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Layla
“She’s eighteen now. She can fend for herself while we’re gone. It’s only a few days,” my dad says, looking across the dinner table at the man who towers over him.
Logan Steele.
He’s been my dad’s business partner for longer than I’ve been alive, but right now his eyes narrow and darken and he clearly puts the fear of death in my father.
“I don’t care how old she is. Someone needs to stay behind and watch over the girl.”
He leans back in his chair, the heavy wood creaking from his six and a half foot frame covered in thick muscle. Taking a pull of his glass of whiskey he signals that this conversation isn’t up for debate, and his words signify that I won’t be seeing him for a while, at least not anywhere but starring in my dreams until he gets back.
And that’s exactly where he’s always lived, in my dreams. Considering he just referred to me as ‘the girl’ it’s clear that’s where I’ll be staying, despite my desperation for him to see me as a woman. His woman.
Logan’s thick fingers take hold of a single cigar tube, turning it vertically and tapping it on the table three times before removing the illegal Cuban that was likely payment for an arms deal or some other illegal activity he and my dad have recently participated in.
He may think of me as a kid, but I grew up quick around these two, and I’m not so naive that I don’t know how my dad puts a roof over my head or how he affords a bulletproof Mercedes G-wagon.
Logan cuts the end of the cigar off and then picks up a zippo from the table, turning the tip of the cigar over the amber flame as he slowly puffs, his cheeks pulling in as he lights his contraband.
As his head turns to puff the first bellow of smoke away from the table, his eyes lock on mine and he freezes, his gaze throwing daggers in my direction.
I freeze, realizing neither he nor my dad must have known I was standing tucked behind the entryway from the living room just now, eavesdropping on their conversation.
“Get over here,” Logan calls, my dad saying nothing despite his best friend ordering around his daughter in his own home.
My feet feel like they’re stuck in some of the same concrete that it’s rumored Logan puts his adversaries feet in before he tosses them into the rivers and lakes in the tri-state area. And that’s if, and only if, he doesn’t remove their toes, fingers, and teeth so there are no identifying markers.
My trembling hand grips the doorjamb as hard as I can and I take a step forward on unsure legs, my knees wobbling as I move closer to the man my dad seems to think is more of an uncle figure to me than the man whose hands I want raking over my figure from head to toe all night long.
I’ve been saving myself for him and only him since I first understood what a crush was about three years ago. But instead of crushing on boys my age I skipped right past that and developed a full-blown obsession, going so far as to draw pictures of him in my books in school, accidentally writing his last name instead of mine on my homework, and fantasizing non-stop about what it would be like to be claimed by this man, the most powerful I’ve ever known.
Unlike my dad, who was a bit of a bumbling goof, Logan was a real man. My mom left us just after I was born so in a lot of ways I had to grow up fast. It’s one thing to have a single-parent home, but considering my dad was too focused on the business and watching sports to be a real father meant that there’s always been something lacking.
Even when I acted out and did badly in school my dad did nothing. Logan, on the other hand, was the man whose iron fist I wanted to grab me and pull me in line. The man who’s deep baritone which resonated from his barrel chest could make my back go ramrod straight and straighten me out in the process. He was the man I needed, a real father figure who cared.
When it came to my dad and Logan’s business Logan was clearly the muscle of the two, and darn near everything else. I think my dad got lucky and Logan was carrying him along for the ride, although I’m not entirely sure why anymore.
Logan clearly doesn’t need my dad and without him, he’d be raking in all the profits. There was just something about his loyalty to the people who were close to him, and considering he and my dad have been friends since they were kids, that loyalty runs deep, thicker than the thieves they are.
“Layla. I need you to go to your room now,” my dad says, talking to me like I’m fragile, made out of hand blown glass.
“Come here, Layla,” Logan repeats, forcing me to choose between him and my dad.
Although the last thing I want to do is disrespect my dad’s authority in our home, even though Logan is the one who walks around it like he owns it, I just can’t do anything else. Something about the man pulls me to him like a magnet and I move closer, every muscle in my body shaking as I come up to his chair.
“Closer. Don’t make me ask again,” he says when I think I’m already close enough, but apparently not.
I lunge forward on one leg, knowing I have to just do it before I psych myself out. As I drag my back leg across the marble floor that was paid for by the two men at the table’s nefarious activities, I lose my balance.
