Through the phone, Logan says, “Which brother? Is it just the one? That means Lachlan. Shit. What did that little punk do now?”
When the bell above the door chimes, I try not to look up, swear it I do, but Logan's presence in any room is as tall as his frame, as big as his ego.
He’s wearing his work clothes: boots, khaki pants, gray tee beneath an open Preston, Gordon and Sons shirt. But what catches my attention the most is the ball cap: his trademark.
He looks good.
Better than good.
And I internally slap myself for thinking it.
The gold chain around his neck reflects off the store lights, and I push away the memories of the cold metal gliding up my thighs, of how the flattened penny pendant left a cold trail across my chest when he was on top of me, his hips between my legs. Logan’s eyes dart around the store, pausing on me for just a moment, before going to the armchair next to the counter. Lachlan gets to his feet, runs toward his big brother. “Please don’t tell Dad!”
Logan’s gaze catches mine as he squats down so he’s eye-to-eye with his brother. I focus on the receipts on the glass countertop, pretend to be working. “Shoplifting?” I hear, but don’t see Logan say. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was just out for a run and I saw this store and I wanted to get something nice for my girl.”
“No girl’s worth shoplifting for, bud.” Logan’s voice is louder now, clearer, and I glance up through my lashes, catch them walking toward me. I quickly drop my gaze, concentrate harder on my fake task. “Thanks for calling.” Logan’s hand rests on the counter: large, calloused, rough.
I swallow nervously, ignore the rapid thumping beneath my chest, and flip through the receipts so I have something to do with my hands. “It’s no problem.”
After a long stretch of silence, Logan clears his throat, says, “You know, it’s really bad service to not make eye contact with your customers.”
I lift my gaze, ready my glare, only to be met with the smirk I love to hate. Why I’ve had the slightest tingling of anything that resembles longing for him, I have no idea. Logan Preston is cocky, obnoxious, rude.
“You look like a garden gnome.”
Self-righteous ass.
I look down at my clothes: high-waisted and ripped boyfriend jeans, pink half shirt, floral blazer. I look cute. Fuck him.
“That’s mean, Logan,” says Lachlan.
“It’s not mean,” Logan says, rubbing his kid brother’s shoulder. “It’s flirting. Right, Red?” He winks.
Puke.
Winking is for douchebags and assholes with small dicks, and Logan is… well, he’s one of those things. I shake my head, grab the notebook that caused all this from under the counter and drop it between us. “Your boy tried to take this. You want to buy it or not?”
Logan shoves his hand in his pocket, the other removing his cap. He runs his hand through his hair, messes it up, and replaces his hat again. Then he shrugs. “I guess.” He picks up the offending notebook, looks at the price tag. “Twelve dollars?” he says, looking down at his brother. “You get more than this for your weekly allowance. You couldn’t afford to buy it?”
“I didn’t have any money on me.”
Logan takes his wallet from his back pocket. “This girl better be worth it.”
Lachlan grins for the first time since I’ve seen him, showcasing the gap in his two front teeth. I wonder if Logan ever had that. I wonder if he had to wear braces. I wonder if—
Shut up, Aubrey. Quit wondering about stupid shit.
Lachlan breaks through my thoughts, my trance, by bouncing on his feet, his excitement evident. “You have no idea, bro.”
I crack a smile.
Logan dumps his wallet on the counter but doesn’t make a move to open it. “Oh yeah?” he asks his brother. “What’s her name?”
“Scarlett.”
Logan’s eyebrows lift, just a tad. “You know scarlet’s a shade of red, right?”
Lachlan nods.
My heart skips a beat.
Two.
Stupid double-crossing heart.
“She got red hair?” the older Preston asks.
“Nah. Brown.”
“Damn shame.” Without looking at me, Logan opens his wallet, dumps a twenty on the counter and grabs the notebook. “Redheads are fire.” He starts to maneuver his brother toward the door. “Keep the change, Red,” he says to me. To his brother: “Say thank you, Lachy.”
Lachlan glances over his shoulder. “Thanks, Miss Red!”
7
Logan
Here’s a truth about me: I have no friends.
I know, I know. Poor Logan Preston. But when you drop out of high school and start working full-time and the only things you have in common with your school friends are other school friends and all those friends have stories about shit that goes on in a school you no longer attend, those friends start to die off pretty quick. Also, I don’t know if they were ever truly friends. Pretty sure they hated me; I’m not even mad about it. And, sure, I have the people on Dad’s crew. Thirty-to fifty-something-year-olds who like to complain about their lives, their wives and kids, but they’re not friends.
And then there’s my family: Luce and Luke have Cam and Lane, and the twins have each other. Leo—he was probably the closest thing I’ve ever had to a best friend (regardless of the fist fights growing up), and when he started focusing on school over everything else, I knew it would end. Then he went to college. And I was left with a nine-year-old punk. A punk currently sitting in the passenger’s seat of my truck, his stare burning a hole in the side of my head. “What are you looking at, dude?”
“Your car smells like your bedroom.”
No arguments there.
