Blow(24)

He stepped back and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Elle Sterling, the feeling is mutual.”

I smiled at him sweetly.

Logan didn’t return my smile but instead turned and walked toward his Rover, getting in and driving away without ever turning back.

We didn’t exchange numbers or make plans to see each other again. It was when I realized this that I figured it out—we had both known all along that it could never be.

And what I’d thought was a good-night kiss was really a goodbye kiss.





LOGAN


Fuck, f*ck, f*ck.

I slammed the wheel.

I wanted her. Wanted her more than I had wanted anyone in a very long time. I had tried to turn it off. My emotions were like a chick’s.

Hot.

Cold.

Up.

Down.

Where was my f*cking head? I had to stay focused. I knew I needed to get to my father and find out what Patrick had planned for O’Shea, but then after that kiss, I wasn’t able to pull away.

She was doing something to me that I didn’t understand.

Twisting me in a way that I shouldn’t have wanted to be twisted.

Thank God she had come to her senses.

It was late when I opened the door to the house that had once belonged to my grandfather. Killian McPherson had lived here for almost fifty years, and half of those years were with his wife. Sadly, my grandmother died of cancer when I was five. All I remember about her is that she took me to church and taught me how to pray. And that when we went, her white hair was always pulled tightly back and she wore the same blue dress. That woman was the love of his life and he never remarried. In fact, he never brought another woman to this house, and he lived here alone until my father moved in once he and my mother divorced.

All the lights were off. “Pop, you here?”

There wasn’t any answer. I looked in his office. It was empty. I ran up the stairs to his room. He wasn’t there. I came back down and opened the door to the family room. Nothing. He wasn’t back yet.

I flicked on the television and sat on the couch.

I’d wait for him.

A hand on my shoulder woke me. “Logan, what are you doing here?”

I blinked and looked at my watch. It was almost one in the morning. “I came by to talk to you. Why are you home so late?”

He rubbed his hands on his pants and sat on the chair beside me. “Patrick wasn’t at Lucy’s when I arrived, but he told Tommy I was to wait.”

Lucy’s was not only the largest but also the best-known strip club in Boston. It was also the Blue Hill Gang’s headquarters.

It was only one of twenty other strip joints that fronted Patrick’s illegal operations run under the corporation eerily named All My Women. Sick f*ck. The strip clubs, or gentlemen’s clubs as my pop preferred to call them, were named after women all right, but the women were cartoon characters. There was Betty’s, Veronica’s, Wilma’s, and a slew more I couldn’t recall.

Tommy, the prick, was Patrick’s son and just as big of a douche as his father. He and I never did see eye to eye, and while he had reason to hate me, I had reason to hate him more.

Worried, I clicked on the lamp sitting on the table and studied my father. “Have you been drinking?”

He shook his head. “No, but I wanted to.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Did the prick pour you one?”

He nodded. “Left the bottle on the bar in case I changed my mind.”

It wasn’t the first time.

Scowling, I let my anger out. “Son of a f*cking bitch. That’s it. You’re not going there without me anymore.”

My father slammed his palm on the table beside him and the lamp shook. “Logan, I can take care of myself. I told you I want you to stay out of this. And besides, you know you can’t set foot inside there or anywhere near that little prick.”

Knowing he was right, and feeling empathetic after my outburst, I said, “Don’t you get it? Now that Gramps is gone he’s trying to break you.”

My father’s jaw clenched. “Let him try. I’m not as weak as he thinks.”

“Pop, you have to get out before you can’t. Things are different now. The stakes are so much higher with Gramps gone. He’s got you doing things you’ve never done and you know you shouldn’t be doing them.”

He sat back in the chair. “You don’t think I know that?”

I grunted, “I’m not so sure.”

His voice rose. “Well, I do. And you also know I can’t get out.”

Frustrated, I stood and went to glance out the window. “It’s been twelve years. I think that’s long enough to be Patrick’s personal counsel, liaison, or whatever the f*ck he calls you.”

My father leaned his head back and shut his eyes. “Son, you know it doesn’t work that way.”

Practically growling now, I spat, “Fuck him and f*ck the way he thinks things should work.”

My plan had better be successful because if it isn’t, I just might kill the motherf*cker. Then where would I be?

“A life for a life,” my father muttered.

Feeling like I might explode, I punched the wall. My hand started to throb instantly. “Fuck.”

Shaking his head, my father went into the kitchen and came back with a bag of frozen peas. “You need to calm down. Put this on your hand and have a seat.”