Logan (The Kings of Brighton Book 2) Page 5

  Ignoring the nurses, like I’m used to being stared at and whispered about, I do my best Delilah Hawthorne impersonation, rolling my eyes and sighing again like this whole thing is completely ridiculous and not what it really is, which is completely nerve-racking and a little bit terrifying.

  Lifting my arm, I flash the security bracelet on my wrist. I can tell just by looking that it’s different than Logan’s. “Just show him your bracelet thingy, babe.” I chirp, looking up at Logan like a simpering idiot. When all he does is stare at the security guard, I reach down for his hand. Feeling the piece of paper he was waving in my face like a lunatic only a few minutes ago, I pull it free of his fingers and shove it into my back pocket because even though I have no idea what it is, I have a feeling he doesn’t want people to see it. Doesn’t want to answer questions about what it is. He doesn’t try to stop me from taking it. Doesn’t tell me to give it back. To be honest, from the way his shoulders relax when I pull it from his grip, I’d say he’s glad I took it from him. Like whatever it is poisonous. Making him sick and being rid of it is a relief.

  Once it’s empty again, I drop my hand to wrap it around his wrist and lift it up for the security guard’s inspection. “See?” I say with a little huff of frustration, aiming a dirty look over the security guard’s shoulder to glare at the half dozen of his clones that just poured through the door that leads to the security checkpoint that Delilah and I had to pass through to get here. “Seriously? You called back-up? Lame.” It’s not lame. It’s probably standard procedure when there’s a disturbance reported on this floor, maybe even an added security measure that Tobias demanded since Silver and their newborn daughter are being housed here. Either way—not lame, but I say it anyway because I’m pretending to be Delilah, and she thinks everything that even mildly inconveniences her is lame.

  Seeing the bracelet, the security guard glowers at us while he reaches for his utility belt. Pulling out what looks like a weird cross between a glue gun and a calculator with an extra-large display screen, he aims the face of it at Logan’s wrist and pulls the trigger. I can’t see the screen but judging from the way Roman the security guard looks like he wants to throw up, what he sees is a security photo of Logan’s face and the confirmation that he’s exactly who I said he was.

  Tobias Bright’s brother.

  Jogging his gaze up to Logan’s face, Roman the security guard stares hard for a second, mouth twisted slightly like he’s trying to find some wiggle room in the mess he’s been dropped into. “Would you mind taking your glasses off, sir.”

  For a second, I don’t think he’s going to do it. That I’m going to have to reach up and pull them off his face, but then he moves. Pulling his wrist from my grip, Logan lifts his hand to his face and snags his glasses by their bridge. Pulling them loose, he folds their arms and hangs them from the neckline of his T-shirt before dropping his hands to his sides again.

  Without his glasses, Logan’s face is different than I remember. His cheekbones higher. His nose no longer as straight, like it’s been broken more than once. His jawline angular and strong. His mouth doesn’t belong. It’s softer than the rest of his face and disproportionate, his bottom lip slightly fuller than the top.

  None of it should work together, this collection of sharp angles and imperfect shapes, but it does. It works so well that I have a hard time breathing when I look at him because even though he looks different than I remember, I’d recognize him anywhere.

  It’s his eyes.

  They’re exactly how I remember them. Ice blue and piercing. The weight of them almost unbearably intense. So intense that when they’re aimed at you, you instantly start to feel uncomfortable. Looked through and picked apart. Invaded. Like he can see everything about you, every dirty thought you’ve ever had, with a single glance. Every twisted thing you’ve ever wanted in the space of a breath. As soon as Logan looks at him, the security guard starts to squirm like a worm on a hook.

  “Thank you, sir,” Roman the security guard mumbles as he fumbles with his machine, trying to jam it back into its loop on his belt. He’s flustered. Avoiding eye contact. Looking everywhere that isn’t Logan’s face. “You can put your glasses back on.”

