Expel

by Addison Moore

  “Great,” Gage arches his brows like he knows exactly who they are.

  Obviously Logan is the lion and Marshall is the prehistoric demon-looking creature. Gage gets up to make room for the next boyfriend awaiting the relational guillotine. Not that our session with Em was punctuated with a blade to the neck. Gage and I are impervious to failing. He has nothing in the world to worry about.

  “Thanks Emily,” I whisper. “Can you save these for me?”

  She gives a knowing nod before flicking me away.

  Well, that didn’t go so bad. Didn’t go so great, either.

  A shoulder bumps me from behind. I twist to get through the merging crowd only to find myself face to face with my second least favorite Kragger, Holden’s not so long lost fraternal twin.

  Crap.

  “Guess who’s got regular scheduled visits with a social worker?” Pierce leans his face into mine. His hot beer breath rakes against my cheek. “And a lawyer who tells me things don’t look too damn good for me.” He spits as he grates the words out.

  Nat steps between us, all beady eyed and pissed like she might kick my ass if the situation warrants it. Her curls are embalmed in dried out hair gel, her eyes outlined like an obscene raccoon.

  “I’m not in control of the state,” I say. “I don’t decide who they go after.” Or apparently take down. Personally I’m rooting for the state. Even if Pierce didn’t knock a dozen people unconscious, or spin Nat in the air like a pizza that day last fall, doesn’t mean he should have gnawed on my neck in the cemetery or any other venue he chose to suck my body dry. Besides, if he’s not incarcerated soon, I might have to do something drastic the next time he tries siphoning the lifeblood from my veins, like kill him.

  Pierce leans over Nat. The two of them glower at me as if I had just set their children on fire.

  “I’m in control of me.” Pierce blasts his ethanol in my direction as he continues his verbal badgering. “I decide who I go after.” He thrusts a piece of paper at me, and knocks me off balance.

  Gage pushes him back a good ten feet without hesitating.

  Nat runs over to help scoop Pierce off the floor as the crowd filters between us.

  I unfurl the note. Cease and desist. Legal action against my parents? This is horrible.

  I stuff the letter into my purse.

  “Let’s go outside,” I spin us towards the exit in the event Pierce feels obligated to return the favor, only, for Gage, a shove like that might actually crack his hip in half and give him pneumonia. I might have to adjust my to-do list and move killing Pierce up to a priority position. There is no way in hell I’m going to let Gage end up in the hospital again.

  I can see Logan from the patio helping some girl take off her sweater before pushing her into the pool. He’s no lion—he’s human all right.

  A hot roll of nausea explodes in my stomach.

  “I can’t stand this,” I say, ushering us into the yard.

  I’m going to end Logan’s hunger for attention. Smack some sense into him, make him aware of the fashion felonies he’s been committing, not to mention the ones he’s about to perpetrate with his flesh.

  “You should probably let Logan do his thing,” Gage says, pulling me back. The words escape from him slow, like a tire losing air. “Let him go.”

  “You’re right.” I place my hands on my hips, but really I don’t want Gage to hear me admit that I could never let go of Logan, let alone watch him do his ludicrous thing especially when that thing involves publicly ogling topless girls from East.

  The damp cool of night blows against me as I watch Logan’s hands race around the bare waist of Carson Armistead, her hips sway seductively in rhythm to the music.

  Jealousy rips through me like a fire line.

  How the hell am I ever going to cut Logan Oliver out of my heart if my heart keeps breaking at the thought of him with someone else?

  Chapter 17

  Strike Three

  Chloe stops me cold on my way to push Logan into the pool. “I bet it guts you like a rusted knife knowing that Logan has recovered from his severe case of Skyla fever,” she hacks out each word with glee.

  I choose to ignore her, a tactic I should employ more often when dealing with Chloe in general.

  Heated or not, he needs to log some serious time away from the push up bra brigade storming in his direction. Obviously his brain is in malfunction mode. That blue toxin Ezrina dipped him in eroded all of his good character, his sound judgment, and, yes, his slight obsession for me seems to have dissipated as well.

