His Plaything

by Ava Jackson

  I gave my name and Logan's to the hostess, and she guided me out to the balcony. Not far below us, black waves sparkled in the moonlight, their quiet, soothing rush filling the air. I spotted Logan at a table near the railing, with a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket. He was just sitting down—and he stood up again at the sight of me, eyes widening.

  “Your waiter will be with your shortly,” the hostess said with a smile. “Please enjoy your evening.”

  As she bustled back to her station at the entrance, Logan pulled out my chair. I settled into the low, plush seat and he sat back down.

  “I hope you don't mind that I went ahead and ordered drinks.” He waved in the general direction of the champagne. “You look … beautiful, by the way.”

  “You don't look so bad yourself,” I replied with a teasing smile. It was true; on top of his natural boy-next-door cuteness, Logan clearly had fashion sense. A charcoal pinstripe suit, a dove-gray shirt, and a gunmetal-blue houndstooth tie. Complementary without being boring. His good taste in clothes definitely added another few points to his growing total.

  While I looked over the menu, Logan poured us each a flute of champagne. Eventually we decided on a caprese salad to share, veal marsala with porcini mushrooms for him, and duck confit with blackberry sauce for me.

  “So,” he said after we had ordered, “I know this is your last semester at UCSD, but that's pretty much it. Tell me about yourself?”

  “Uh … well, I…” Family was an obvious icebreaker topic. But even though I had shared so much with Nixon before, I didn't really want to talk about cancer and dead moms and hysterectomies on a first date. For some weird reason, I just wasn't as comfortable with Logan as I'd been with my douchebag stepbrother. I guess even my gut instinct isn't immune to mistakes. Huge, terrible mistakes…

  The caprese salad landed in front of us. I realized that I was zoning out and forced my focus back to the conversation. “Well, I'm a fashion design major, and eventually I want to blog about beauty advice and fashion-related news. Last year I studied abroad in London.” School and work were usually safe topics.

  “Did you grow up around here?”

  “Yep, in Irvine. Dad actually met Cynthia—that's my stepmother—at an In-N-Out Burger.” I laughed a little. “It's just about the most 'southern California' story I've ever heard.”

  I had left Mom's name conspicuously absent, and Logan was graceful enough not to mention it. “Was it an office romance? Did their eyes meet over the deep-fat fryer?” he asked instead, lips quirked.

  “No, but you know, I'm … not totally sure what Dad does do.” I laughed again. “His company makes semiconductors. He has some kind of obscure management position.”

  The waiter chose that moment to reappear and set down two steaming dinner plates. I took the opportunity to change topics. “So what about you?” I asked, raising a tender forkful of duck to my lips. “Have you always been in the military?”

  “Pretty much. I dropped out of college and joined the Navy when I was twenty, then became a SEAL when I was twenty-two.” He fell silent as he started cutting up his veal. Just when I thought I'd made a mistake by bringing up his job, Logan continued, “I'm thinking of quitting in the next year or two. I figure I've had a good ride.”

  “Then why do you want to stop now?”

  He gave a quiet huff of a chuckle. “Well … this isn't a great first-date topic, but since you asked… I want to settle down soon. Wife, kids, whole nine yards. And I like the SEAL life just fine, but it's no place for a family man.”

  Wow, I sure wasn't expecting that answer. But it makes sense. I nodded slowly. “I think I understand. You're away from home all the time, and your schedule is impossible to predict. And if you had a family, the kind of risks you take would really be hard to deal with.” Yet another reason to be glad that whatever I’d had with Nixon was over. It would have been terrible to fall in love with him and then watch him leave on dangerous missions all the time. Sitting at home like one of the housewives in a World War Two documentary, lonely and anxious, praying that the next letter I received wouldn't begin with: We regret to inform you…

  My throat tightened at the thought of Nixon dying thousands of miles away from me, and I had to stop myself from getting too worked up. Of course, death was always a terrible tragedy, even for an asshole like Nixon. But I wasn't the one who had chosen to join the military. If he wanted to tromp around in exotic hellholes and get shot at, then he could go right ahead. I shouldn't let anything he did break my heart.