“Hey, you know that girl at the store?”
I shrug. “Kinda.”
“You sex her?”
I turn into our driveway while wondering how much honesty the kid can handle.
“Kinda.”
“You sex a lot of girls.”
“Kinda.”
“I’m going to sex one girl and one girl only for my whole entire life.”
I shake my head, let the chuckle fall from my lips. “Wait till you’re my age; you’ll change your tune.”
“Nah uh.”
“Yah huh.”
“You don’t think I can do it?” he challenges.
“Nope,” I say honestly, fingers tapping on the steering wheel.
“Why not?” He raises his chin. “Cam and Lucy have only ever sexed each other.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
After a sigh, I tell him, “Because Cam’s a Gordon, not a Preston.” I throw him a smirk. “Preston men are studs.”
“Leo doesn’t sex a lot of girls.”
“Leo’s different, too.”
“How?”
How? How the hell did I get myself into this conversation? “Because… because he’s more of a Harvey than he is a Preston.”
“What’s a Harvey?”
I park just outside the house and turn to him. “Mom’s maiden name.”
“So… you’re saying he’s more like a girl?” he asks.
“No. I’m saying he’s more like Mom. His heart,” I say, tapping at my chest, “it overpowers all other organs.”
“What other organs?”
And that’s where I stop. “Hey look, we’re home. Get out.”
“Are you going to sex her again?”
I shrug, stare out the windshield. “I don’t know.”
“Why not?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Lachy.”
“Why won’t you answer?”
“Because I don’t know.”
“Why not?”
“Because…”
“Isn’t that what you do with most girls?”
“Lachy…” I sigh.
“What?”
I turn to him, lock my gaze on his.
He rol
ls his eyes. “I’m nine, Logan. Not a baby. You can tell me the truth.”
The truth? I’d thought about Aubrey beyond that one night. Days beyond it. Maybe even weeks. Aubrey—she was different. Easy. And not in the way that draws me to most girls.
So the truth about Aubrey?
“She’s not most girls.”
8
Aubrey
In the few months since I’ve moved here, I’ve worked out three things:
1. Everyone knows everyone.
2. Baseball is bigger than big.
3. Friday night is the night.
I have no idea what happens on Saturday nights, but the town is dead. Mom says I probably moved to a church town and I just don’t know it. Either way, every party I’ve ever been invited to happens on Friday nights. And while the town may be different than home, the parties are the same. The people are the same. The classic jocks with the classic soon-to-be-too-drunk girls, the smaller groups of misfits just happy to be here, and the stoners who keep to themselves, smoke weed openly as if they’re smoking cigarettes. And every party, every circle, has that One Guy. You know, the one who shows up on their own and finds a way to blend in. Invisibility clings to him like a second skin, and in the next breath, he’s the center of everyone’s universe. In this town, everyone knows who that One Guy is, and he just walked into the house as if he owns it.
Logan Preston flops down on the couch, right in the middle of the living room, his cap pulled low on his brow, hiding his eyes. A second later, there’s a joint between his lips, and he doesn’t look up when he sparks it, doesn’t even look up when a girl approaches him, whispers something in his ear. He smiles, or smirks more like it, and I lean back against the wall, hope I can blend in as well as he does.
I reach into my pocket, pull out my phone. If he notices me, I sure as hell don’t want him to catch me watching him. The second I unlock my screen, a text appears:
You think she’ll want to fuck my dick off?
A smile breaks through—unwanted—and I glance up at him just long enough to see that smirk directed right at me. The girl’s in front of him now, shaking her ass right at his eye level, but he doesn’t notice, or maybe he chooses to ignore it. I type out a reply:
That’s a given. The real question is: will she let you put it in her booty hole?
I look up so I can watch his reaction before I hit send. Mid drag, his phone lights up his face, his eyes squinting to read my text. Then he chokes out a laugh, white puffs of smoke emitting from his open mouth.
He sits up straighter, still ignoring the beautiful girl in front of him.
What do you think my odds are?
I reply:
I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?
I raise my eyebrows in challenge when his eyes meet mine.
Without hesitation, he taps the girl on the shoulder, talks into her ear. She slaps him across the cheek and storms off, all while Logan keeps that same smirk on his face. He writes:
I think that’s a hard no.
I reply:
The night’s still young.
He reads the text but doesn’t respond. He simply watches me from across the room, his eyes moving from my boot-covered feet, slowly trailing up the rest of me. And that’s my cue to leave, move as far away from him as possible. I find my way to the keg, fill a Solo cup.
Down it.
Three times.
Because I know how easy it is to fall, and not the good kind of falling.
The kind of falling that’s unexpected.
Like a trap in the middle of the woods.
Logan Preston is a trap.
Three weeks ago, I was lost in those woods.
9
Logan
Aubrey’s drunk. Or, at the very least, extremely fucking tipsy. I watched her down three beers at the keg before filling up her fourth and exiting the house. She’s here on her own, or maybe with a friend, but she’s not here on a date—or, if she is, he’s nowhere to be seen. Now, she’s out in the yard, dancing on her own.
