Expel (12 page)

Chapter 18
 

Right Here, Right Now
     

OK—so, pissing off Michelle Miller on the first day of our questionable road to friendship probably wasn’t the brightest idea given her sanity is in the process of being restored. But, nevertheless, I’m with Logan and we’re driving off into the blank of night so I can fill him in on all sorts of facts about himself, such as, contrary to his behavior, he really is not an ass.

“Where should we go?” I ask. I’ve been driving for a half hour solid, and he looks as though he’s about to nod off.

Who would have guessed that I’d put both Oliver boys to sleep on Valentine’s Day?

“Falls.” He points over to the backlit sign, so I pull into the dirt lot overlooking the lake.

A smattering of rowboats are strewn about the glittering pool of black. An entire constellation of stars speckle the water with their hazy reflection, quelling the sound of the falls with an auspicious calm. Couples sit knee to knee, others with arms and legs lassoed around one another, lips pulled together as one. The entire setting is undeniably romantic.

“Let’s go.” He ejects himself from the car before I can properly protest. It was going to be one thing to sit in the car and discuss Logan’s prick-like behavior, it’s entirely another hopping in a boat with him, depending on the warmth of his body to keep me from freezing to death.

I’m guessing Gage will be less than impressed to learn where his girlfriend has managed to land herself on this night in particular and with the perpetrator who assaulted him just hours before.
 

I chase after him in the virginal night, a puff of fog dances over the moist ground as my feet disrupt the mist that hugs the soil. My shoes snag on crushed reeds, my ankles turn on the unsteady landscape, retarding my ability to keep up with him. It’s too dark to navigate the terrain. It feels as though I’m about to fall down a very steep staircase with every move I make.

“Wait!” I shout. My voice echoes off the embankment, disrupting the sentimental atmosphere people are busy etching into their memories. Girls are like that—cataloging holidays, anniversaries, birthdays—all relationship milestones deep into our memory bank. We could tell you exactly how we spent most of those occasions down to what we were wearing. We stain our conscious with the vivid details of sight and sound and scent, even what the goofball with us had on and whether or not he looked like a moron.

The sound of rushing water intensifies as I draw closer to the lake. It blankets over my voice and tempers my anxious shouts for Logan to slow down.

“Logan!” I catch up to him at the waterline, panting from the sprint.

He plucks a boat from out of a marsh and slips it onto shore. Rust rises up on the paltry vessel’s side, a thick blanket of algae covers the bottom. Makes it look like a living thing, the leaf of some exotic plant you could crawl inside and float in.

“Come on, I’ll row us out.”

I don’t think twice, just hop in like a trained circus poodle. I’m exhausted, and at this point, the thought of taking a seat sounds far too inviting to pass up. I’d sit on a Fem’s lap if the situation presented itself.

The stars shine in all their glory through an ethereal haze that illuminates a rich shade of blue, and I wonder if this has anything to do with the Counts but shrug it off because it’s Valentine’s and magical things abound on this celebratory commercialized span of twenty-four hours.

Logan rows us off to the quiet end of the lake, away from the other couples seeking privacy behind the falls. Brielle and Drake are somewhere out there, or Drake and Emily, either way, Drake’s car is in the lot.
 

“You really saved my ass.” He expels a sigh, and an entire smoky-river emits from his nostrils.

“About that—” I start.

He pulls me forward until I’m sitting on his lap.

“Um, excuse me?” I try to rise, but he warms my arms with his hands, tempers my shivers by leaning me close to his chest.

The romantic implications of it all hit me, and suddenly I feel a tremendous amount of guilt for boarding this vessel. Of course, I’ll have to confess all this to Gage come morning. I’m sure that won’t be stress inducing in any way to hear his girlfriend spent ode-to-couples day sitting in her ex-boyfriend’s lap.

I hop off his knees and land next to him, trying to hide the fact I can’t control my shiver. I’m here to help him, not help myself to him.