  Too late, I realized that Logan had just said something, and I'd been busy spacing out about Nixon. Again.

  “My father did that,” Logan was in the middle of replying. “I'm proud of him now, but when I was a kid, I couldn't care less about honors and ops. I just hated not being able to play with my dad.” He stared into his champagne for a moment, then took a sip. “So I really want to be part of my kids' lives.”

  “Right, I agree. What's the point of marrying somebody and having kids if you never get to see any of them? But … ” I tried and failed to picture this burly tank of a man selling used cars or sitting in a cubicle farm. “What would you do instead?”

  “The Navy has already approached me for an instructor position. My rank would go up, which means better pay, and I could apply for a permanent post wherever I wanted to live.” He paused. “Maybe near San Diego.”

  Was I imagining that look? I tried not to overanalyze the San Diego comment. Even as a vague possibility, planning his career around me would be truly weird to bring up on a first date. It was probably a coincidence. His family lived nearby, or he ironically enjoyed Christmas lights on palm trees, or he wanted to stay near his friends—as difficult as it was to believe that anybody could like Nixon that much.

  Goddammit, I'm thinking about him again! I forced myself to smile at Logan. “I guess you've got things all planned out, huh?” Taking a chance, I reached out one hand to rest my fingers on his. “I think it's good that you know what you want.”

  Logan blinked, then smiled and rubbed his thumb over my knuckles. “Nothing wrong with not knowing, is there?”

  “Well, no, and it's … refreshing. To hear a guy under thirty talk about his future like that, I mean.” Although it seems like he's in a pretty big hurry about settling down. Even though I found Logan's serious, domestic side endearing, it was still a little too intense for my life right now. If I wanted to survive in fashion journalism, I had a ton of work ahead of me.

  But hey, so what if we had one measly incompatibility? No big deal. It wasn't like I was marrying him at the stroke of midnight. This date was just for fun. Trying each other on to see if we fit. And it really was great to finally interact with an adult man—instead of an overgrown boy who just wanted to drink and screw and blow things up, as if his life were all a game.

  Almost sheepishly, Logan pulled his hand away to rub the back of his neck. “So you said you studied abroad? What was that like?”

  “London was amazing,” I sighed. “I got to take classes with all these famous professors, and I even went to a few Fashion Week events… ”

  We went on talking about my schoolwork and aspirations as we finished our main course. Unsurprisingly, Logan didn't know much about fashion. But he paid close attention to whatever I said, responding every so often with well-considered questions and remarks, encouraging me toward greater detail. In the face of his seemingly genuine interest, it was impossible to worry that I was talking about myself too much. I had probably never been on a nicer date.

  But “nice” was all it was. I felt none of the spark—the intense heat—that hummed between Nixon and I whenever our eyes met. And the harder I tried to concentrate on Logan, the more I found my mind wandering to Nixon. The man sitting across our candlelit seaside table, with his mild smile and inviting hazel eyes, felt like nothing more than a brother—all while I hungered for my stepbrother. What was wrong with me? How fucked up could I get?

  My distrac
ted frustration grew until I had to stand up from my seat. “Could you hold that thought?” I asked, having only a vague idea what we'd been talking about. “I'll be right back. I need to visit the ladies’ room.” Too frazzled to wait for Logan's reply, I hurried back into the restaurant.

  Thankfully, there was no one else in the restroom. Hands braced on either side of the black marble sink, I stared into the mirror, trying my best to compose myself. I had to breathe. Get a grip. Admire how put together I looked, regain my rightful pride, remember what Nixon had done and why I was here with Logan and how much better I was than that lying bastard. But no matter how many times I silently repeated I am a motherfucking goddess, it didn't stick. Beneath this glamorous dress, this painstakingly made-up face, I knew there was nothing right now but a sad, confused little girl.

