"I think we're clear," he murmurs to me, feathering fingers through my loose, damp hair, tossing it back over my shoulders. "My truck is close. Half a block, not even that. Feeling any better?"
I'm still terrified beyond all reason, but I'm not in the grip of the panic attack anymore. I jerk my chin in a brief nod. "I'm fine."
He grins at me, squeezes my waist with his arm. "That's my girl. You're doing great."
He's so calm. Doesn't he understand what Caleb is capable of?
His girl? I'm his girl? Or is that just an expression? With Logan, it's hard to tell.
He pulls me around a corner, down a narrow cross street jammed with parked delivery trucks, half the width of the street blocked off by orange and white construction barriers. There's a boxy silver SUV parked between a white produce delivery truck and a tall black van. Logan pulls me to the SUV, helps me up and into the passenger seat. I get a whiff of his scent again, and I inhale, find some strange calm in it as he reaches across me to click the seat belt into place.
We're in motion within seconds, reversing out of the parking spot, accelerating and turning back onto the main road. The car smells like leather and vanilla. He turns at random, I think, left here, right there, three lefts, straight for several blocks, and then another right, his eyes watching his mirrors as much as the traffic ahead.
"I don't see any signs we're being followed," he says to me, a triumphant grin on his face. "We did it, X! You were awesome!"
"Awesome? I had a panic attack as soon as we walked out, Logan. I'm still feeling sick. Nothing feels right. I don't know what I'm doing, I don't know what's happening. Half of me feels like I just made the biggest mistake of my life, and the other half is so relieved I could cry."
"You're allowed to feel however you feel. We'll take everything slow, all right? What do you want to do first?"
I shrug. "I don't know. I don't know anything, Logan."
He nods. "That's fine, too. Just let me take care of everything, then, okay? You think of anything you want, just say it."
He presses a circular knob on the console between us, and loud music fills the air, cacophonous, angry-sounding, a man's voice screaming in rage. I cringe against the door, immediately tensed and confused by the volume and the raw hatred in the singer's voice. Singer . . . a word I'm not sure applies to what I'm hearing, exactly. Logan twists the knob, and the volume lowers to a tolerable level, and then he taps another button, twists, presses the knob, and the music changes, now all drums and keyboard and a more palatable female voice singing.
"Sorry," Logan says. "I suppose Slipknot is probably not your thing."
"Slipknot?"
"Yeah. Heavy metal." He glances at me. "Let me take a wild guess here and say that you don't know what kind of music you like, either?"
"You would be guessing correctly," I admit.
"What do you know you like?"
I sigh. "Very little. I like books, I guess I can say that with confidence. Old books, signed first editions, rare versions. Fiction of all kinds."
Logan is quiet for a moment. The song changes, something about uptown funk, although what that is I couldn't say. It's catchy, though, and I find myself bobbing my head to the rhythm.
"If you had to say there was one thing you wanted right now more than anything, what would it be?"
"A shower. A long, hot shower. Comfortable clothes. And then something to eat." I pause for a moment, and then blurt what feels like a secret. "Unhealthy food. Something greasy and satisfying."
Logan smiles at me. "Easy enough. First stop, then, is Macy's."
I didn't realize how wide my eyes could go until Logan led me on a dizzying tour of Macy's department store. I was thoroughly lost within seconds, a few turns down one aisle and then another and I would have been hard-pressed to find my way out. Not that I would have minded, I think. I could have wandered endlessly, flipped through rack after rack of clothes, content to simply look, to simply see all the various things one could buy. Logan was ceaselessly vigilant, seemingly casual as he guided me from area to area, pretending to glance at a shirt or a dress while watching in every direction at the same time.
I choose plain, comfortable clothes: a pair of jeans, a shirt, undergarments, a pair of slip-on ballet flats. I don't try anything on, merely guessing at sizes. Logan seems relieved when we're back in his vehicle, and now he drives a less circuitous route across Manhattan to a quiet, narrow, tree-lined street with low brownstone houses connected to each other in a long row. He parks his truck beside a tree, which is ringed in brick, small lights buried in the mulch at the base of the tree. Three steps up, a key turned in a lock, and then there's a loud beeping noise coming from a white panel on the wall just inside the door. Logan presses a series of numbered buttons, and the beeping stops.
