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This is the worst, and I’m reminded of it the minute Dan walks in the door. Just the sound of the doorbell has me wishing it was Logan. Dan’s a fine person, but he’s not the man of my dreams. By definition, no one is but Logan.
My dad introduces himself to Dan and then ushers him into the kitchen, giving me smiles and nudges like he’s trying to set the two of us up. This needs to stop, now, but I’m not about to make a big scene about it in front of a guest. My father and I already had it out all of yesterday and today I’m just trying to be as calm as I can, even though inside I’m dying. It’s like a death by a thousand cuts with every minute that passes without Logan.
“Tell us a little more about yourself, Dan,” my dad asks, looking at me to make sure I’m paying attention…which I’m absolutely not. I just want this project to be over and done with so I can transfer out of community college and to the four year university where dad enrolled me. At least if I’m out from underneath his nose there’s a slim chance of a reconciliation with Logan, although if the way my dad’s acting lately is any indication, even that is a pipe dream.
Dan pops off some canned replies as if he’s running for a political office. I try and act politely and pay attention, not to mention Dan never did anything to me and he’s a guest. On top of that, I don’t need dad harassing me tonight after he leaves.
After my dad seems satisfied he pulls out a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet and sets out three glasses. My dad has never offered me alcohol, not to mention I’m underage. This is beyond weird.
He pours the three shots, one into each glass before Dan asks if we should add a single ice cube to each glass. My dad agrees and moves toward the freezer while Dan turns his back toward me and when he turns back around the glasses are stacked like a triangle.
“Cool, huh? I should have been a geometry major.”
“Yeah, it’s neat…a good bar trick.”
My dad returns with the ice cubes, plunking them in the glasses before offering me one. Next thing I know we’re toasting to my acceptance to a new university and as much as I don’t want to drink, and considering I’m not a drinker anyway, I tip back the shot. Right now I’d do anything to take the sting of Logan not being here and to try and ease this surreal Twilight Zone moment of my dad trying to hook me up with my classmate…who has a preference for other boys.
My throat burns instantly and my stomach feels like an acid ball just got dropped on it. I quickly make my way to my seat and sit down, ready to finish up this project.
“Wow, it’s been a while since I drank,” dad says, shaking his head from side to side. “My tolerance must be low.”
I try and do the same with my head, but it’s throbbing. I start to make some suggestions about the project feeling extremely sleepy. Looking over at my dad I watch him lie down on the kitchen floor. What the…?
And a second later my whole world goes black as I faceplant into the table.
12
Logan
I beat my thumb against the steering wheel and tap my foot against the floorboard.
Eric’s not answering my calls and neither is Layla, but then again I’d bet anything Eric’s taken control of her phone.
I need to get inside that house, past their gate, to state my case. It’s been a day and a half and I haven’t seen anyone come or go, offering me no opportunities.
Until now.
A van slowly glides to a stop and someone gets out from the passenger side. Anxiously I grip my door handle, ready to make my move when whoever this crew is enters. A white, unmarked van is clearly here to do some kind of work on their home so I should be able to slip in. Should being the keyword.
By the time I make out the first face, recognizing it instantly, I think to myself…shouldn’t that kid from the other night be driving something a little more collegiate looking?
Maybe he just came from whatever job he works to pay for school. But if that’s his job then why hasn’t his co-worker pulled away from the curb?
My muscles tense at the thought of the same little fucker going back inside their house, after I scared him off, yet me, as the best friend of the owner since childhood and the man who’s claimed Layla, I can’t even get a callback.
The van idles and via my slightly rolled down window, I hear the engine shut off. What the?
Being two of the very few vehicles on the block doesn’t make this any easier. I move my big body over the center console, thankful for my illegally tinted driver’s side window. Slowly I make sure not to shake the car, which at my height and weight is easier said than done.
Once in position, I slide my hand back under the driver’s side seat and unvelcro the handgun I keep for situations just like this.
Slowly opening the passenger door I slide out, staying low to the ground as I work my way around the back of my car until I’ve got an angle which shows me who’s sitting inside the van courtesy of the driver’s side mirror.
And who else would it be but a dead man, the same man I shot on a pier in Boston eight years ago when he tried to ambush Eric and me, the last deal Eric ever went out on until I sent him out on the most recent one, which by the way I still don’t know how that one turned out.
This isn’t making sense. At all.
I watch as the gate opens and the kid goes inside. I’m too late to slide in behind him, not to mention the gate closes too quickly.
