Logan (Wild Boys After Dark, #1)(18)

She showered and dressed, then stripped her bed to wash her sheets before she had to leave for work. She had only one pillow, and last night Logan had used it and she’d rested her head in the crook of his arm. She brought the pillowcase to her nose and breathed in his fresh, masculine scent, allowing herself a rare moment of reflection. That’s it, babe. Come for me. Come for us. The look in his eyes when he’d said it—dark and sensual, with a hint of surprise—had turned her on and confused the hell out of her. She’d felt something between them that was definitely more than a quick hookup. She loved the way he’d taken control and the way he’d checked in with her before taking his mouth to her, before entering her, searching her eyes, making sure they were still on the same page. They were on the same page, all right. They were in the same damn novel.

Logan was nice, and she wasn’t used to nice.

Ugh. What on earth was she doing? Who had sex with a guy after being attacked by a psycho? Maybe she was really messed up after all. Maybe Kutcher had ruined all the normal things about her that she’d once relied on. She glanced up at the calendar hanging on the wall beside the pantry. Her stomach felt queasy as she lifted the red marker from the counter and x-ed out another day. Three more days until Kutcher was released.

Three more days until her veil of safety would be shredded to pieces. Survivor used to be a term that went along with television shows and hot alpha men in thick leather boots and fisherman type vests, or people who had fallen ill to disease and fought their way healthy again. Now survivor was a term Stella likened to herself. She was a survivor, and she had every intention of continuing to fit the definition.

She threw her sheets in the washer, then went into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. Her kitchen was small, with one long counter, a small sink, and two hanging cabinets on either side of a small window. She liked small areas. There weren’t many places a person could hide, unlike her old house, where every room was like a burglar’s playground. Or rather, Kutcher’s playground. She shivered with the memory of stripping down for her shower and catching the closet door opening out of the corner of her eye. She’d been lucky he’d only stabbed her twice before a neighbor came over because he’d heard her screaming. Kutcher had escaped out the back, and the next afternoon, Stella had escaped Mystic for good.

It had taken her a solid six weeks to heal. She pushed the painful memories away, and her mind drifted to Heath. He’d been so kind to her, so gentle and professional when he was examining her. She thought about the questions he’d asked when he’d seen the scars. How did you get these scars? They look fairly recent. And her ridiculous answers. Car accident, a few months ago. She’d been shocked when he didn’t press her for more information, and now she wondered if he’d mentioned the scars to Logan.

She couldn’t worry about that. Not now. She had bigger things on her mind. With a deep inhalation, she focused on cleaning up the apartment.

An hour later, with the bed freshly made and a to-go cup in hand, Stella walked out of her apartment and locked the door behind her.

“Good morning, Stormy,” Mrs. Fairly called from the balcony above Stella’s door. She was a stout, kind woman in her late sixties who always greeted Stella with a smile. After spending so much time avoiding friendships, Stella found Mrs. Fairly to be a bright light in her otherwise lonely days.

“Good morning. It looks like another beautiful day.” Stella hoped she hadn’t heard her and Logan last night. She’d hated lying to her about her name, and she didn’t want to keep piling lies on top of that one, but if she asked about Logan, Stella would have to make something up. Having hot, loud sex was one thing, but admitting it to her sweet landlord was another.

“Yes, it does, and it looks like your handsome gentleman suitor is back.” She gazed over the railing of the balcony and pointed toward the street.

The hair on the back of Stella’s neck rose. Her mind raced back to the calendar. She had three more days! Ice ran through her veins as she turned, looking past the crooked metal fencing to the black car parked out by the curb.

No, no, no. Please God. I have three more days. She whipped around and looked up at Mrs. Fairly, her heart shattering in her chest. If Kutcher saw Mrs. Fairly, he could hurt her, too.

“Mrs. Fairly, you should go inside.” Fear strangled her words, and she wondered if Mrs. Fairly could hear her.

She heard footsteps behind her. She was not going down without a fight. No f*cking way had she survived this long only to be killed in front of her sweet landlord in this rundown neighborhood. With trembling hands, she gripped her keys in her palm, the longest sticking out between her knuckles. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had. She clenched her eyes shut and spun around as she swung her arm back, ready to strike, and prayed that her brain wouldn’t go blank the way it had behind the bar.

“Whoa!”

A strong hand gripped her wrist as her knee came up and clipped him in the groin. Her eyes flew open as Logan doubled over in pain.

“Oh no. Logan!”

“Stormy? Why?” Mrs. Fairly peered down at her in horror.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else. Oh God. I’m sorry.” Fear made her shake as she apologized to Logan repeatedly and tried to reassure Mrs. Fairly.

“He’s teaching me self-defense. It’s all in fun,” she said to Mrs. Fairly, hoping she’d buy the explanation.