"Disarmed," a disembodied, electronic, vaguely female voice says.
There's a wild, ceaseless barking coming from behind a door somewhere. Logan closes the door behind me, twists the knob to engage the deadbolt. "Come on in," he says. "I've gotta go let Cocoa out of her room. She's friendly, I promise. Exuberant in her welcomes, but friendly."
I don't have time to even panic before Logan vanishes down the hallway, opens a door, and the barking grows louder, louder, and then there's a brown blur and the scrabble of sharp claws on hardwood.
"Cocoa, down, girl!" Logan shouts, but it's too late.
A heavy warm wiggling barking licking mass slams into me, huge bear paws on my shoulders, a tongue slapping wetly on my face, and the dog's weight plows me backward, topples me off balance, and then I'm on the ground, curled into a tight ball, fighting tears, fending off a crazy tongue, a paw on my shoulder, a cold nose shoving under my hands to get at my face.
I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
I hear Logan laughing.
"Get her off me, Logan," I manage to say, past the canine tongue that seems to be trying to see what I ate last via my throat, and how recently I've blown my nose via tongue-examination of my nostrils.
"Cocoa, sit." Logan's voice is hard, and sharp.
Immediately, the huge brown animal--which I recognize from Logan's cell phone screen--stops licking me and sits on her haunches, whining in her throat.
"X, say hello to Cocoa." He kneels down beside me as I lever myself to a sitting position on the floor, wiping at my face. "Tell her to shake, X."
I stare at the dog suspiciously. "Will she try to eat me again?"
Logan laughs. "Eat you? She was just saying hi, in crazy puppy language."
I give him side-eye. "Puppy? She's the size of a grizzly bear, Logan."
"She's barely a year old, and not even eighty pounds yet." He cuffs her ear affectionately, rubbing in circles with his thumb. "She's a good girl, aren't you, Cocoa?"
I give my still-damp face one last wipe with my forearm, and then twist on my backside so I'm facing the dog. "Shake, Cocoa."
The dog lifts her paw, a goofy dog grin on her face. I take her paw and shake it as I would a man's hand, and she barks.
"Tell her good girl," Logan instructs.
"Good girl, Cocoa," I say, and the dog immediately launches herself at me, tongue first. This time, I try what Logan did, making my voice sharp and hard. "Sit, Cocoa."
"See?" Logan says, grabbing the dog around the neck and hauling her against his chest, letting her lick his chin, laughing. "She's a good girl."
Clearly, the man loves his dog. Something about this makes my heart twist, and melt. I don't know what to do with myself as I watch Logan rub, pet, and kiss his dog as if she were a beloved child. Other than try not to melt, that is.
Finally, Logan stands up, wipes his face. "Gotta go outside, Cocoa?"
Cocoa barks and, with a clicking scrabble of claws, tears across the house to a back door and plants her haunches on the gleaming hardwood, thick tail flailing wildly, her head swiveling between Logan and the door. Logan pulls the sliding glass door aside, and Cocoa lunges through the opening as soon as it's wide e
nough to fit her bulk. The outdoor space--which I hadn't realized existed in Manhattan--is small but elaborate and beautiful. A small terrace of cobblestone, a round wrought-iron table with four chairs, a gleaming silver grill, and a plot of green grass maybe a dozen steps across, flowering bushes lining the back fence. Logan follows Cocoa out, and I follow him; we stand together, watching the dog prance around happily, circle three times, and then squat to do her business.
It's quiet here. Even in the middle of the day, there is no babel of traffic sounds, no horns or grinding engines or sirens.
"This isn't where I imagined you living," I say, apropos of nothing.
"Expected some downtown high-rise, probably? Big views and lots of black marble?" He shoves a hand in his hip pocket, scraping at the cobblestone with his boot toe.
I nod. "Pretty much."
"I had that, for a while. I hated it." He shrugs. "Found this place, kind of by accident. Bought it, reno'd it myself, and adopted Cocoa. Having somewhere quiet to go, at the end of the day? It's priceless. Having somewhere outside with some green and some privacy? Even more so. And Cocoa to keep me company . . . can't get any better." He glances at me. "Well, it could, but that'll happen in time. I hope."
