pounded in my ears. I couldn’t form a coherent thought, only knew I wanted to get closer to him. Wanted his bare skin sliding against mine. But with his jeans and my shorts in the way, it was an impossible feat.
A soft moan escaping, I wound my arms around his neck and pressed against him, rubbing myself on his erection.
“Ah, Christ, Logan, have mercy on me. We’re out in the open. If I take you here, the newspapers will have a field day. Not only will I have my old man on my back, but your father will probably kill me for dragging you into this debacle that’s my life.”
Panting hard, I blinked at him. “Did my dad talk to you?”
“This morning, on our way to the grounds. He said if I hurt you, he’d use me as a dartboard, but with knives.
“I’m sorry.” My desire faded a little. I smoothed his paint-splattered tee with open palms then finally asked, “What happened between you and your father?”
His expression shut down. He stared at the makeshift entrance. A teen ran into our little corner. The boy stopped short when he saw us, then hightailed it out again, yelling, “Sorry, dude!”
Disappointed Max wouldn’t talk to me, I slipped off his lap and straightened my top stuck to my skin. “We should head back.”
But Max didn’t move. Head lowered, he stared at his hands.
“Max?”
“My father can’t stand me because I killed my mother.”
“Max—no!” No matter what Kate had said, to hear Max repeat it, I still refused to believe. But the pain and anguish in his voice had me dropping to my knees.
He wouldn’t look at me. “Now you know.”
Chapter Twelve
Max
I stared at my paint-smeared hands, didn’t look up, couldn’t bear seeing the disgust on her face. If she walked, I had no idea what I’d do. I only knew she made life bearable again.
My gaze fastened on her name stained on my forearm. I’d left that bit of skin blank; wanted an etching of my mother duplicated in ink, but now, Logan had claimed that spot.
She kneeled between my parted thighs, forcing me to look at her. Her face and hair streaked with green and yellow paint had never looked lovelier. “That can’t be true.”
“I was driving, I’m responsible.”
“Tell me what happened.” She laced our paint-smeared fingers. “Because I see the shadows in your eyes and feel your pain, and I know you don’t sleep much.”
I stared at our joined hands. “I don’t remember—none of it, and that kills me. Because I was in the driver’s seat, that’s what they told me when I woke up in the hospital weeks later, with no memory of it. Everything’s one big fucking blank.”
“Is that the reason why you destroyed the studio at the Conservatory?” she asked then.
At her words, my lungs felt as if a huge fist was squeezing them. It took a moment before I could respond. “It was the anniversary of her death. I was practicing…hoping to lose myself in my music. Mitchell—the dickhead from the coffee shop—walked into the music room, said the place reeked of crap. Then he ripped my notes, said it was better for toilet paper. All because some girl he liked came after me. I wanted to smash his face, but told him to leave me the fuck alone, and find a chick that actually wanted him. A low blow, I didn’t care. Then one of his pals said something about money and killers getting off scot-free, and I lost my shit…” Anger strangled me at the memory.
“I’m so sorry, they’re idiots.” Then she wrapped her arms around me, flooring me with her actions. Most didn’t give a fuck about me. Girls just wanted my body, or to say they’d screwed the black sheep of the Meade-Sinclair dynasty. Others, money.
I buried my face in her hair and just held on. “Now I’m summoned to the mansion for a damn barbeque.”
She pulled back, her eyes searching my face. “You’re not going?”
“No. All it does is—”
At a whirring sound, I looked up and swore.
“Come on, Max, give us a name,” the reporter piped out. “Who’s the girl beneath all the paint?”
Damn fuckers! Rising to my feet, I pulled Logan up and shoved past the photographer.
“You’ve been gone for several months—where were you? Rehab again?” she asked, following us like a bloodhound.
My fingers fisted, and my teeth ground down hard. I had never been in rehab, but, of course, that was a more interesting story. The urge to punch something grew, had from the moment Logan’s ex made an appearance. That cheating scumbag appeared like someone Logan would care about�
�suave, charming. When he’d looked at me like he knew he’d win her back, I wanted to break his jaw. And now, these damn fucking reporters were on my ass again.
