Page 77 of Puck Struck
"Goodbye, Logan."
I pull open the door and step into the hallway. When it closes behind me, I lean against it for a second and press my fingertips to my throbbing temples. Part of me wants to go back in, to take it all back, to fall into the safety and warmth of what he's offering.
But I can't. I won't.
Back in my own room, I sink onto the edge of the bed, my head falling into my hands. My phone buzzes with a new message and the hairs on the back of my neck spring to attention.
Running away again, Connor? Some things never change.
I stare at the screen, ice forming in my veins. How the fuck does he know?
Another message follows, this one with an image. But this time, it’s not of me. It’s Logan's house back in Oakland. Ethan's blue bike visible in the driveway. And fuck my life, it was taken today.
I have eyes everywhere. Your new boyfriend can't protect you. No one can.
The implication is clear. James isn't just trackingme.He's watching everyone I care about, even when we're on the road.
A third message arrives and I’m ready to hurl my phone against the wall and watch it shatter.
Enjoy your little road trip while it lasts. Our two weeks aren't up yet, but my patience is wearing thin. I might not wait the full time after all.
I switch off my phone and toss it on the nightstand. Tomorrow we play St. Louis, then we head back home to Oakland and whatever James has planned. The two-week deadline he gave me suddenly feels much shorter, and not knowing his next move has my mind in a complete twist.
And Logan?
I scrub a hand down the front of my face and fall back onto the mattress. He'll be angry, hurt. He'll think I'm a coward, running from the first real thing I've felt in years.
And I am.
“It's better this way,” I say out loud, trying to convince myself to believe those bullshit words.
But as I lie awake in the dark, I don't believe it for a second.
TWENTY-ONE
logan
This hotel coffee is crap.It’s bitter and watery. Nothing like the coffee I make at home. I grip the handle of the mug tight, the tops of my fingers white against the porcelain. Gritting my teeth, I know it’s not the real reason for the shitty taste in my mouth.
The real issue is sitting five tables away, laughing at something Tate said, like he didn't walk out on me last night. Like he didn't shut down completely when I made the mistake of showing him too much of what I'm feeling.
I should have fucking known better. I’ve kept myself protected from emotional bullshit for years and decide that of all people, I’m going to open myself up to Cam Foster, probably the one guy who has more baggage than I do. Together, we could fill a goddamn luggage carousel at an airport.
Cam catches my eye across the hotel restaurant, his smile fading for a fraction of a second before he turns back to Tate looking more engaged than ever. But it’s bullshit. Even from here, I can see the strain around his eyes, the forced tone of his laugh.
Good. At least I'm not the only one feeling like shit.
I take another sip of the watery coffee, grimacing as Carter slides into the seat across from me.
"You two have a lovers' quarrel or something?" he asks.
I nearly spit out the shit coffee. "What?"
"You and Foster." Carter nods toward Cam's table. "You’re both trying so hard to pretend everything's normal that it's fucking painful to watch."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Carter lifts an eyebrow. "Right."