I should feel heroic over the fact I’m saving Logan from an impending, and rather permanent, douchebag status that he’s bravely frontiering. This is high school after all, once you determine your social standing, it sticks with you for life. Ten years from now when everyone’s waxing nostalgic for all things West Paragon I’d hate for people to think of Logan, and the next thing that rolls off their tongue to be,
he was such a douchebag
. It’s like a prison sentence he’d wear for life.

“OK,” I roll my head back onto his shoulder and he lands a soft kiss on each of my eyelids. “What was that for?” I panic.

Confession—the fact Logan peppered my face with kisses is going to guarantee a setback for both Gage’s health and the health of our relationship.

“I’m showing you my appreciation,” Logan tries seducing me with his citrine bedroom eyes. “I’m alive—breathing right now, all because of you. I hate dead. Being dead sucks.”

“Yeah, we’ve already determined that, and, by the way, you’re welcome. Don’t feel like you owe me anything because you’ve done so much for me with the Mustang, the insurance, the job—
bail
. Let’s call it even.” OK, so I should probably offer to pay him back, but that’s not an acute issue at the moment.

Logan maneuvers the boat between a thicket of reeds tall as a person. The strong scent of rosemary perfumes the air with a fragrant howl as a choir of crickets destroy the silence with its chirping symphony. I close my eyes a moment—let the world vanish to cinders beneath my newly christened lids.

“I don’t think we’re even,” he whispers, dragging a fire line down the side of my neck with his lips.

“Whoa,” I straighten in an effort to stave him off, causing the tiny craft to wobble. “You know,” I push my shoulder into his face to deflect his unwanted affections, “you’ve been acting more than a little strange since you’ve come back. I know you mentioned the live for today stuff and you’re really stoked about having a new lease on life, but let’s call a spade a spade—you’re about to go down in the history of West as a total jackass supreme.”

“Probably,” he says, slinking his hands up the back of my sweater and offering a spontaneous massage.

Sadly, I delay in deflecting those particular efforts because, for one, his hands are oven hot, and two, the massage feels rather necessary at this point.

I give a few involuntary moans as I point over the tops of my shoulders, and Logan is quick to accommodate.
 
 

“Recognizing the fact you’re an asshole is a great start,” I pluck his arms free from under my sweater since he accidentally on purpose just unhooked my bra, but I don’t call him on it. “So, the
old
you was kind and courteous, and would never in a million years juggle the breasts of three girls at once.”

A quick bout of laughter escapes him.

“I’m here to live, Skyla. I’m a guy. We were born to juggle, snuggle—you name it. Besides, what fun is being Logan Oliver if I can’t enjoy a breast or two?” His hand crawls up my front like a tarantula.

“Logan!” I bat him away.

“Come on, Skyla.” In one swift move he knocks me back and lands on top of me with his full weight, “Let me give you a proper thank you. Show you how well all the essential parts are functioning.”

“Again, no need for a thank you or a demonstration,” I try to wrestle his hands from gliding back up my sweater, but it’s proving to be a futile effort. And judging by the rock hard bulge in his jeans, everything’s in full working order, that, or he’s smuggled a root beer bottle on board.

Logan pushes his lips over mine, crushes me with his chest as he fiddles with the buckle on his jeans.

“Stop! I can’t breathe.” God—I’m going to have to use my Celestra strength just to get out of this mass tangle of flesh. The strange part is, he hasn’t had one single thought. He’s either put a moratorium on thinking, or the Mustang caused a mass exodus of brain cells. Chloe’s power-mower skills have turned Logan into a classic jock airhead rife with hypersexual tendencies.

Logan doesn’t stop. He reaches up my sweater, lands himself on second base without the proper invitation.

“Let go right now,” I seethe, “or I will go ninja all over your ass.”

But he doesn’t listen. He’s all hot and bothered, twisting and writhing over me, too busy suctioning his lips to my flesh to hear me. I try to slap him out of his lust-inspired stupor, but nothing.

