Exposed (Madame X, #2)(6)

“And watching movies.”

“And watching movies. And drinking beer by the case, and ordering pizza and Chinese takeout.”

“I’ve never had either,” I admit.

“You’re not for real, are you?” He is utterly incredulous.

“And you’re not still surprised at my lack of experience with things you deem normal, are you?”

“It just seems wrong,” he says. “Beer and pizza . . . it’s like—a basic, elemental part of life. Seriously. Without beer and pizza and movies, you’re not really living.”

“I certainly feel alive.”

“X . . . you are alive, yes, but are you living? Not just existing, not just continuing to be physically present in the world day by day, but . . . enjoying life. Making a difference. Being totally you. Owning who you are and choosing a life that fulfills you. Because from where I’m standing . . . it doesn’t seem that way.”

“And beer, pizza, and movies is a part of that, is it?” His words hit too close to bull’s-eye, and my defenses are engaging.

A sigh. “No, X. It is for me, yes. But in the context of this conversation, beer, pizza, and movies are a standin for you having the freedom to make your own choices. You’re still wearing designer clothes, I notice. Probably designer lingerie underneath, too. When I took you shopping, I bought you basic clothes. Basic comfortable jeans, a T-shirt, basic bra and underwear. Nothing fancy. And you seemed . . . I don’t know, more you in them. This is still you, this designer-clothes-fancy Madame X. But that’s Madame X. Not X, just X. And I don’t think you’re free to choose that. Not while you’re with him.”

“Logan—”

“All I’m going to say here is that to me, you deserve more. More than just fancy clothes and a penthouse prison.”

“It’s not a prison, Logan.” I say this because something inside me insists I do, even though his words yet again strike hard and accurate.

“I want you to leave him and be with me,” he murmurs. “I have absolutely no problem saying it in so many words, right here, right now. That’s what I want. I want you. I want us. But I also want you to have a choice. I want you to be able to decide what you want out of life. Even if that isn’t me. Which means I’ll help you find what you want, regardless of the outcome for me.”

We’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk not ten feet from the front door of Caleb’s tower. This feels dangerous, somehow.

“Logan . . . why?” I really do not understand. “Why do you care so much?”

He shrugs. “I honestly don’t know, X. I wish I did. It’d be a f*ck of a lot easier for me if I could just walk away, if I could stay away. But I can’t. I’ve tried.” He gestures up at the tower. “He’s not what you think, X. You have to see that much, at least.”

“Then what is he, Logan?”

A frustrated groan. “Not a good person. Not who you think.”

“What proof do you have, Logan?” I hear myself ask.

Do I need proof? More than the evidence of the third floor? Yet still I persist. I do not know why.

I do, though. Don’t I?

Because Logan scares me. He challenges my conceptions, my worldview. Makes me want things I’m not sure I can have. Things I never thought I could have. He makes me feel like choices I never even knew existed are suddenly possible.

Logan turns away, stares into nothingness, scrubs his hand through his hair. “None. Not yet, at least.”

A long, low, sleek, white vehicle slides up to the curb. It is a Maybach Landaulet 62. Worth somewhere between half a million and a million dollars. I’ve ridden in that exact vehicle. I know who is about to emerge.

“Shit,” Logan murmurs. He glances at me, eyes searching mine. Whatever he finds leaves him unhappy. “I’ll find proof, X. I’ll show you.”

I have no words; there is nothing to say. I can only watch him turn away, and feel a pang of sadness, a spear of distress. Something in him calls to me, speaks to my soul. The intensity of it frightens me. I do not know how to handle the power of what merely being near Logan does to me.

The rear passenger-side door of the Maybach opens, disgorging a god of the tall, dark, and handsome variety.

A displeased god. “Logan.” This, in a deep, cold voice. “She made her choice.”

“Yeah. Doesn’t mean it was the right one, though.” Logan walks away then. Doesn’t turn back.

Something in me fractures.

? ? ?

Why were you speaking to him, X? And what are you doing out here?” Your voice is low and calm. Too low, too calm.

“He was passing by. I ran into him.”

“What are you doing out here, X?” You repeat the question.

I find a seed of courage. “Am I not allowed outside, Caleb?”

Your eyes narrow. “Of course you are. You’re not a prisoner. I just worry for you. The streets are unsafe, and you’re prone to panic attacks.”

Prone to panic attacks. Yes. I am. But something about Logan soothes me. Makes me forget my panic. Makes it all okay.

I do not say this, of course.

“Sometimes I wonder if perhaps you don’t want me to really get over them, though,” I find myself saying. Unwisely. Foolishly. Courageously—the seed has germinated, perhaps. “I wonder if perhaps you just want me to stay up there in your tower, at your disposal.”