More photos were snapped. The whirring sound cracked through my fraying facade of calm. Anger surged. Christ, I was just so sick of their shit. I spun around. “Don’t you fucking—”
“Max, no!” Logan yanked me back, her hand tightened around mine, and in a fast trot, she took off, losing the harassing reporter and her equipment-toting sidekick in the crowds. She made for the thicket of trees edging the grounds, dragging me with her.
Several minutes later, as we navigated our way through the woods, I said, “I’m sorry.”
“That you wanted to punch the photographer?” she panted, jumping over a fallen branch. “I wanted to hit them myself for those damn invasive questions and their dogged persistence. Is it always like that? They pop up everywhere?”
“Yeah. Unlike my cousin, I sell more papers,” I said, tone flat. Then I glanced around at the thickly wooded area, the sounds and shrieks from the fair muted. “Where are we going?”
“To the parking lot, and home, so those asshats won’t come after you.”
At her anger, mine faded. I stopped, forcing her to halt. I tucked a few paint-splattered green strands behind her ear. “I’m fine. I’ve been handling the media for a while. But we aren’t leaving because of them. Don’t you want to pack up your stuff?”
She looked behind me to the fair. “You’re right. You go home. Mom should be there. I’ll get a lift back.”
Instantly, that set me off. Blood pounded in my head. The douche ex would see another opportunity to try and worm his way back again. “No.”
Whatever she saw in my expression, which right then was my need to punch her ex in the face, she sighed and nodded. “Okay, fine. Let’s go get my things.”
***
Much later, shower over, I dried off, still reeling over how Logan had managed to stop me from breaking the cameraman’s face and avoiding another huge scandal that would have inevitably followed me.
In my experience, most girls in that situation made use of the exposure for their five minutes of fame, but not Logan. This prickly girl, who’d captured my attention from the moment I’d laid eyes on her in the laundromat, was slowly claiming pieces of me.
After changing into clean clothes, I walked into the brightly lit kitchen. Logan wasn’t down yet. But Maya Logan and the brown-haired woman, Mary, Mr. L.’s sister, whom I had met earlier at the fair, were there, filling two huge thermoses with coffee.
Mrs. L, seated at the table, glanced up and smiled. Despite her dusky-gold coloring, she appeared wan. Tired.
“Are you okay?” I asked her.
She waved it aside. “I’m fine. Would you like something to eat? I’m making sandwiches for Ray and her friends. Most go back to watch the fireworks later in the n…night and have picnics there. I’ve ham and cheese, and roast beef with mustard, cheese, and tomato. Or would you prefer something else?”
“Roast beef is great. Thanks.”
She set two sandwiches on a plate and slid it to me. As I ate, I glanced at the door and wondered how long Logan would be.
“Did the henna set?” Mrs. L’s voice drew me back.
“Yeah—I mean, yes, it did.” I held out my arm to show her. At the red imprint of Logan’s name on my skin, she laughed. After all, she’d dried it for me. “You do realize that could cause some raised brows? Having a boy’s name on your arm?”
I found myself smiling. “It’s Logan’s whacked sense of humor. I like that about her.”
Mary peeked at my arm and chuckled, too. “It’s good to see her mischievous spirit back. Devyn destroyed too much of her.”
Yeah, I still wanted to hurt him for that.
Despite Mrs. L’s soft expression and smiles, her stern, light brown eyes met mine, making me a little wary. “My daughter likes you a lot. Don’t hurt her.”
“I can safely promise you that,” I told her. There’d never been a girl like Logan, one who made me smile just by being. Who made me forget the shit in my life. She didn’t give a damn who my family was—even if, according to her, she was with me only for the sex.
Sean Logan walked in, his gaze shifting between us. “Are we all done?”
Mrs. L nodded, a smile lighting her pale features. “The basket’s ready. Just a few things…”
I took the drink Mary held out. “Thanks.”
As I drank some of the apple juice, my cell rang. I set the glass down and retrieved the device from my pocket and wished I hadn’t looked. Usually, I’d ignore my father’s calls, but with Logan’s parents’ watching me, I forced a polite smile. “Excuse me, I have to take this.”
Outside in the shadowy evening where the night insects started their disharmonious chorus, I answered.
My father’s cold tone cut right in. “Two weeks, and you’re back in the media?” My jaw snapped shut. I counted to ten as he continued speaking. “And you’re living with a girl—a window dresser? Is this another attempt to draw my attention?”
