Crush(3)

I refused to let my thoughts go down that road.

Logan was different.

This was going to work out.

Pushing my issues and insecurities aside, I had to believe that we were going to make it. That Logan would be strong enough to fight his demons. That Logan was going to get through this and that I would be by his side to help him.

After all, it was just a note.

Words on a paper meant to scare him.

Meaningless—or so I hoped.

I was certain that after the initial shock, Logan would see it that way too.

I had to believe that. I just did.

Anyway, by all accounts, if the news was correct, Tommy was in jail and no longer a threat to us. To me. To Logan.

I pressed my lips together, keenly aware of the passage of time.

My attention went to the TV where Channel 7 news was still on. They were replaying the arrest. I turned the volume up. This time names were flashing across the bottom of the screen.

“More breaking news,” the TV correspondent announced. “Members of the powerful Flannigan crime family are among at least twenty-four people arrested tonight in a major drug raid. Details are sketchy, but a confirmed two million dollars in cocaine has been seized. Among those arrested tonight, the alleged head of the Irish Blue Hill Gang, Patrick Flannigan. Sources acknowledge some high-ranking members are still at large, but all efforts are being made to bring them in. If you have seen any of these men, call our hotline.”

I crossed my arms, fighting off the chill that had seeped into my bones. There, before my eyes, was a picture of Tommy Flannigan. I hadn’t known what he looked like before now, but I knew I’d never forget it. Those cold, brown eyes, the lifeless look on his face, the evil that was written all over him.

Knock. Knock.

I jumped, startled out of my own skin.

My heart started to race.

My pulse thundered.

Fear began to set in.

It wasn’t like me to be afraid.

I was strong.

I was resilient.

I’d been through a lot in my life and I’d come out on the other side.

Hardened.

Determined.

Immune.

What had changed?

“Elle, it’s me, open up.” His voice was husky, commanding.

Relief washed through me. “Logan!” I rushed to the door and threw it open.

In a flash, he was inside. Tall, hard, and imposing, the more-than-competent man locked the door behind him. As soon as he did, his eyes moved over me like he wasn’t certain I was really standing here before him, alive, unharmed, in one piece.

With a determined step, I wanted to reassure him, so I pressed myself against him and stroked my fingers through his beautiful hair. It was rumpled and sticking up everywhere and still, he was breathtaking. “Did you find him?”

He let out a long sigh. “No, not yet.”

The words not yet made me shiver. I pushed my fingers through his hair again. “His picture is on TV. They said he hasn’t been picked up.”

Logan’s eyes closed as if in pain and then he leaned in and let his forehead rest against mine. “Get your things together. We have to go.”

Pausing, I breathed him in—my friend, my lover, the man I loved. I didn’t argue. I knew we had to leave. I just wished we didn’t have to. “Give me a minute.”

He nodded.

In the bathroom, my reflection confronted me. My hair was a mess. My eyes were red. My face blotchy. My clothes in disarray. Could Logan see that I was scared?

I hoped not.

With a deep breath, I shook off my own fear.

It was just a note.

It didn’t mean anything.

What really frightened me wasn’t what might happen to me, but what might happen to him.

I heard his voice. He was on the phone. “Fuck you. You said you’d get him, you reassured me that he, of all people, would be brought in.”

Silence.

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. I’m going to find him.”

Silence again.

“I can’t guarantee that.”

There was a crash, a thud.

Then silence.

More silence.

I waited to open the door.

He was going to go after Tommy, and there was nothing I could do to stop him.

I was scared. I was scared for him. Sure, he was competent, strong, capable, and dauntless even, but Tommy was a part of the Mob, and the Mob wasn’t just one person, not just one set of eyes, or hands, or legs, or barrels of guns ready to hunt him down—it was dozens, potentially hundreds.

When I finally opened the door, Logan was composed and dressed in the same clothes he’d arrived in only hours ago. But it seemed like a lifetime ago.

“Who were you talking to?” I asked.

He rolled the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows as he spoke. “Agent Blanchet of the DEA.”

Ironically, knowing he was working with the DEA helped soothe my nerves. “What did she say?”

He shrugged. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. They don’t know where Tommy is. Come on, we have to go.”

“Where are we going?”

He indicated I should walk toward him. “I’m going to take you to my father’s house. Right now it’s the safest place.”

“Isn’t he Patrick’s counsel?”