  Apparently, though, all that pretty bullshit was still enough to fool men. Back at the apartment, Nixon had stopped in his tracks and gazed at me like water in the desert. Well, that was just too damn bad for him. I was unattainable now. If he wanted me, he should've thought of that before he lied to me about Navy business and met up for a weekend fucking Pam in Vegas.

  But … dammit, in that one tiny moment, I had wanted Nixon right back. And I hated us both for it. We'd known each other for less than a month, and he had already left his greasy little fingerprints all over my heart. Even when I was at a romantic dinner in a beautiful five-star restaurant with another man, I couldn't stop thinking about that prick. What more did I want, for Christ's sake? Logan was fucking perfect. Handsome, warmhearted, thoughtful, mature. He had his life together. Clearly, though, I couldn't say the same for myself. Here I was, hiding in the bathroom like a high schooler whose boyfriend had dumped her right before prom.

  Okay, so I was totally pathetic. Fine. I could deal with that. I had to get back out there before Logan thought I was having some humiliating medical problem. And to do that, I had to remind myself why I'd come on this date in the first place.

  Needing fire, needing to not care, needing to re-ignite my engines and burn away this poison, I reached for an image that would fill me with rage. But all I could think of—Nixon laughing with Pam about how they'd fooled me, him kissing her neck in their gaudy Vegas hotel room, squeezing her tits, so much bigger than mine, closing his eyes with a moan as he slid inside her—just made me feel like throwing up. All bile, no relief. Maybe this sickness would fade with time, but right now, it hurt so much I couldn't stand it.

  They probably christened every flat surface of their tacky hotel room, I thought, and blinked back tears. I gritted my teeth and hurried back out into the restaurant, almost slamming the bathroom door open.

  As I approached our table, Logan asked, “You interested in dessert? I had my eye on the baked figs with honey.”

  I swallowed hard, willing my voice not to crack. “That sounds good, but … I'm not feeling so hot all of a sudden. Can we call it an early night?”

  His eyebrows peaked and I braced for him to ask what was wrong. But all he said was, “Oh, sure. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. Let me get the check.”

  After he flagged down our waiter and paid, Logan held my elbow as we walked outside to the valet station. His gentlemanly behavior just made me hate myself even more. He didn't sign up for any of my emotional baggage. He was being so sweet to me, and I couldn't even feel happy about it, and he had no clue why. This was so unfair to everyone involved—and it was all Nixon's fault.

  When we reached his forest-green Dodge truck, Logan paused, glancing at me. “You good to drive? Or you want a ride?”

  “Nah, I'm fine.” That was a blatant lie, but I didn't want company right now. I had too much thinking to do. And possibly crying. I looked down at my burgundy-painted toes. “Sorry about this. I had a really nice time, I just…”

  “Hey, don't worry about it. Shit happens.” Logan leaned over me slightly, as if he wanted to kiss me on the forehead, then hesitated and squeezed my hand instead. “Feel better, okay?”

  “I'll try,” I said, unable to return his smile.

  Chapter 17

  Nixon

  As ragged as the past two days had run me, my thoughts were too chaotic for any chance of sleep. I lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, my ears perking at every random noise that might have been Avery returning home. My anger at Logan had long since faded into a strange, dark sourness. Actually, I was more mad at myself than anything. I had never once thought about taking Avery out, showing her the town, wooing her like Logan was doing right now. I'd just skipped straight to the “nice shoes, wanna fuck?” stage.

  In my defense, the ultra-direct approach had always worked well for me. Maybe a little too well—I'd easily scored pussy whenever I needed it, so I hadn't bothered getting much practice at dinner-and-a-movie dating. Up until a few hours ago, I'd assumed that Avery didn't mind our … unconventional courtship. But now, I wasn't so sure.

  Was that why she was pissed? Did she feel unappreciated or cheated or something? Did she think I'd used her for sex without offering any romance in return? Unease had started building deep in my chest. It was that falling-yet-frozen sensation of imminent disaster: a hiss of air bubbles from my SCUBA tank's hose, a twig snapping in the shadowy trees behind me, a teammate whispering oh, fuck! right before all hell broke loose. The moment when a man had to toss aside all his obsolete plans and rise to the occasion.

