Exposed (Madame X, #2)(61)

I don’t want him to put me down. Not really. So I let him carry me. I enjoy his presence, his heat, his strength. Being taken care of. Cared for. Cared about.

“So . . . you and Caleb.” It’s a gentle prod, a hesitant inquisition.

My throat seizes. “I can’t, Logan. Not just yet.”

His lips touch my cheek. My forehead. “When you’re ready. Or not at all. I’m here, okay? That’s all you need to worry about. I’m here, and I’ve got you.”

His big boxy silver SUV is parked a couple of blocks away, and he carries me all the way to it, never faltering or shifting his grip or acting for even a moment as if my not-insignificant weight is a burden. He sets me on my feet, opens the passenger-side door, and helps me in, closes the door after me.

Slides in behind the wheel, touches a button to start the engine. Immediately, loud, wild, raucous music fills the cabin. The music is chugging yet melodic, the singer a woman, her voice sweet yet full of rage, moving easily from singing to screaming—I am the dark you created, I am your sin, I am your whore. Logan moves to turn it off, but I stop him.

“Wait.” There is something in the way she sings, the way she screams. Something in the lyrics. Something visceral in the madness of the instruments. “What is this?”

“The band is In This Moment. The song is called ‘Whore.’”

“It could be about me.”

We sit and listen. I am moved, deeply. The rage she so obviously feels, her ownership of the darkness within her, the demand for an answer to a question that has none . . . I empathize in some vulnerable corner of my soul.

And then the next song comes on. Are you sick like me? . . . Am I beautiful? There is more ire in this song, more deeply felt hatred and self-loathing and understanding of one’s own filth.

It is all too close to the state of my existence, too near to who I am. I could devolve into a creature carved from fire and rage. I have been lied to and possessed and forced into molds that do not fit me; I have been brainwashed and made to be a thing I am not. My past has been hidden from me. The truth of all that is me has been kept buried. Even still, my desires are used against me. My needs made into weapons, forged into blades slicing open my own flesh.

I tremble, like a dry leaf in a long wind.

“I think that’s enough,” Logan says, when the song ends.

“No. One more.”

He turns on a song called “Blood,” and I focus in on the lyrics. Dirty dirty girl . . . everything you ever took from me . . . dominate and you violate me . . .

I close my eyes and fall into it. Give in to it. Scream with her. Sing with her. Lose myself to it.

He plays another one, “The Promise,” and this one has a male voice added, and the promise of the title is that they will hurt each other.

I know that feeling. I feel it now. I risk a look at Logan, and I know it’s true. I’ll hurt him. I have hurt him. He just doesn’t know it yet.

He drives, and I let him play whatever he wants. He tells me what each song and band is as they come on, one by one. He plays Halestorm, Flyleaf, Amaranthe, Skillet, Five Finger Death Punch—how do they come up with these names?

The one constant is rage.

This . . . this I understand.

We reach his house, and I’ve had a brief introduction to music that can reach the secrets in your soul and turn them real and give them voice. It turns out my voice is angry.

“My girl likes metal,” Logan says, as he shuts off his truck.

“I’m not your girl.” I hate how harsh I sound when I say this, and a look at Logan tells me I’ve hurt him. “That came out wrong. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s true.”

“But it’s not what I meant. Or—it is, but not the way it sounded. I can’t be your girl. I want to be, I wish I were. But . . . I can’t. Logan, I just . . . can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m broken. I’m all sharp edges and fragments. I’ll just cut you to pieces if you try to keep hold of me.”

“I don’t mind bleeding for you.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” I swallow bitterness in my throat. “Not for me. I’m not worth it.”

“Not worth—?” He seems to choke, but I can’t look at him. “Not worth it? God, that bastard’s really done a number on you, hasn’t he?”

“I did it to myself.”

“I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Yes.” I step out of his vehicle, and he follows. He takes a seat on the bottom step of the stairs leading up to his home. “Why were you there, Logan? Just now, I mean. How are you always just . . . there . . . when I need you most?”

“I just . . . knew. I don’t know. I can’t explain it without sounding like a whacko. I just . . . knew I should be there. I knew you’d need me. I couldn’t sit around and do nothing. We finished the acquisition and now we’re off for a week, and I just . . . I was going crazy without you. And I knew you needed me.” He digs in a pocket of his jeans and pulls out my cell phone. “Also, you left this at my place, so I was going to return it.”

“Thank you.”

A shrug. “What happened, Is?” He lights a cigarette and inhales deeply.

I take it from him, smoke with him. It tastes horrible, but the lightheaded dizziness is worth it, the sense of floating above it all, the momentary sensation of freedom. And it binds me to him in some way.