Exposed (Madame X, #2)(83)

“Like what?”

He’s clearly uncomfortable with this line of conversation. “There’s one that does a lot of work with combat veterans, guys coming home from Iraq and Afghanistan. Therapy, retreats, shit like that. It’s a nonprofit I started with a couple other guys from Blackwater. They do a lot of really amazing work with guys that have PTSD, outside-the-box stuff, not just sitting in a f*cking room talking about our emotions with a shrink. Soldiers hate that shit. We hate talking about what we did. We just want to put it behind us and not have nightmares, you know? So the focus is PTSD treatment that’s not just talking. Equine therapy, canine therapy. Art, music, sports. Stuff like that. Then there’s the education fund. That one directs money past all the red tape of bureaucracy and directly into school districts that need money, inner-city schools here in New York and all across the country. They’re expanding all the time, getting into new school districts with every check written. No testing requirements, no bullshit, no politicians skimming off the top. Just cold hard cash going into schools so kids can learn.” He opens up as he speaks, and his eyes and his expression reveal his passion. “I love that one especially. When I was a kid, my education wasn’t all that important to me. I was more concerned with getting high and into trouble with the fellas. But even if I had been, where I lived, I wouldn’t have gotten much of an education anyway. And San Diego is a lot better off than somewhere like L.A. or the schools in somewhere like Queens, you know? There’s just not enough money for the schools to do shit about shit for anyone.”

“That’s amazing, Logan,” I say.

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not. I just donate money. I’ve got it coming out of my f*cking earholes, and charity is somewhere to put it so it’s not just sitting there. And besides, it’s a tax deduction.”

“What others are there?”

“Lots of little ones here and there. Helping at-risk teens, ’cause I’ve been one, women’s shelters, food banks, drug recovery clinics.”

“Don’t downplay what you’re doing, Logan. It makes a difference.”

He smiles at me. “I know it does. That’s why I do it. Warrior’s Welcome, the one that works with soldiers . . . I host retreats every year for that one. Get a whole bunch of rotated-out soldiers and Marines and security contractors, take ’em to a farm in upstate New York, and do a bunch of fun stuff. Trail rides, paintball games, basketball tournaments. The whole point of the retreats, though, is the Bonfire Bullshit. Make this huge-ass bonfire, tap a keg, and trade war stories. It’s a judgment-free zone, you know? That’s the point of it. You don’t tell stories to friends or family, ’cause they won’t get it. They can’t. When it’s a bunch of other dudes who’ve f*ckin’ been there, it’s different. Some guys don’t want to talk, and they don’t have to, but even listening to other guys’ stories, hearing the truth that there are people who know exactly what you’re going through, what it’s like, that’s cathartic as anything else ever could be.”

“You never cease to both surprise and amaze me, Logan.” I cup his cheek. “Every time I think I know you, you reveal something new.”

He shakes his head and laughs softly. “Yeah, I’m a real puzzle.”

“You are, though. You’re a successful businessman, yet you came from urban poverty and an at-risk childhood. You were in a gang. You watched your best friend get murdered. You’ve been to war. You’ve been to prison. Yet despite all that, you’re successful and well adjusted.” I give a lock of his hair a playful tug. “And you’re the sexiest man I’ve ever met.”

“You’re gonna give me a complex, babe,” Logan says.

We’re outside, standing on the sidewalk near his SUV. For once in my life, things feel . . . normal. I’ve got hope. I feel like I am a new person, becoming someone complete.

My heart feels full.

I love Logan. He loves me.

The world is afire with possibility.

And then my blood runs cold.

I see Thomas, first. Tall, frightening, skin black as night, teeth white as piano keys. He has something long and thin and dark in his hands, not a gun, but a stick of some kind. A bludgeon. I don’t know where Thomas came from. He was not there, not anywhere, and then in an eyeblink, there he is. I don’t have time to even open my mouth.

Thomas’s hand flashes in the bright golden light of early afternoon. There is a dull thud, and the stick connects with Logan’s head, right behind his ear, just so. Precise. A practiced move. I see Logan collapse, the light instantly bleeding out of his eyes.

I inhale to scream, but a hand covers my mouth. Len. I twist, kick.

“You think I wouldn’t find you?” This isn’t Len’s voice in my ear.

It’s yours.

I feel tears of despair prick my eyelids. No. No. Not this. Not you. Not again. Not now.

I feel motion, feel the whispering breeze of your passage from behind me to in front of me. There you are. Perfect, handsome. Calm and collected. Cool. I smell your cologne. Black suit, crimson shirt, top button loose, no tie. You have a pistol in your hand. Flat black, small in your large paw.

You glance at me. You do not smile. “I thought I could let you go,” you say. Your expression is . . . almost sad. Regretful. You glance at Len, behind and above me. “I was wrong.”