  I couldn't tell whether my moment with Avery had already passed or still lay ahead. If I got a chance to rescue our relationship, I couldn't afford to let it slip through my fingers. But what if I didn't see it coming? Would I even recognize it if I did? And…

  Had I imagined that click? I sat up to listen. No, the front door's deadbolt was definitely sliding open. But it was only a quarter after nine. Why was Avery back so early? Evidently her date hadn't gone well. I felt something like optimism, which immediately turned to guilt for hoping that she'd had a shitty evening.

  High heels clacked in the kitchen for a second, then muted to quick, quiet thumps through the living room and hallway. Before I could get up, the guestroom door slammed. Straight to bed, huh? Apparently she still wasn't interested in talking to me.

  I rested my forehead against the doorframe, letting the angled wood bite between my eyebrows. I wanted to punch something until my knuckles bled. Whatever was going on with Avery, it was slowly but surely driving me nuts. I couldn't understand this strange tension that had sprung up between us, and the not-knowing was almost as bad as the distance itself. If she would just communicate for two fucking minutes, I was sure that we could bring things back to how they used to be. I could find out what had driven her to Logan and fix it. I was willing to do anything, but until I knew what to do, I was stuck in neutral.

  Still restless, I spent the rest of the night struggling to sleep, painfully aware of Avery's presence just a few feet down the hall.

  When the first pale glow of dawn showed through the blinds, I gave up on bed and started to get dressed. Without bothering with breakfast or a shower, I went downstairs to the condo parking lot. I could have walked to Logan's townhouse in less than half an hour—it was just down the side road that ran along the beach where we jogged every Saturday—but my patience was too shredded for that kind of delay. I wanted answers now, and if I couldn't talk to Avery, I’d have to get them from Logan. Hopefully lover-boy could explain what the fuck was going on with her.

  In five minutes I was parked at the curb and knocking loudly on his door. “Morning,” I said as soon as he opened up.

  Logan blinked. He was probably surprised to see me like this at the crack of dawn. But his only response was, “Oh, hey. I was just making some coffee. Want some?”

  “That sounds great.”

  He stepped back to let me in, then closed the door as I sat down at his dining table. “No sugar and a little cream, right?”

  “Yep.”

  I didn't bring up why I had come yet—and he didn't ask. We just let the silence hang, unbroke
n except for the gurgling hiss of the coffee machine and Logan moving around in the kitchen, until he sat down across from me with two steaming mugs in hand.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking mine.

  Logan nodded a silent no prob. His gaze was cool, but I could read the question in it. Now that we were finally ready to talk, though … I wondered where to even start.

  Maybe I hadn't thought this little intel-gathering mission all the way through. I couldn't treat Logan like a partner, because debriefing him fully would just overcomplicate things. He didn't need to know that I liked Avery—more than liked her, if I wanted to be brutally honest with myself—or that we'd been fucking like rabbits for the past few weeks. I couldn't afford to get sidetracked by raised eyebrows or awkward questions right now. And, provided that we ever talked again, I didn't want Avery to skin me alive. She'd only recently gotten over being ashamed of our relationship, and now that she wanted nothing to do with me, it was way too hard to predict how she'd react to me blabbing our dirty laundry all over town.

  I needed to play it cool. So this couldn't be an open strategy meeting between friendlies. Instead, it was more like espionage. Fucking terrific. I love lying to my best friend.

  “So … I told you to check up on Avery while I was gone,” I said, trying to sound like nothing more than a concerned older brother. “I didn't think you'd date her.”

  Logan paused, mug halfway to his mouth. “Oh. Yeah.” He set it down again. “Don't worry about that.”

  “I'll worry about my family if I want.”

  My voice had come out harsher than I'd intended, but Logan didn't seem offended. “That's cool,” he said simply. In fact, his lips were quirked the tiniest bit. Did he think this was funny? I guess I was acting like kind of a jackass, but still. Wasn't there a whole section of the Bro Code about not messing with people's sisters?