Is he talking about me? He's looking at me as if he might be. But I don't know what to make of that, what to say to it, how to process it. This is unfathomable to me. A dog, a yard, peace and quiet. No view of the city, no endless parade of stories to invent, crossing thirteen stories beneath me. No expectations on my time. Choosing my own clothing. Discovering what I like . . .
It's all too much. I'm choking on possibilities. I turn away, yank the glass door open, dart through, find the hallway and the open door showing me the bathroom. I don't even bother closing the door behind me, I just collapse onto the lid of the toilet, face in my hands. My shoulders heave, and I feel tears sliding down.
I don't know why I'm crying, but I can't stop it.
I jump a mile into the air when I feel a cold nose touch my cheek. She doesn't lick me or bark or jump on me, she just lays her chin on my knee. I laugh through my tears at her expression, wide dark eyes gazing at me, as if she could somehow commiserate, as if she's trying to communicate to me. Comforting me with her presence.
And it works.
I bury my fingers in her soft, silky, short, chocolate-brown fur, scratch her floppy ears, pet her thick neck.
"See what I mean?" Logan's voice, from the doorway. "There's a reason we call dogs 'man's best friend.' This is why."
I sniffle and feel a fresh wave of tears flow over me, hide my face against Cocoa's shoulder and cry on her; her only reaction is to put her chin on my shoulder and very gently lick the lobe of my ear.
Eventually, it passes. I look up, and Logan is sitting on the floor beside me, legs stretched out, back against the wall.
"I'm sorry," I murmur, wiping my face. "I don't know why--"
"Stop," he interrupts. "You don't have to apologize. I know--I get the feeling you've been through a lot. You don't have to tell me anything, I just . . . I'm here to help, okay?"
I struggle for calm, my emotions still running on high, turbulent and mixed up. "Why, Logan? You don't know anything about me. Why do you want to help me?" I wipe at my eyes again. "You just made yourself an enemy of Caleb. And for what?"
He moves to kneel in front of me, nudges the bill of his hat up out of my face. "Don't you worry about him. Okay? Caleb is not your problem anymore. He's mine." His fingers brush over my cheekbones. "As for why I'm doing this? I wish I could say it was pure altruism, rescuing the damsel in distress because I'm just that kind of knight in shining armor. I can't say that, though."
I have to focus on blinking, on breathing, on not letting myself dive forward and inhale his scent and feel his muscles under my hands and taste his tongue and lips and neck. Instead, I just stare at him, and hold myself utterly still. "Why not?"
"Because the truth is, I have far more selfish motivation. I mean, yeah, you didn't belong there, and I just . . . I had to get you out. But . . . getting you away from Caleb's cameras and security gorillas . . . getting you alone . . ."
"You wanted me alone?" Why is that the only thing I'm seizing on?
"Yeah. I did."
"We're alone now." I've whispered it, my voice dropping to nothing at all, a tiny sound, a breath. His face seems closer, and I can smell him now, and feel his hands on my thighs.
"Yeah," Logan says, his voice not much louder than my own. "That's true."
But then Cocoa barks, a happy ruff, as if she too wants to be in on the moment.
Logan stands up. He's breathing heavily, brows lowered, eyes intent. He gestures at the glassed-in shower. "You wanted a shower. I don't have any girly shower stuff, unfortunately, but you can get clean, at least." He pats his thigh, and Cocoa leaves my side to sit at his, tongue lolling out. "I'm going to take Cocoa on a little walk, give you some privacy, okay? I'll lock up and arm the alarm when I leave. Towels and washcloths under the sink. We can go get some lunch whenever you're ready."
He slaps the post of the door, offering me a quick smile. And then he's gone. I hear something jingling, hear claws on the floor, the door open, beeping of the alarm as he enters the code. Then the door closes, and I'm alone.
For the first time that I can remember, I am truly, completely alone.
There are no cameras watching my every move, no hidden microphones recording my every sound. No security waiting somewhere, should I try to leave on my own. No Len, no Thomas . . .
No Caleb.
