Page 44 of Best Kept Secret
“Hello…” A soft voice breaks through my ragged breaths.
I cough, gasping out, “Red?”
“Logan?” She’s panicked. I can hear it in her voice. “Logan, are you there?”
“Red, I—” I clear my throat as best as I can, but it feels as if there’s a hand wrapped around it, strangling me, squeezing every last ounce of life from me. “Red, I… I need you.”
“Logan,whereare you?” She emphasizes every word, her tone stern despite her obvious concern.
“Down… stairs… in my… car.” I heave a wheezy breath, closing my eyes tight, my phone slipping from my grip and into the footwell just as the darkness washes over me and swallows me whole.
CHAPTER 21
MILLIE
Maverick opens his door and shrieks, clutching at his chest. I gape at him, confused by his reaction. It’s not like he didn’t know I was coming down here; he agreed to help me literally three minutes ago when I texted him.
“Thought I’d opened the door to a masked psychopath,” he huffs.
Oh, yeah. My sheet mask. “It cost me forty bucks from Sephora. I’m not wasting it.”
“Is it one of the salmon ones because I’ve been wanting to try those, but I’m scared it’ll smell like fish.” He looks closer, inspecting the mask that’s melting into my skin, but I ignore him, turning quickly because this really isn’t the time to be discussing skincare.
I press the call button for the elevator, lifting my phone to my ear. The call is still connected and, although muffled, I can hear Logan’s shallow and shuddery breaths.
“Where is he?” Maverick asks as we step onto the elevator.
“He said he’s downstairs. In his car. That’s all I know.” I shake my head, still confused by what the hell is going on. When I got the call from Logan, I’d been fast asleep on the sofa. It woke me, and when I saw that it was him, I knew immediatelysomething wasn’t right. When I heard him, it didn’t sound like him, and it scared me through to my core.
Maverick presses the button for the basement, looking up at the floor counter. “Did he sound drunk, or… I don’t know, high?”
I shake my head. “No. He didn’t sound drunk at all. And he’s a professional athlete—he can’t do drugs,” I say a little more defensively than I probably need to be. I soften a touch as I think back to Logan’s voice when he told me he needed me. “He sounded… scared.” I tap my Ugg booted foot against the floor of the elevator, my stomach churning as we descend to lower ground.
The moment the robotic voice announces our arrival at the garage, I’m through the doors before they even fully open. I haven’t been down here yet because I haven’t needed to. I left my car back home in Texas because no way in hell was I navigating the streets of New York City behind the wheel. The area is foreign to me, all cold cement and fluorescent lights, and fancy, expensive looking cars tucked away neatly in their designated spots. I follow Maverick, spotting Logan’s shiny black Porsche, and I run past him to the driver’s side door, peering in through the dark tint, my heart jumping up into the back of my throat when I see him there, arms resting on the steering wheel, head bowed, shoulders quaking.
I yank open the door, reaching in and tentatively placing my hand on his back. “Logan?”
He doesn’t stir, just continues breathing scarily fast, and I know then what this is. He’s having a panic attack. Crouching down, I place my hand on his knee, leaning in so I can try to see his face.
“Logan, it’s me, Red.” I squeeze his thigh. “I’m going to get you upstairs, okay?”
He releases a shaky exhale in response, and I turn to Maverick, waving him over.
“Should I call 911?” Maverick whispers, skulking closer to the car, eyes furtively glancing at Logan.
“No, he’s okay.” I shake my head, squeezing Logan’s leg again. “I just need you to help me get him upstairs.”
Watching Maverick, dressed in a pair of luxe satin pajamas, struggle beneath the weight of Logan’s two hundred pound body is almost funny. Honestly, I’d laugh if it wouldn’t be considered highly inappropriate given the seriousness of the situation.
Pushing through the apartment door, I make sure the way is clear, opening the door to Logan’s bedroom for Maverick to help him in. As I flick on the lamp and glance around the room, it dawns on me that this is the first time I’ve been in here. And it’s exactly how I imagined it would be: super tidy and minimalistic with nothing but a big bed dressed in navy blue linens, a sleek leather couch along the wall of glass to catch the morning sun, and a TV hung on the far wall. It’s very neat, very simple, and very sterile, and it does little to dispel those Patrick Bateman rumors I made up about him in my head.
When Maverick lets out a strained groan, I snap back to action, rushing over to help take some of the load off as he lowers Logan down onto the bed, helping him settle against the pillows. I take a seat on the edge of the mattress, removing his shoes and lifting his legs up, and immediately he rolls onto his side, curling into a ball. And my heart breaks at the sight of the six-foot-two professional hockey player so small, so fragile, so evidently broken in the worst way.
“I should go,” Maverick whispers, pointing to the door, his gaze cautious when it meets mine. “Will you be okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll… stay with him,” I say, looking at Logan.
“You know where I am if you need me.” Maverick wraps one arm around me, pulling me in for a quick hug.