  Logan doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for his glasses. Doesn’t put them back on. He just stands there and stares at Roman the security guard, like he’s punishing him until he turns to give some sort of invisible signal to his cluster of security clones. They visibly deflate and turn, one by one, toward the door that leads back the way they’d come—to the secure reception area and the elevator that will take them back to wherever they came from.

  “Thank you,” I gush, dialing back on my inner Delilah as I tighten my arm around Logan’s waist to dig my fingers into his hip, silently urging him to follow my lead. “This is all my fault. I was—”

  “You don’t owe him an explanation,” Logan says, reaching down to pull my hand off his hip and unwind my arm from around him. Instead of pushing me away like I expect, he slides his hand down the length of my arm to thread his fingers between mine. “Are we free to go?” Even though it’s a question, there’s a weight to it that makes it sound less like a question and more like a challenge.

  Obviously, he still has issues with authority.

  “Of course, Mr. Bright.” Roman the security guard bobs his head, gaze focused on Logan’s left ear. “I apologize for the confusion. You can understand that with your sister-in-law here, the level of security for this floor—”

  “It’s fine,” Logan tells him, not bothering to let him finish his apology. “Where can I find a vending machine?”

  “Vending machine?” Roman the security guard stares at Logan’s ear for a second and blinks like he doesn’t understand the question. “This floor boasts two gourmet restaurants that will prepare and deliver anything—”

  “Will they prepare and deliver Doritos and Poptarts?” Logan asks, cocking his head slightly. When the security guard just blinks at him, he nods. “Right. Vending machine?”

  “Ground floor,” Roman the security guard tells him, talking to his ear again.

  “Thanks,” Logan tells him, somehow making it sound like fuck off. Pushing himself out of the doorway, he skirts his way around the security guard and heads for the elevator, using the grip he has on my hand to pull me along behind him. Wherever he’s going, Logan intends to take me with him.

  Nine

  Logan

  I hate taking my glasses off. Hate the way people look at me when they see me without them—or don’t look at me. I used to think it’s because I look like him—my father—and that they recognize me. Know who I really am. That the glasses were a full-proof disguise and that without them, people could see the monster that lives inside me.

  It took me a while to realize that the way people look at me without my glasses has nothing to do with him. It’s me they’re seeing, not my father. It’s me that makes them uncomfortable.

  Me they want to run away from.

  Me they’re afraid of.

  The really fucked part is that sometimes I like it. The way people squirm when I show them the monster that lives inside me. The way they look anywhere but at my face because they’re scared shitless of what I might do if they look me in the eye.

  I enjoyed scaring the security guard.

  I liked it.

  Wanted to do it.

  What I didn’t want to do was scare Jane. Even though I should. Even though scaring the shit out of her is exactly what I should want to do, because it’s how I keep her away. How I keep her from following me down the hall, shouting a name I hate and accusing me of being someone I don’t want to be. It’s how I force her to keep my secrets. I scare her. I make her think I’ll hurt her if she tells anyone who I really am.

  Scaring her shitless is the smart thing to do. It’s what I planned on doing. Why I took her with me when I headed for the elevator. I was going to wait for the doors to close, and then I was going to corner her. Make her look at me. Show her t
he monster and tell her that if she tells anyone what she knows about me, that I’ll make her regret it.

  It’s what I planned, but it’s not what I do.

  Because I don’t want her to be afraid of me.

  Too late.

  She’s already afraid of you because she knows who you are.

  What you are.

  Even though she put her arm around me and called me babe and told everyone within earshot that I was her boyfriend to help me defuse the sticky situation with the security guard, she’s still afraid of me. How could she not be? She looks reasonably intelligent and I had her shoved up against the closed door of a deserted patient room less than ten minutes ago.

  So, yeah.

  She’s fucking terrified.