I have a flash of memory, Caleb's eyes on mine, dark and intense with the fury of orgasm. Hands on me, a moment of something like connection. Face-to-face, for the one and only time.
Had Caleb stayed, what could have been? There is much behind those nearly black eyes, a world of emotion, a world of thoughts indecipherable and deep. Caleb admitted things to me, truths I never thought to hear.
But Caleb walked away.
And now I'm alone.
When showering . . . before . . . I would always disrobe in the bathroom, and dress there as well. If there was any room in that condo that I might have had any privacy, it would have been the bathroom. And I didn't like the feeling of being watched as I did something so private and personal as change.
But now, I can do whatever I want.
I am alone.
It feels like the greatest freedom to walk out into the living room, to examine the huge TV and the brown microfiber couch, the stereo, the artwork on the walls ranging from band posters to classic paintings--to do so alone, unobserved. The silence is thick, blissful. The sense of isolation is lovely.
There is a staircase, a landing. On the wall facing the rising stairs is a painting.
Starry Night, by Van Gogh.
I wonder if it means something personal to him, as it does to me, or if it's just another piece of art?
The kitchen is small, clean, inviting. A small dining room, a round table with two chairs, one pulled out as if recently sat in. A pile of magazines and envelopes, a set of keys on a ring. Logan Ryder, an envelope says, with an address.
A thought seizes me as I stand in the kitchen; before I can second-guess myself, I reach up behind my back, tug down the zipper of my dress. My heart hammers in my throat. I shrug out of the garment, let it pool to the floor. Bra, and then underwear. I'm naked now, in Logan's kitchen. There's the sliding glass door, the backyard, the high wall. Trees beyond, but no buildings, no one to see unless it's a helicopter flying overhead.
Daring, a little afraid, nervous, I step outside, just for the thrill of it.
I'm outside, totally nude.
I want to dance and scream in joy at the feeling, the freedom. I dare a half dozen steps out into the yard, look around me at the fence rising a dozen feet over my head, blocking my view and that of the neighbors.
And then I hear a voice from behind the fence to my left, and I dart back inside, shaking. I waste no more time getting into the shower, the wa
ter just a little too hot. There's a bottle of two-in-one shampoo and conditioner and a bar of soap; I smile to myself as I lather my hair and scrub at my scalp, remembering Logan's claim to not have any "girly shower stuff."
I take a long, long time scrubbing my body. Scrubbing the memory of Caleb off me. Trying to scrub away a lingering thought, a faint, almost guilty wish, a wondering at what could have been, had Caleb stayed.
I scrub that wish away until my skin feels raw. Caleb didn't stay; I was taken, used to sate some kind of need, and then left alone yet again, as always.
But I cannot, no matter how I try, pretend there wasn't a moment, however fleeting, when Caleb's eyes met mine and a moment of intimacy existed. That happened. It was real. I know I didn't imagine it. As quickly as it occurred, however, Caleb squashed it like an offensive bug.
And that, more than anything else, helped prompt my desire to escape. I dared hope for intimacy, for a glimpse of who Caleb is. A glimpse of the man, rather than the figure, the master, the owner. But such a hope was--and always will be, I now believe--in vain.
I twist the hot-water knob until my skin tingles with the heat, as if I could scald the hurt away.
Even after all I've endured, my weakness for Caleb remains. I fear him, yet I need him.
And I hate myself for it.
I am here, I think, to try to scour away that need. To replace it, perhaps, with need for someone else.
I am drawn to Logan, hypnotized by him, mesmerized, entranced, enthralled.
He is so kind. So thoughtful.
So warm.
But beneath that is a core of ice and steel; behind his indigo eyes lurks the cunning of a predator, I sometimes think, the ferocity of a warrior.
And that, as much as I fear it, also makes me feel safe.
Eventually I know I can linger in the shower no longer, and I turn the water off, find a thick rust-red towel folded into neat thirds under the sink, wrap it around my tingling body. Wrap another around my head to sop up some of the water; my hair is so thick that without a blow dryer, it will be damp for hours. I peek my head out of the bathroom and sense that I'm still alone. I find the bag with my new clothes in it by the front door. I have it in my hand, and at that moment, the deadbolt knob twists, the door swings in toward me, and my heart leaps into my throat.