  Logan jumps up on an ice chest and cups his hands around his mouth. “The line starts here!” He jumps down and twirls the next recipient of his attention like a ballerina.

  My mouth falls open as he gyrates his hips over hers inspiring her to do the same. An entire row of girls magically crop up to have their clothes peeled from their bodies by Logan himself. It’s sickening.

  “This isn’t Logan. This isn’t what he’s about.” I say, trying to push my way around Chloe. It’s high time someone remind him he doesn’t need to assert himself as the head of the stripping committee.

  “Face it,” she seethes, “the green eyed monster has you by the balls Messenger. You can’t stand the fact he’s moved on—that the Skyla-shaped scales have fallen from his eyes, and he can see you for the loser you really are.”

  “I’ve got a license to thrill,” Logan pushes into a scantily clad Carson, and holy freaking shit—they are totally rutting. Logan’s douchebag jeans are about ready to slide right off his person. I can’t stand to look so I bury my face in Gage’s chest.

  “Some people’s kids,” he says, not even flinching at Logan’s poor impersonation of an officer of the law, which is proof positive he’s boarded a train for imbecile-ville.

  “He’s gone insane,” I say, shaking. “Do something.”

  “This is exactly what he was like before you came to Paragon. Nothing’s changed.” Gage assures me.

  “He’s over you,” Chloe laughs. “Hurt much?”

  I look past her shoulder as he gets on his knees and unbuckles Carson’s pants. He pulls them down with one swift tug and bites into the panties riding high on her hip.

  “That’s it.” I push past Chloe, muddle my way through a throng of overeager girls filling the interim and finally break through the crowd.

  I yank him off his knees by the back of his shirt.

  “Whoa,” Logan throws his hands in the air, “looks like Skyla, here, wants her turn right now.”

  He reaches for my waist and peels off my sweater quick as a magician. Before I know it, I’m standing there in my black lace bra in front of East and West, a gloating Chloe, and a very pissed off Gage.

  “Stop,” I scream like a siren before snatching back my top.

  Gage knocks him backwards a few good feet. “What the hell has gotten into you?”

  I like this side of Gage—kick some ass first, ask questions later.

  “You trying to start a war, dude?” Logan glares at him, gone is the spirited playboy who’s been arousing girls poolside for the past half hour.

  “I’m trying to figure out what the hell to do with you,” Gage counters.

  Logan steps into Gage, digs a finger in his chest. “You can start by getting the fuck out of my way.”

  “You know,” Gage winces into his annoyance, “you haven’t even bothered with a hello since you’ve been back.”

  “Oh, I haven’t?” Logan makes light of the fact. “You poor, fragile thing. Have you been spurned by my lack of attention? Please, allow me to give you a physical token of my undying devotion.” Logan backs up his arm and wallops Gage right in the stomach, sends him skidding across the sopping wet cement.

  I let out a viral scream. “He had internal injuries!” I shout into Logan’s face.

  I use all of my Celestra induced anger and send him sailing into the deep end of the pool. Logan lies at the bottom of the plaster like a crime scene cutout before resurf
acing with a roar.

  “Gage!” I push Chloe off his person. “Are you OK? You want me to get your dad? Take you to the hospital?”

  “I’m fine,” he squints as he rises. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I hand Gage his crutch, and we head out the side gate.

  “That’s it. He’s done. No more Logan in my life,” I announce as we hobble down the driveway. “First he dresses like he’s auditioning for the part of doofus on a reality show, not to mention the graffiti he’s inflicted on his poor truck—then he hits you? Obviously, he’s undergone a serious head injury. You can’t tell me Logan was always a grade A asshole.”

  Gage pauses to catch his breath before we cross the street.

  “No, not usually. But, then again, he’s been pretty messed up after breaking up with you. You’re his first serious heartache.” Gage holds his sympathy out like a chalice. He swills it around, beckoning me to take just one sip. “Sometimes heartbreak really screws with your head. Imagine if we were with different people, wouldn’t you hate that?”