There isn’t even any music.
She’s wearing cowboy boots and denim cut-offs and a loose tank with the armholes cut low, and I can see her bra. Everyone can see her bra. But I haven’t been close enough to work out what’s on it. If I had to put money on it, I’d say they were donuts or maybe rainbows. I know she owns pairs with both those things on them because that night with her, when we were both high on weed (and maybe each other), she paraded around in them. For me. My own private fashion show.
Fuck, she was cute.
She’s still cute.
I take another hit of Mary and lean against the brick wall of the house while I watch her lift her cup, sway her hips, move her head from side to side with the music only she can hear. I smile; at her, and at me for being a creep and watching her from a distance. I’m still smiling fifteen minutes later when she’s still doing the exact same thing. But that smile fades instantly when a guy approaches her from behind, puts his hands on her waist. Before I get a chance to think straight, I’m making my way to them, my jaw clenched. “A little close, no?” I grind out. I don’t know why I’m pissed, and maybe a little jealous, but I’ve had my hands where his are, and I don’t like it.
“Sorry, man,” the guy says, and I recognize him from school, but I don’t know his name. “Is she yours?”
“She sure as fuck isn’t yours.”
His hands leave her to go up in surrender, his apology quick to come. I wait for him to be out of earshot before taking a step toward Aubrey. “You look like Miley Cyrus. The “Wrecking Ball” hammer-licking Miley, not at all like the cute “Party in the USA” one.”
Her eyes narrow to a glare, her gaze moving to somewhere behind me. She shouts, her words slurred, “Yo, Guy! I can be yours for the night if—”
I cover her mouth, her lips wet against my palm. “You’re wasted.”
She mumbles something beneath my touch, and I release her slowly, my hands going to her hips, pulling her closer. And swear to God, three weeks have never felt so long. She’s exactly how I remember her. Every dip, every curve. Every expanse of space between us. I close the gap, hold her to me.
Her arms lift, her fingers linking behind my neck, those olive green eyes blinking up at me. “You didn’t call me.”
“I didn’t have your number.”
“You just texted me.”
“I stole a business card from your work.”
“Oh.”
I sniff her hair, listen to her giggle. “You smell different.”
“And you still smell like a venereal disease.”
I press my mouth to her neck, re-familiarize myself with her flesh. “Let’s get you home, Red.”
“I’m not fucking you tonight, Lo.”
I rear back but keep my hands on her. Anywhere on her, so long as I’m touching her. “As tempting as that is, I’m not into taking advantage of drunk girls. Which you clearly are. And who are you here with, anyway?”
“Joy.”
“And where the fuck is she? Shouldn’t she be taking care of you?”
Her lips press tight, and I already know the answer. She’s with some guy who’s no doubt balls deep inside her. “Sorry,” Aubrey says, her loose features attempting a cringe.
“Like I give a shit. And on the topic of giving shits, why didn’t you call me?”
She shrugs. “I didn’t have your number.”
“Liar,” I laugh out. “Lachlan told me it was on your phone.” More like I beat the details out of him, but whatever.
She says, “You know why I chose to move to a small town?”
“Why, Master of the Deflect?”
“Because in small towns, everyone knows everyone, which means that if you wanted to find me, you could have. You know where I live, Logan.”
I smirk. “Did you want me to find you, Red?”
Her eyes narrow, but her hands stay put. “I find you vile, Lo.”
I kiss her neck again. “Let’s
get out of here.”
“No.”
“So stubborn.”
“So cocky.”
“Even if I wanted to find you, I couldn’t have. I’ve been in Cambodia for the past three weeks.”
She scoffs. “Of all the excuses in all the world, you had to—”
I pull back, reach for my phone. I scan the photos until I find the one I want, then practically shove it in her face. On the screen is a picture of me, standing beneath a sign that reads “Welcome to Cambodia.”
Her eyes shift from the picture to my face, again and again. “What the hell were you doing there?”
“Working.”
“You have contracts in Cambodia?”
“Long story.”
She sighs, and I don’t know if she means to pull me closer, but the second she does, my hands find her waist again. We stay like that, silent, for seconds that turn into minutes. She’s still swaying, and I wish I knew what song was playing in her head. I wonder if it’s Otis Redding or Obey Trice. Crowded House or Cypress Hill. Or any one of the songs we listened to that night, back and forth, while we lay naked in her bedroom, on her couch, at the kitchen table when the munchies got the best of us, in between moments of laughter, and the greatest mind-blowing sex I’ve ever had. Which is saying a lot. Because I’ve had a lot of sex.
“Are we dancing?” she asks.
“Um… you’re swaying, and I’m pretty sure I’m just holding you up.”
She continues to sway, her nose pressed against my chest, her breath warming every inch of me. “You left me a stupid note.”
“At least I left you a note.” Which I’ve never done.
“You said you had to be somewhere. That was it.”
“I did. I had to be at the airport. Laney called me just after five, freaking out because they realized I wasn’t home. I forgot we were leaving that morning. Correction. You made me forget we were leaving.”