Logan squeezes and gropes like he’s testing produce at the grocery store. I hone in all of my pissed off glory and knee him hard in the balls. I think I’ve just successfully reduced the odds of him procreating with his newfound asshole genes, down to nil.

Logan rolls off into a fetal position, choking on his pain.

I yank an oar off the side mount, spike it into the water in an effort to get back to dry land, and the boat starts on a sideways spin.

“I’m sorry, Skyla.” He thrusts himself on top of me.

In an effort to scoot the hell away, I accidentally launch my upper torso into the water. I manage to hook my knees over the side of the aluminum structure to halt myself from falling in completely. Water rushes in, fills my ears with the soft sound of effervescence. Giant bubbles prick my face as I let out an underwater scream from the icy shock.

My arms flail as I try to surface for a breath. Logan reaches down and grabs a hold of my hair at the base of my neck. My left leg ejects into the water as the boat gyrates wildly. Logan locks his hand over the back of my head. My arms flail in histrionics, my legs kick out—can’t breathe.

My nostrils burn from taking in a blast of frozen liquid.

“Stupid bitch,” he grunts, pushing my other leg over the side.

It occurs to me as I sputter and twirl my way to the surface that just maybe Logan wasn’t helping me up—just maybe he was holding me down, throwing me overboard.

I come up and pinch my nose, spit several times as I continue to gasp for air. Logan thrusts the oar in my direction with a violent swing, and I manage to duck before he decapitates me with the effort.

“Stop pissing around, Skyla,” he disrupts the night with an unnatural aggression.

I swim over to shore, climb over moss-covered rocks turning my ankle in the process.

“Skyla?” He calls, but I don’t answer.

I run like hell to the Mustang and give a NASCAR worthy performance the hell away from Logan Oliver.
  
 

Chapter 19

Love Hurts

 
I’m so thankful Mom and Tad are still not back from their Valentine’s misadventure. I loathed the thought of having to render an explanation as to why I’m sopping wet, not to mention the fact my face is red and swollen from sobbing over the idea Logan Oliver really is a jackass. I’ll just have to learn to live with the fact he’s morally bankrupt and virtually irredeemable.

I catch a glimpse of the horror that is me in the hallway mirror. I have the lake’s equivalent of seaweed woven throughout my hair, and I’m ten times more pathetic looking than previously imagined. A nice hot shower is in order before I map out my revenge on said jackass, but as I’m about to head upstairs, the steady rhythm of hiccups captures my attention.

I spy Mia crumpled on the couch in the family room pumping some serious heartache into a pillow, and I race on over.

“What happened?” I ask lower than a whisper, ignoring the fact she might parrot the question in my direction.

“Gabriel danced with Melissa all night.”

“That’s because he’s an ass,” I say it sweetly, pushing the perspiration-soaked hair from off her forehead.

I just want to run to the freezer and grab a pint of chocolate peanut butter ice cream and spend the rest of the night watching chick flicks with my sister, but I have to wash the bodily fluids of Logan the predator off my person first.

“Look,” I wag her by the chin. “I’ll run up, take a quick shower, then maybe we can watch a movie and eat ice cream.”

“You mean it?”

“Of course, I mean it.”

“Tad says all you ever do is lie, that we shouldn’t trust you.” Her features soften with disappointment. Mia accepts every word from Tad’s lips as gospel. That’s what the hell is wrong with this family—they keep listening to Tad.

“Tad is just another ass like Gabriel Armistead.” And Logan Oliver.

Really I should educate both her and Melissa on Chloe’s faux maxim she espoused at winter formal,
chicks before dicks and all that good stuff
. Plus they’re sisters, there must be some deeper code of ethics when dating and relations are involved. Logan and Gage dart through my mind. That ended badly.

I give her a heartfelt hug, feel her hot cheek rub up alongside mine and savor the moment. When Mia was little she used to inundate me with hugs, beg for them like they were candy. Once Melissa came along, the only body part she wanted to shower me with was her middle finger. This is the Mia I miss—sweet, achingly sweet and vulnerable, Mia.