  Chloe rips through my mind. “God, yes.” Truth is, I’d more than wig out. “Actually that’s an unbearable thought.” I hold my breath until I can effectively chase the idea out of my head. It’s too painful to consider a world without Gage. But, then again, a world with this new version of Logan isn’t so fantastic either.

  “You’ll get used to it.” Gage squeezes my hand and dispenses a shy smile. “Time will heal that ache, Skyla, but you have to set him free. Let him do what he has to do,” he depresses a sigh. “Who knows? You might even want him to see other girls—root for him.”

  My blood boils at the thought. It’s seriously doubtful I’ll be rooting for Logan to get in another girl’s pants, although Gage does paint a rosy picture of this fictitious future.

  “I guess anything’s possible,” I placate him with a short-lived smile.

  “You wanna go inside and watch a movie?” There’s a natural seduction about him. I’d watch him brush his teeth if he asked me to. “I sorta gotta lay down.”

  “I’d love to lay down with you.”

  “Lamest Valentine’s ever, right?” His dimples ignite without a smile.

  “Lying next to my boyfriend and watching a movie, and said boyfriend happens to be you?” I slip my arm around his waist. “Best Valentine’s ever, I swear.”

  I pull him into a kiss as fierce and wide as the ocean.

  Everything in me aches for Gage.

  “Let’s go inside,” I bite down on the implications.

  “Let’s.”

  ***

  It took over an hour for us to break into the house. His key broke off in the lock and I had to climb through the laundry room window that was half as narrow as it needed to be, getting myself securely lodged in opening. Finally Emma and Barron came home and used their key to the backdoor to get inside. They helped pluck me free after rubbing my hips down with lard from a red box Emma found lurking in the back of the fridge. Lard.

  I change into a pair of his sweats and gingerly crawl up next to him, nestled in the center of the bed. The movie begins. A soft grey flicker ignites the room as I twirl my fingers through his slick, glossy hair. Gage is exhausted, already sleeping gently at my side. The movie plays on but I watch Gage, so beautifully alive. I couldn’t breathe when I thought he might have died. I can’t imagine life without him. And here he is. I place my head over his chest, relax over him and pretend ten years have passed, that we’re long married and Gage is my husband.

  I wake to find another hour has slipped by. I lean in and give a careful kiss to his cheek and tiptoe out quietly.

  Across the street, the party is still pumping. A pink glow illuminates unnaturally from the back of Ellis’ house and it prompts me to head straight over to see what in the hell is up now. Logan has probably ruptured a dozen implants fondling all the mammary glands that flung themselves at him. I bet that’s liquid oozing out of at least a dozen silicone prosthetics, clouding up the water.

  I bump into Michelle who’s on her way out with some boy, and to my horror the boy in question is the breast man himself, Logan.

  “Where are you two going?” I ask curt.

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Michelle points up at her bare neck, “took your advice.”

  Marshall’s rose—it’s missing. I give a private smile.

  “Feel better?”

  “Tons,” she leans in. “Best part—I’ve got Logan back,” she marvels.

  “Yeah, well, about that,” I snatch him forward. “I’ve got to finish something first.”

  Chapter 18

  Right Here, Right Now

  OK—so, pissing off Michelle Miller on the first day of our questionable road to friendship probably wasn’t the brightest idea given her sanity is in the process of being restored. But, nevertheless, I’m with Logan and we’re driving off into the blank of night so I can fill him in on all sorts of facts about himself, such as, contrary to his behavior, he really is not an ass.

  “Where should we go?” I ask. I’ve been driving for a half hour solid, and he looks as though he’s about to nod off.

  Who would have guessed that I’d put both Oliver boys to sleep on Valentine’s Day?

  “Falls.” He points over to the backlit sign, so I pull into the dirt lot overlooking the lake.

  A smattering of rowboats are strewn about the glittering pool of black. An entire constellation of stars speckle the water with their hazy reflection, quelling the sound of the falls with an auspicious calm. Couples sit knee to knee, others with arms and legs lassoed around one another, lips pulled together as one. The entire setting is undeniably romantic.