Damn fucking reporters worked fast. I had to warn Logan.
“Very well, you have it. Get rid of your latest distraction…”
I blocked him out and stared into the gathering darkness, then up at the stars twinkling above. How had I ended up in this hell? The one person who truly meant more to me, who pulled me out of the nightmare I’d endured since that night over four years ago, who made me feel like I mattered… And my father expected me to leave?
“…your trust fund will be accessible soon…” I caught the last bit of his lecture.
Did he really think that was all that mattered to me? Did he imagine me lazing in some fancy holiday resort drinking beer in South America? It had been the last thing on my mind when I left. I just wanted away from civilization. From a place that continuously fed my inner demons—a place where I was on a direct path to no return. I’d stayed in a village with people who had no idea who I was. A volunteer working my fingers to the bone as a handyman, fixing up buildings after the ravages of a storm had hit the small settlements there. I’d made mistakes. I learned.
“…get a decent place to live and finish your business degree since your music one’s over. I don’t care how long it takes you. At the end of it, I want you at the bank.”
“Is that all?”
“Dammit, Maxwell!”
“If you expect me to walk away from her, not happening,” I ended the call. Only when the pain in my cheek intensified did I realize just how hard I’d clenched my jaw, surprised I hadn’t cracked my teeth. Christ, I rubbed my hands over my face, a low throbbing starting behind my eyelids. Any encounter with my old man always left me a little unhinged.
A familiar floral fragrance with the hint of sweet apples teased my nose.
“Hey,” Logan said softly.
I shook my head. Doubted I could hold a decent conversation with the anger churning within. I felt like a corked geyser.
When I didn’t turn, she came around and stopped in front of me, her amber eyes searching mine. Then she simply slipped her arms around my waist and hugged me. She didn’t ask what was wrong, she simply held me.
I squeezed my eyes tight, finding it hard to swallow past the tightness in my throat.
After a moment, she shifted, and her hand touched my face. I didn’t care what she was doing as long as she was holding me. She tucked something cool into my ear and slipped her arms around me once more. In the quiet night with chirping insects, soft music filled my head, and I just held her, needing to breathe again, to find my balance…and then I realized she understood.
My life was a loaded gun, but I wasn’t alone. She’d saved me from this storm of destruction that usually took hold of me in moments like these. In her arms, I’d found my safety net. My chest expanded with the emotions churning through me.
And as if my feet had a mind of their own, I found myself moving to the music. My arms tightened around her. I didn’t
have to look up to see the stars because the oppressive night had suddenly dissipated. All I saw and felt was her. Cupping her face in my palms, I kissed her.
Removing our earpieces, I switched off the music and led her to the small patio. A wrought-iron garden table and chairs stood opposite a couch swing, padded in dark blue.
She sat on the swing. I asked, “Why haven’t you insisted I tell you everything?”
“Because you will when you’re ready. I know what it’s like to have people either hound you or offer false sympathies just so they can crow at how miserable you are to others.”
I leaned against the edge of the table and stared at my boots. In my experience, it was the first thing people did. Some would ask outright, others would slyly sneak it into a conversation.
“I’m sorry about what happened at the fair,” she said quietly. “And for the call that put the pain in your eyes.”
Pain? A tic started in my jaw. It was anger that ate at me. I stared at the cell still in my hand. “It was my father.”
She didn’t say anything. Waited.
“He wants me back, to finish my degree and join the company.”
“What are you going to do?”
I looked up. “Finish my music degree, if they let me in again.”
She nodded, chewed her bottom lip. Obviously, something was bothering her. “What?”
“Are you doing this to spite him, or is it something you truly want, Max?”
Whatever I had expected, this wasn’t it. She was siding with him? Clamping back a scowl, I bit out, “I’m doing exactly what I want!”
She blinked at my harsh tone. Why the hell was I yelling at her? All this mess was my fault. She studied me quietly, making me feel as if she could see through me—see all my sins. I blew out a rough breath. “I’m sorry I snapped, Logan. But I have to play the finals.”
After an endless second, she nodded and pushed up from the swing. “Okay, then. C’mon.”
Slipping my cell into my back pocket, I twisted to watch her as she headed for the kitchen door. “Where are you going?”
Breathless (Players to Men) Page 17