“I love you, Mia,” I whisper. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”
 

***

I can’t get into a scalding hot shower fast enough. I lock my door and push the dresser over a notch out of habit, pull out a pair of sweats that happen to be my own for a change. Soon I’m going to have an entire pile of laundry that belongs to Gage. Of course, I’ll wash it for him, fold it—spray it down with my perfume before I give it back.

How am I ever going to tell Gage about what happened tonight without stressing him out into a coma? Of course he’s going to get pneumonia—
double
pneumonia along with a triple coronary. It’ll be a miracle if I don’t finish him off before prom.

Logan is on a determined path toward assault charges, or worse—manslaughter, judging by the way he held my head underwater. I shudder recalling the words that flew from his lips. He’s become unrecognizable, a beast, a monster. Maybe that’s why you should never bring people back from the dead. Look at Chloe? And Holden? Both your textbook assholes and probably Ethan, too, I just haven’t had time to analyze him properly.

On my way to the bathroom, a strange arrangement of jewelry catches my attention. Two of my necklaces form a large silver heart, set over my laptop.

Great.

Mia and Melissa must have been fishing around in my jewelry box again. I flip up the magazine that hides the third disc Marshall gave me. Clearly I’ll have to put this in a location Mia and Melissa would never think to look, lest I wake up one morning and find it strapped around one of their necks. I flip the coin in the air and catch it. The wall safe in the butterfly room is the best place for this.

I head into the shower. I don’t even wait for the water to heat up before jumping in and lathering up with enough soap to remove the lake slime off my body.

Logan and his misguided behavior run through my mind. Obviously serious brain damage has occurred. How can I be mad at him? He could never be so cruel or heartless. This is devastating. Maybe I can talk to Ezrina? I bet she has some elixir somewhere that can repair the damage, and he’ll be back to his sweet self in no time. Although—if I continue to let him act like a monkey with his balls on fire, it might be a great way for me to finally get over him. It might be the only way.

I let the water run over my shoulders, a little too hot, for a little too long. Unexpected tears mix into the fold. For some reason these four smoky walls are the only place it feels safe to admit that I still have very strong feelings for old Logan. I don’t care what Chloe or even Gage try to feed me about him, I know sweet sensitive Logan wasn’t a figment of my imagination. I cherished the way he would drink me in with those glowing amber eyes, the way he soothed me with his calm, even tone—his vibrant kisses, each with a life of its own. Was I truly so blind in love that I couldn’t see him for the person he really was? There is no way he could have always been so horrible. It’s just not possible.

Our short time together runs through my mind like a silent movie. The first moment we met, our first time at the falls, battling Fems, him taking me under his wing and training me—how he let me go to protect me. An entire wall of tears gush from me, warm and salty rivaling the water pouring over my shoulders for attention. I give in and mourn Logan, the old version that I would die to have back. I miss his easy ways, the constant assurance of his love.

I miss it. I miss the way Logan Oliver loved me.

I turn off the water and wrap the towel around my damp flesh, get out and stare at my soft impression in the foggy mirror. I’m too numb to move, too warped from the heartache of losing the lover of my heart, to face a moment—an entire future without him.

A letter begins to form on the glass. The letter S, then K, then, Y- L - A.

“Go to hell, Holden.” Holden Kragger is going to try to officiate this as the worse Valentine’s ever, but I won’t let him.
 

Another set of letters form beneath my name. L -O – G – A - N.

Logan? Was I mumbling Logan’s name in the shower? God—what if Holden, the not so friendly ghost, has harvested the power to read minds?

Just as I’m about to smear his efforts, a heart emerges, enwreathing both our names.

“Skyla,” a soft voice whispers, “I love you more than the heavens love the sun and the moon.”

A soft blue light illuminates the bathroom from behind.

I turn around and find a familiar lovely face staring back at me.

Logan.