  “Let’s go.” He ejects himself from the car before I can properly protest. It was going to be one thing to sit in the car and discuss Logan’s prick-like behavior, it’s entirely another hopping in a boat with him, depending on the warmth of his body to keep me from freezing to death.

  I’m guessing Gage will be less than impressed to learn where his girlfriend has managed to land herself on this night in particular and with the perpetrator who assaulted him just hours before.

  I chase after him in the virginal night, a puff of fog dances over the moist ground as my feet disrupt the mist that hugs the soil. My shoes snag on crushed reeds, my ankles turn on the unsteady landscape, retarding my ability to keep up with him. It’s too dark to navigate the terrain. It feels as though I’m about to fall down a very steep staircase with every move I make.

  “Wait!” I shout. My voice echoes off the embankment, disrupting the sentimental atmosphere people are busy etching into their memories. Girls are like that—cataloging holidays, anniversaries, birthdays—all relationship milestones deep into our memory bank. We could tell you exactly how we spent most of those occasions down to what we were wearing. We stain our conscious with the vivid details of sight and sound and scent, even what the goofball with us had on and whether or not he looked like a moron.

  The sound of rushing water intensifies as I draw closer to the lake. It blankets over my voice and tempers my anxious shouts for Logan to slow down.

  “Logan!” I catch up to him at the waterline, panting from the sprint.

  He plucks a boat from out of a marsh and slips it onto shore. Rust rises up on the paltry vessel’s side, a thick blanket of algae covers the bottom. Makes it look like a living thing, the leaf of some exotic plant you could crawl inside and float in.

  “Come on, I’ll row us out.”

  I don’t think twice, just hop in like a trained circus poodle. I’m exhausted, and at this point, the thought of taking a seat sounds far too inviting to pass up. I’d sit on a Fem’s lap if the situation presented itself.

  The stars shine in all their glory through an ethereal haze that illuminates a rich shade of blue, and I wonder if this has anything to do with the Counts but shrug it off because it’s Valentine’s and magical things abound on this celebratory commercialized span of twenty-four hours.

 
Logan rows us off to the quiet end of the lake, away from the other couples seeking privacy behind the falls. Brielle and Drake are somewhere out there, or Drake and Emily, either way, Drake’s car is in the lot.

  “You really saved my ass.” He expels a sigh, and an entire smoky-river emits from his nostrils.

  “About that—” I start.

  He pulls me forward until I’m sitting on his lap.

  “Um, excuse me?” I try to rise, but he warms my arms with his hands, tempers my shivers by leaning me close to his chest.

  The romantic implications of it all hit me, and suddenly I feel a tremendous amount of guilt for boarding this vessel. Of course, I’ll have to confess all this to Gage come morning. I’m sure that won’t be stress inducing in any way to hear his girlfriend spent ode-to-couples day sitting in her ex-boyfriend’s lap.

  I hop off his knees and land next to him, trying to hide the fact I can’t control my shiver. I’m here to help him, not help myself to him.

  I should feel heroic over the fact I’m saving Logan from an impending, and rather permanent, douchebag status that he’s bravely frontiering. This is high school after all, once you determine your social standing, it sticks with you for life. Ten years from now when everyone’s waxing nostalgic for all things West Paragon I’d hate for people to think of Logan, and the next thing that rolls off their tongue to be, he was such a douchebag. It’s like a prison sentence he’d wear for life.

  “OK,” I roll my head back onto his shoulder and he lands a soft kiss on each of my eyelids. “What was that for?” I panic.

  Confession—the fact Logan peppered my face with kisses is going to guarantee a setback for both Gage’s health and the health of our relationship.

  “I’m showing you my appreciation,” Logan tries seducing me with his citrine bedroom eyes. “I’m alive—breathing right now, all because of you. I hate dead. Being dead sucks.”

  “Yeah, we’ve already determined that, and, by the way, you’re welcome. Don’t feel like you owe me anything because you’ve done so much for me with the Mustang, the insurance, the job—bail. Let’s call it even.” OK, so I should probably offer to pay him back, but that’s not an acute issue at the moment.