Logan
For the next few days I throw myself into my work, which mainly involves keeping track of my men and chasing down this Melissa Collins woman. I go by the Ink Stop in LA and get some information about the women who go by there, following down ten or so solid leads. All of them lead into the dirt, and I’m left none the wiser than when I started. I go through all my police contacts, trying to track the woman down. They lead nowhere. Apparently, Melissa Collins was a normal college girl—studying literature and history—before dropping out of college and off the face of the earth at the same time. I can’t find any employment details, social security details, anything.
I look into Cora, using the same police contacts, and everything seems kosher. She was born in Cali and lived with her dad and then moved to town to start her music career. Either Cora Ash and Melissa Collins are different people or Cora’s got some very impressive contacts, or the money to buy some very impressive contacts. I try not to think about the emotional shit as I go about my work. I try not to think about tears, or her open face. But I can’t help it. I wake up every night rock-hard, thinking of that round ass, that snake tattoo begging to be bitten. And then, once the animal lust passes, I think about holding her.
I tell myself it’s just business as I ride to her apartment. Maybe she has some more information about her tattoo, like what made her get it. If it was because some celebrity had it, or she found it on some forum, or even if she remembers hearing anything when she was sitting in the waiting room … anything could be useful at this point. But I can’t ignore the other aspect, either, which is that I think my balls and my chest will explode if I don’t see her. I had some club girl coming onto me last night, all hot and heavy. I wanted nothing to do with her. All I could see was Cora.
I come to a stop outside her apartment building. A light rain is falling, the first one in weeks, pattering on the sidewalk and sliding down my eyes. It’s like I’m crying again. I laugh grimly at the thought. I don’t approach her apartment right away, the hairs on the back of my neck pricking up. This happens sometimes, my instincts kicking in before I know why. I scan the area, spotting him on my second pass-through. There’s a mafia-looking man sitting in a mud-colored sedan across the street. He’s got slicked-back hair and a gold chain around his neck, his manicured hands tapping the steering wheel. I watch him a while. He glances at Cora’s apartment every so often, trying to seem inconspicuous.
After around ten minutes, I notice a change in him. It’s a change I’ve seen in men all through my life, the change that ripples across a room when it’s time to tool up. He sits up straight and checks something on the passenger seat. I’m guessing it’s his gun. Then he talks to someone on the phone for a couple of minutes. After that he sits bolt upright, chest pressed almost against the steering wheel, eyes locked on Cora’s apartment. I take my leather off and stuff it in the storage compartment of my bike, keeping my head down as I approach the building’s main door. I purposefully walk like a shy guy, one of those fellas I’ve seen in the supermarket, walking like the floor is made of nails, hoping he won’t spot me as a biker.
Cora answers after the second buzz. “Hello?” she says, making it a question.
“It’s me,” I say. “Let me up. Don’t ask any questions.”
“Logan? Um, okay.”
She buzzes me up. I close the door behind me, making sure it’s locked—not that that’ll do much good if things really are going south—and then take the stairs two at a time. The last thing I need right now is to get trapped in the elevator. I push open her door without knocking and then lock and bolt it behind me.
She’s on her feet, wearing shorts that make me want to forget the urgency, and a tank top with no bra on underneath. I look at her for a full five seconds, a whole host of dirty thoughts going through my mind, and then I reluctantly say, “Get dressed, quickly.”
She nods and goes into the bedroom, emerging soon after in jeans and a T-shirt and boots. “What is it?” she asks, but her voice is taut and it’s like she already knows that something is up.
I close all the curtains. “We need to go somewhere to talk,” I say. “This place could be bugged.”
“Bugged?” She shakes her head as though the idea is ridiculous.
“Yeah. Bugged. Wait a second. Come here.”
I lead her into the kitchen and blast the faucet. Making sure to speak quietly so that the water drowns out my voice, I explain to her about the guy outside. “I think something’s going to happen within the hour,” I say. “So we need to get out of here, all right?”
“Oh, God.” She touches her forehead. “Not again. This can’t be happening again.”
