Page 45 of The Wanderer

He'd wanted a story and hadn’t cared how low he had to stoop to get it, unrepentant that he'd hurt her in the process. He didn't care about her and he certainly didn't love her as he'd professed after two weeks into their whirlwind romance. Despite watching people suck up to her parents because of their money her entire childhood, she'd fallen for a swindler regardless. A stupid, gullible fool, taken in by smooth words, a charming smile, and a man who appeared to be her equal in every way.

When she’d lashed out, he’d served up the truth about her trust fund as a parting gift. She hadn’t wanted to believe him and had confronted her parents demanding answers. To her horror, they hadn’t baulked or shirked the truth. Hell, they hadn’t even apologised. In their eyes, they’d been entirely justified in lying to her in order to bend her to their will.

“It’s for your own good, dear,” her dad had the audacity to say, while her mum looked on, dry-eyed, while Hope crumpled in the face of their deception.

A month later, Harry had recorded her songs and passed them off as his own to the world, cementing what she already knew.

Never trust anybody, ever.

She knew the screw-ups in her past were the reason she pushed Logan away earlier. Seeing the overt poverty of his house had set off something inside her, the thought he may have fooled her too, that everything they’d shared to date might be based on a lie, seemed too unbearable to contemplate.

But what would Logan hope to gain by pretending to be a rich guy? He’d made no moves to gain access to her fortune. He didn’t crave a cushy lifestyle. He was a man's man who enjoyed simple pleasures. He'd appeared uncomfortable when she'd taken him to the State Library and the Langham. He'd been more at home at the footy and his favourite pub.

It didn't seem like a ruse, but she'd been duped before.

"Screw this," she muttered, shoving the lid back on the box. Reminiscing about the past wasn't helping her gain clarity about her future.

As she shoved the box back in its spot, she realised something. She had no keepsakes from her time with Logan. Nothing but memories.

It saddened her. She'd have to make do with the studio, and remembering him every time she recorded a song.

She'd never forget him.

That would have to do.

Chapter Twenty-Three

As Logan wound his way through the club's patrons, he had plenty of time to second-guess his decision.

But he'd come this far; he had to go through with it.

A burly bouncer stopped him from slipping backstage so he gave his name and asked to see Stephen Holmes. The bouncer eyed him with suspicion before heading off, reappearing a few moments later and beckoning him to follow.

The air backstage smelled musty, making his lungs seize. Though that probably had more to do with the bouncer pointing to a red door at the end of the corridor and saying, “Steve’s in there.”

"Thanks," he said, earning a grunt from the bouncer as he headed back to the stage door.

Logan glared at the damn door, all too aware that what lay behind it was worse than anything he'd ever confronted before. He had no idea how long he stood in that dimly lit corridor, but eventually willed his feet to move and trudged the remaining steps towards the door.

Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his cheeks as his fingers curled into a fist, ready to knock. But his arm rose halfway as the door opened and his father smiled that smile. The one Logan had seen on stage. The one that made him feel five fucking years old, filled with hope and joy to have this man in his life.

His dad.

What a crock of shit.

Stephen Holmes didn’t deserve the title and never did.

"Good to see you, Son." Stephen held the door wider, nothing but guileless expectation on his face. He'd aged gracefully, with creases fanning from the corners of his eyes, grooves bracketing his mouth, and greying at the temples the only signs of him being fifty-something.

He wore a stylish black open-necked shirt and black denim with cowboy boots, adding to his agelessness. But when Logan met his gaze, he glimpsed the same mix of emotions rioting through him—fear, regret, sorrow—and the knowledge of what his father must’ve recently gone through with the cancer scare had aged him.

"Wish I could say the same," Logan muttered, steeling his resolve as he pushed past his dad without a handshake.

He couldn't do this.

What had he been thinking?

The rage had returned, swamping him in a suffocating wave, desperate to eradicate the past and making him wish he could forget he had a father.

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