  As soon as the elevator doors slide closed, I pull my hand free of hers. I don’t like the way it feels. Empty. Insubstantial without the weight of hers pressed against it. To keep myself from reaching for her hand again, I raise mine to the neckline of my shirt and pull my glasses free. “Are you going to tell me how you know who I really am?” I ask while I clean my lenses with the hem of my shirt. There’s no point in pretending. No point in lying. I don’t know how she knows, but she does and after what she just pulled with the security guard, I want to lie to her even less than I want to scare her.

  “I—” Her shoulder shifts against mine and I fight the urge to look at her because I haven’t put my glasses back on yet. “No…” She sighs and shifts again like she’s getting ready to run away from me, even though I have no idea where she’d go. “I mean, I can’t.”

  “You can’t.” Shoving my glasses back onto my face, I finally let myself turn to look at her, using my defused gaze to snag hers. Hold her still. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  She frowns up at me, her brow crumpling at my tone. “It means I can’t,” she tells me, shifting again, this time with purpose. “I promised.” She leans forward and jabs her index finger against the button for the ground floor.

  “Promised who?” Countering her move with one of my own, I press the emergency button, and the elevator jerks to a stop.

  “What are you doing?” she demands, moving to reach around me to re-start the elevator. When I block her, she doesn’t look frightened. She looks pissed. “Are you crazy? You can’t just stop an elevator. Not unless—”

  “Not unless you’re Logan Bright and your brother owns the hospital.” Cocking my head to the side, I give her a smirk. “And you stopped the elevator so you can have hot make-up sex with your girlfriend after she just caused a huge scene outside your sister-in-law’s hospital room,” I say, reminding her that she told everyone that I’m her boyfriend. “Right, babe?”

  I expect her to freak out when I say it.

  She doesn’t.

  “Look—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything, okay?” She stacks her hands on her hips and tips her chin at an angle that can only be described as mutinous. “I just…” Her shoulders sag a little and she drops her hands with a sigh. “I was surprised to see you, and it just slipped, and then you acted like you had no idea what I was talking about, which you obviously did and I…” She sighs again and shrugs. “You don’t have to worry. I won’t tell anyone—I can’t tell anyone.”

  “Because you promised.”

  “Yes.” She nods, staring at me with those soft green eyes of hers, her chin still tilted up at me like she’s waiting for me to kiss her. She doesn’t want me to kiss her. She wants me to believe her, so I’ll start this elevator again and she can get away from me. “I keep my promises,” she tells me, a tough vein of stubborn running through her words.

  “Apparently.” Even though I know it’s what she wants me to do, I don’t turn to re-start the elevator. Instead, I just keep looking at her, trying to find a reason she should know me. A crack in the wall she’s put between us. A way to pry the truth out of her without her knowing.

  And then I remember who I am.

  What I do.

  “What’s your middle name?”

  When I ask it, her jaw tightens and she narrows her eyes at me. “Why?”

  “You know my middle name,” I say, reasoning with her. “It’s only fair.” When she doesn’t say anything in response, I give her a shrug and straighten my shoulders, completely blocking her view of the panel of elevator buttons behind me. “I’m very patient, Jane. I can stand here for hours.”

  Her gaze narrows down to slits. “A,” she says, refusing to give in completely. “My middle initial is A.”

  “Jane A. Halstead.” I say her name slowly, remembering what she told me when she was still thought I might be a reasonable human being. “That’s your name.”

  She doesn’t answer me. She just nods, that mutinous jut of her chin telling me she’s seconds away from exploding.

  That fucked-up part of me would very much like to see it. Instead of giving in and goading her further, I turn away from her to re-start the elevator. Within seconds, it hits the bottom floor and lets out a soft ding before the doors slide open. “Stay away from me, Jane A. Halstead,” I say without looking at her as I step off the elevator and into the main lobby of the hospital and let the doors slide closed between us.

  Ten

  Jane

  I don’t know what staying away from Logan Bright is supposed to look like exactly, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t look like me sneaking into work on a Sunday morning so I can dig up his employee file and pour over it like an obsessed weirdo.

