Chaos and Control(14)

“Hey, Wren,” he says with that slow pronunciation of my name like when we were kids.

“Where on earth did you steal that uniform from?”

He grins crookedly. “I didn’t steal it.”

“You’re a cop?”

“Actually, I’m a deputy, but close enough.”

I shake my head and press my lips together.

“Look at you. Speechless,” he teases, leaning against the front counter like he owns the place. “Miracles do happen.”

“I just can’t wrap my head around Logan Sawyer, an officer of the law.”

“Like father, like son,” he says. There’s pride behind his words.

“So, are you using your position of authority to stalk me now?”

He lazily strolls down the first aisle, nothing but confidence in his steps. Like a puppy, I follow without being told.

“Nah, I just wanted to see you again. It’s been too long.”

He picks up a record and flips it over before dropping it back into the bin. I catch Preston watching us. He’s wearing that pouty scowl again. With his size and appearance, to the untrained eye, this face would appear menacing. I think it’s adorable.

“Well, you’ve seen me now.”

Sawyer walks to the end of the aisle and turns toward me. “I certainly have.” He picks up a framed, autographed photo of Elton John and makes a face at it. “But I want to see more of you. Is this real?”

I nod and follow him around the corner where he puts down the frame.

“Sawyer, you were never very good at asking for what you want. Out with it.”

He leans against the bin that holds Michael Jackson through Iggy Pop and crosses his arms and ankles. I see Preston make his way to the first row and pick up the album Sawyer looked at. He inspects it, flips it over, and puts it in its rightful place.

“Let’s have dinner tonight,” Sawyer says.

I walk past him and try to come up with reasons not to. “I don’t know. Don’t you think we’re old news?”

Sawyer follows me now. I take two steps for each one of his.

“We’ve got history, Wren. And history sometimes repeats itself.”

I stop and spin to face him. “Not this time. We were kids. We’re different people now. I’m different. I’m not Reverend Hart’s rebellious teenager anymore. And you’re not Prince Charming, sweeping me out of the tower for a night of debauchery and drunken sex.”

“Ouch,” Sawyer says, clutching his chest. “Is that all I was to you?”

I shake my head. “No. You know we were more than that. I just don’t think it’s something to revisit.”

“It’s just dinner between old friends,” he says. “Not another marriage proposal.”

I cringe at the reminder of that ill-fated proposal. I didn’t believe he was serious. Sawyer had just panicked when he saw that I was really leaving Crowley. Still, he hadn’t expected me to say no.

I look past his shoulder and see Preston holding the Elton John photo. He walks over to where it was originally and places it in the exact spot, facing the door. I smile at this, but it sends the wrong message to the wrong person.

“Great. You’ll go?” Sawyer asks.

“No, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

He steps to me and pushes the choppy bit of bangs off my forehead. “This hair,” he says. “Purple hair.”

“Lavender,” I correct.

There’s a crackling noise, and a woman’s voice comes over the radio on his belt. Sawyer cocks his head to the side, listening intently.

“I’ve got to go. But I’d love to know where you’ve been for the last three years. My number hasn’t changed. Call me.”

I nod and refuse to let the vivid memories of teenage Sawyer and me play out in my head. I hear the door chime as he leaves. Having abandoned my cell phone somewhere around Denver, I don’t tell him that I don’t remember his number, and I hate the insinuation that I would.

Preston makes his way over to me, his expression completely neutral. He doesn’t say a word, only reaches out and smooths down the front of my hair so that it lays like it had prior to Sawyer’s visit. It’s the first time he’s touched my skin, and I feel the weight of his intentional movements.

“Thanks,” I tell him.

He gives me a quick nod and moves to the front counter.

…

“Come to The Haystack,” I tell Preston as he flips over the open sign to closed. “I need a drink or six.”

He shakes his head and leans against the locked door.

“Why not?” I ask while inspecting my nails. My feet dangle over the edge of the counter.

Preston turns and walks toward me, stopping between my open knees. We are close, but not touching. I can feel the heat from his body, or maybe that’s just my need manifesting itself.

“I’m not like other guys,” he says. The words spill out quickly, like a confession burning his tongue.

“I know. That’s why I like you.”

“If you’re looking for normal…” His voice drifts off to nothing.

Preston’s face bears a heavy frown, and he’s avoiding my eyes. He shaved his beard this morning, and I’m intrigued by the strong jaw that lays beneath it. I want to run my fingers over that edge.