“Wait a second.” I touch her hand, nudging it so that she’s not covering her face. “What do you mean, not again? Has this happened before?”
“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” she says, and then she tells me. “When my dad died, right after, some guy approached me in a bar. I had no idea who he was, but I was vulnerable and I … well, the next morning I woke up and he was going crazy at me, throwing stuff all over my apartment and demanding to know where my bank information was. He tried to make me sign into my laptop, but I was able to hit him in the balls and get away. He wanted money out of me, I guess.”
“So you are …” She looks down; I touch her face and force her to meet my gaze. “So you are Melissa Collins, then.”
She freezes, going as still as prey hiding from a predator. Barely moving her lips, she says, “Logan, you’re not going to hurt me, are you?”
“Hurt you …” I drop my hand and take a step back. “I’d never hurt you.” Although there’s some twisted humor in there, because surely that’s what Dad wanted me to do, find the girl who owes us money and do whatever it took to get it. But Dad never guessed that I’d start falling for the girl, never guessed that his son had it in him to go all soft for a woman. “But you haven’t answered my question, Cora. Are you Melissa?”
“You came here to protect me,” she says. “That’s why you’re here right now, because you don’t want anything to happen to me.” She watches me closely. I realize I mistook her freezing for fear. It’s not fear. It’s more like the way a spider will freeze, waiting for a fly. She isn’t prey; she’s the predator, watching me, gauging me. She’s never looked so sexy. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” I confirm.
“I need you to say it. Don’t laugh! I’m being serious. I need you to say that you’re here to protect me.”
“I’m here to protect you,” I say. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
“Including you.”
“Including me.”
“Then yes.” She straightens her back. “My name was Melissa Collins once upon a time. But I’m Cora Ash now.”
I step forward, meaning to kiss her, hold her, something. I don’t like the way she’s looking at me, like she can’t decide if I’m a friend or a threat, like she can’t decide if she knows me or just thinks she knows me. Before I can put her at ease, the front door rattles in its hinges. I turn off the faucet and bring my finger to my lips, and then creep to the door, waiting just beside it. I gesture to Cora and then to the door. Her face hardens and she nods.
“Hello,” she calls. “Who is it?”
“It’s the building manager,” the man says, voice slurred, but not much. A couple of slugs of whisky to get the courage he needs for the job.
Cora looks at me. I gesture to the door handle. “Oh, okay. Let me just unlock the door.”
“We had reports of the pipes leaking, is all, and we need to check all the apartments.”
Cora opens the door and then leaps back, which is good because the men come barreling in right away. I let them run by me, and then I leap at them, smashing one over the head with the hilt of my pistol and pressing the barrel against the other man’s ear. “Take one more step,” I say, “and I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out.”
I kick the door closed behind me and lead the man deeper into the apartment, giving his groaning friend a kick to the face, knocking him out cold.
“You got any rope?” I ask Cora. She watches from the TV, eyes wide like people get when they’re not used to violence.
“Rope? No. I don’t just keep rope around here.”
“No? All right, then.” I smack the man over the head. He falls to his knees with a loud thump and then collapses on his face.
Tucking my gun away, I nod to Cora. “We need to go. Right now.”
“I can’t believe this.” She looks at the men, lips trembling. At first I think she’s going to cry but then her green eyes light up fiercely and she gives one of the men a kick to the thigh, gritting her teeth as she growls, “Coming into my apartment like this, you fucking animals.”
“Come on.” I grab her by the wrist. “They might have friends. We’ve gotta ride.”
I drag her out of her apartment and down the stairs, watching all the corners, ready to fight if there’s fighting to be done. When we get to the front door she yanks her wrist away and pushes herself against me. She does it with so much force that I’m pressed flat against the wall, her body tight against me.
“You have to promise me,” she says. “You have to promise me that you’re different. You’re not like those men. You won’t hurt me.”
I take her by the neck, my hand covering the snake’s head and tail, and then kiss her so hard that for a second we forget about the danger. Then I shove her away, scared that if I don’t I won’t be able to stop myself.
“I promise,” I say, grabbing her hand.