  “Curious,” I mutter to myself as I turn my little brass key in the lock of the filing cabinet behind my desk. “I’m not obsessed. I’m just naturally curious.”

  The Siamese cat sprawled out on my desk lets out an answering meow. I can’t be sure, but I’m pretty sure she just called me a liar. “Shut-up,” I grumble, pulling the first file I have tucked into the top cabinet. The name BRIGHT, LOGAN E. printed in my own neat handwriting on its tab.

  He kept his middle name. Got rid of everything else that might remind him of his father and what he did, but he chose to keep the name Emmett.

  Interesting.

  Tucking the realization away so I can wonder about it later, I pull my chair away from my desk slowly to minimize its squeaks. If the cat is here, that means Tess and Declan are still here, holed up in the little studio apartment Declan built in the corner of the office. They’ve been sleeping here at night because he’s got her apartment above the garage torn up so he can enlarge the bedroom. I know because Tess grumbles about it every morning as she stomps her way across the office, stopping only long enough to say hello and scoop her cat off my desk, on her way out the door.

  Closing the file cabinet as softly as I can, I lower myself into my chair, using my bare toe to propel myself closer to the desk so I can set the file on top of it. The cat on my desk doesn’t move an inch. It just swishes and flicks its tail at the file while watching me with judgy blue eyes.

  Next to his name, I wrote a date: 10/31/18. He was hired as a bartender at Gilroy’s on Halloween. No application. No interview. No work or personal references. No real hiring process of any kind. Patrick just told me to put him on the payroll eight months ago, so I did. When I asked for necessary employment information, I was told it was on its way. It took several pay periods of me asking for his social security number and being told to just pay him out of petty cash before Conner swung by with one of the applications I insisted that Patrick keep on hand in his office at the bar. “Here ya go,” he said, handing it to me with a quick flash of his dimples before he strolled out again, here and gone before I could ask him any questions.

  That’s all that’s in his employee file. Everyone else has transcripts and certifications. Evaluations and assessments. Reference sheets and interview notes. All Logan’s file has in it is the application Conner dropped by.

  A single sheet of paper.

  His birthday is March 27th, 1991.

  His middle name is Emmett

  He lives in a low rent building clo
se enough to Gilroy’s that he can walk to work, but the neighborhood is sketchy enough to make me a little uncomfortable.

  He doesn’t have direct deposit.

  His brother, Jase, is listed as his emergency contact.

  None of it is anything I didn’t already know or couldn’t have guessed without the early morning scavenger hunt. Frustrated, I flip the paper over and keep reading.

  He went to Trinity his junior and senior year of high school and graduated from there in 2009. From there, he completed two semesters at MIT before he just… disappeared.

  No explanation for how he’s spent the last ten years of his life. No justification for his total lack of work history.

  His brother is loaded, dummy. Would you work if you literally had billions of dollars at your disposal?

  I try to imagine Logan lounging on a private beach somewhere or cruising the South of France is a 250-foot superyacht.

  I can’t.

  Remembering Tobias, and realizing that he must be the rich brother he insisted that he had when he was fifteen, I flip the page again so I can pick at the wad of useless information gathered on it in hopes of finding something I missed.

  I don’t.

  No mention of Brighton.

  No mention of being an emancipated minor.

  But he must’ve been, right?

  He went to Trinity. It’s a swanky New York private school—hundreds of miles away from BRIGHTON SCHOOL FOR BOYS. That means he got out. That my mother did what she promised. She helped him get out of that place.

  She saved him.

  I never knew for sure because she never told me and, because I promised her I wouldn’t, I never asked.

  Sticking Logan’s application back in his employee file, I scowl at how utterly useless it is and toss it aside in favor of my computer. Jiggling the mouse to wake it up, I wince a bit at how bright the screen is. Worried that its tattle-tail glow can be seen from space, I lift Tess’s cat off my desk and set her in my lap so I can access the internet. Connected, I type a few words into the search engine.