Page 105 of Tortured Eyes
There’s an embrace—a firm, sharp slap on the back type thing—before they’re stepping away from each other. It’s a start, at least.
Drink. We need drinks.
“Emily, would you mind helping me?” I signal to the bar in the corner of the lounge, and she leaps into action, practically pulling me along in my heels. The private room is well stocked, and Emily grabs a bottle of Champagne from the fridge and pops the cork with ease.
Fia, Carter and Hope face the window overlooking the arena, and Logan is at least talking with his dad. Seeing them eases the worry that has gripped my heart these past few days.
“Hi, I’m Bryce.” I offer the glass of bubbles to Hope.
“Nice to meet you.” She takes the glass and turns her back to me without another word. If she were anybody else, I wouldn’t swallow my comment, but this is painful for Logan and so must be excruciating for her.
“A toast. To family and loved ones. Both here and the ones we still love with all our hearts.” Emily’s words are soft but surprisingly strong. Everyone present raises their glass and a chorus of “to family” repeats amongst us.
I take a stand next to Logan, my hand winding its way into his.
“Who’s your money on then?” he asks, squeezing my hand and then letting go. Carter turns to look at him, a smile on his face.
“It depends. You set this up. What’s your tip?”
“Dempsey has form. He wanted the fight.”
They carry on discussing the fight and Quinn ambles over to join them. I watch them for a few minutes,hoping it keeps going this well. They're relaxed. Talking and joking.
“Thank you. For setting this up.” Emily’s hushed tones as she comes up beside me are full of sincerity, and I can feel how important it is to see her family together again.
“I just made the suggestion. Logan made it happen. You know how he is.” Champagne isn’t my thing, but even I take a swig from the fine crystal.
“I do. And for many years, he refused to be our son. Now, we have him back, and no matter the circumstances, I’m grateful for that.”
We both watch as Carter, Logan and Quinn carry on debating the merits of the match. The three of them together are enough to draw Fia and Gabby’s attention as well. There’s a significance to this gathering that is more than just commemorating and remembering two people. It’s healing. It’s moving forward, and it’s a new start. At least, that’s everything I hope for.
* * *
My feet throb. Being in the ring with one of those boxers tonight would have been less painful than these shoes.
“Stop fidgeting. We’re nearly home.”
I glare at Logan as he chuckles beside me, desperate to get into the apartment. “Have you ever worn heels? Are you aware of the pain I’m currently in?”
“So, I can’t fuck you against the wall and feel them dig into my back?” he says, moving in close to kiss my neck. One of his hands draws up my leg, bunching the dress higher so he can get to the prize. My lips quirk despite the pain I'm in. An elevator isn't one we've tried yet, and the visual his words present is suddenly very real.
“How about you fuck me without the shoes. You can take the dress off?”
The doors slide open before he gets a chance to action the intent, and I'm hoisted up onto his waist, his strength lifting me across the lobby and into the apartment. The moment the door is closed behind us, he lets me drop and moves off. I fight the tiny strap around my ankle instantly, pulling the offending heels from my feet. “Arghhh.” I sigh, placing my foot on the cool tile of the entrance and tilting my head back against the door.
“You should only be making noises like that when I’m inside you," he jests from over by the bar.
I pick up one of the shoes and throw it in his direction.
“Hey!” he complains as he dodges the first shoe and then the other. They both hit the drapes of the floor to ceiling windows behind him, crashing to the floor. It's exactly where they can stay as far as I'm concerned.
“Never again.” I point at him and move to join him, needing a drink myself. “The dress, maybe. The shoes. No.”
"But you look sexy in them." He holds up a tall glass of champagne, pouting. "I deserved the distraction." He deserved something. A slap maybe.
“Are we celebrating?” I ask, confused by the champagne.
“Well, I survived. And I didn’t kill anyone.”
