Page 148 of Bloom: Part 2

“You know I love you, right?”

Tears rushed into his eyes again, and his lips trembled into a smile. “Shucks, kid. I know, but it’s good to hear it.”

I left Crowe and walked to the waiting area. Logan sat staring at his phone screen. When I approached, he looked up and stood. His left arm was in a sling, heavily bandaged.

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“The sling is just to keep my arm from being too mobile. How is Max?”

I shook my head. Nothing new to report. Still in a coma. “I spoke to Crowe just now. I think he’s too worried about Max to be too upset about us leaving the country.”

“I wouldn’t mind his anger for a bit if it means Max wakes up.”

“I know. Should we go home?”

“Home or the clubhouse?”

“Home.”

45

LOGAN

The waiting area was a mix of sterile walls and muted chaos. People sat in rigid chairs arranged in neat rows, their expressions ranging from nervous anticipation to quiet resignation. The air smelled faintly of sweat and disinfectant. I sat stiffly, gripping my knees, as a clock on the wall ticked. Each second stretched into eternity.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, tapping my foot on the floor. A guard behind the counter glanced at me, his bored expression holding no interest. He barked a name—someone else’s—and a man shuffled forward to meet whoever he’d come for. I stared after him, my stomach twisting.

Maybe I shouldn’t have come. I should’ve stayed far away, kept the past buried where it belonged.

But I was already here…

“Logan Collier,” the guard finally called. My name echoed in the hollow room, louder than I’d expected. Heads turned, some curious, others indifferent. I stood and followed the guard through the heavy steel door that led to the visitation area.

The room wasn’t much better. The gray walls were as lifeless as I assumed the people within them were. I sat on one of the four bolted-down chairs around the table in the center of the room, my palms sweaty against my thighs. Time dragged. I scanned the room, taking in every detail—the scuff marks on the floor, the faint scratch marks on the table’s edge, the cracked plaster on the far wall. My thoughts swirled with every reason why I shouldn’t have come. What would I even say? What would he say? It’d been too damn long. I shouldn’t have let Joel talk me into seeing my father.

The door creaked open, and I froze.

When my father walked in, my breath hitched. He looked… smaller. Not physically—he was still tall, still carried a shadow of the broad-shouldered man I remembered—but his presence had diminished. His once-commanding gait was replaced by the shuffle of prison-issued shoes. His face, lined and hollowed, betrayed the weight of years spent behind bars. His dark hair was streaked with gray, and his eyes, once sharp and calculating, were dulled by time.

He stopped a few feet from the table, his gaze meeting mine. I’d expected anger, but what I saw stunned me: sadness, regret, and something else I couldn’t name. It rooted me in place, choking off any words I might’ve had.

“Keegan,” he whispered.

My name hung in the air, heavy and sharp. I leaned back, tightening my jaw. “I go by Logan now, and before you get any wild ideas, I’m not here to make amends,” I said, each word deliberate, cutting. “And I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I don’t regret what I did back then.”

He nodded slowly, pressing his lips into a thin line, and sat across from me. “I’ve accepted that,” he said quietly. “I’m so fucking happy to see you after all these years.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Out of curiosity, what do you think you would achieve by pestering me? Emil’s capable of leading the family. Why do you insist on wreaking havoc in my life? Haven’t you done enough?”

“I wanted to see my son.” He raised his chin, his jaw jutted proudly, and there it was—the man I’d grown up with. “Like you, I’m not here to tell you I’m sorry for what I did. I did what I had to for the family—for you—and that means we didn’t always agree, but you’re still my son. Did you honestly think I tried to kill you?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I am your father, Keegan, and nothing can change that. Not even your new surname. I don’t like what you did, but…it took balls.”

Was that admiration in his tone?

“All this could’ve been avoided if you’d treated us equally,” I said, my voice rising. “If you hadn’t played favorites, if you’d given Emil or anyone else a chance. I never wanted that life, yet you insisted—”

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