Page 45 of Tortured Eyes
Eighteen
He’s tempted. I can see it in his eyes like he wants to let go and do something normal amongst all of this fucked-up shit. Getting outside, getting away, that’s all I need to focus on.
“Stay here.” He walks off towards the door.
“Like I’ve got anywhere else to go,” I call back, trying to lighten the mood. What a stupid thought. Lighten the mood?
Logan casts his eyes back towards me. One long look that makes me wonder if my sarcastic retort just blew my chances, before he shakes his head and slips out of the room. As soon as the door snitches closed, I bolt to the desk and pull open drawers, turning over the papers on the desk and searching for anything I can use to my advantage. There’s nothing here. No letters for an address. Nothing physical I can hide as a weapon, and nothing I can access via his pretty-fucked-up laptop.
I look at it on the floor, the corner of it smashed in, and then cross back over the room to look out the window. God knows where I actually am, but I'm committing the scenery to memory regardless. It’s the only way I can function right now—focusing on everything that can get me closer to my goal.
Escape. That's the number one priority now. The bikes are my in with Logan, and my way to get out. Once I’m out of this house, all bets are off. I’m not going to stick around until Logan decides he’s had enough fun and follows through with his previous threats. And despite everything I’ve learned and everything I’ve done, I don’t want to die.
As I think back over the last—jeez, how long has it been? Three days? Four? A week?—I try to recognise what my life consists of post-killing-of-Nate. It’s been shaken to the very core. Everything I once thought and held close to my heart has been destroyed by the evidence Logan has put in front of me. I’ve even slept with the enemy. How can I justify that to myself? Even with this weird feeling I have towards him. It’s wrong to want him, on far too many levels, yet that basic instinct—lust—won’t vanish from my mind.
My mind drifts to Jimmy and all the time we’ve spent together. I’m a fighter. That’s what I need to hold on to. All the hours I spent getting stronger, making myself the person I am today, all the victims I’ve fought for and delivered justice for. I’m going to fight my way out of here by whatever means necessary.
The sound of the door makes me spin out of my mini pep-talk. Logan enters carrying a small pile of clothes and dressed in leathers. If this were any other situation, I’d be salivating at the sight. Fucking hell, why does he have to look so fine and be an asshole all at the same time?
“Put these on.” He dumps them on the table. A pair of women's jeans are stacked amongst a shirt and a jumper. “There’ll be a jacket you can use in the garage.”
“For a bike?” He’d only need me in a jacket if we were going outside.
“You’ll have to wear one of mine. Take it or leave it, Red.”
“I’ll take.” I purposefully drop the blanket right in front of him. It has the desired effect, and his focus is now wholly on me. The urge to ask where the clothes have come from burns so hot, I have to look away from him. A woman, partner. Girlfriend maybe. Where is she in all this?
I dress in the too-short jeans, and too-baggy shirt and jumper, but who cares? Logan stares at me the entire time and then beckons me with his hand. We leave the study, and he weaves through the other rooms in the house until we’re at the front door. My heart hammers in my chest, trying to keep things calm on the outside, when I’m crying out for freedom on the inside. It’s so close. This is my chance if I can force the right circumstances.
He nods to a pair of generic boots, which I slip my feet into. A little snug, but they’ll do before we head outside.
“So, which bike are you going to take me on?”
“Red, be careful. Don’t put ideas in my head.” His smile quirks the corner of his lips, and I can see the man I’ve fought my attraction to. “I’m going to show you the collection. I think you can choose.”
He presses a button and the motor whirs into action, raising the garage door. A gleaming line of powerful bikes awaits us, each as shiny and new as when they first left the showroom.
I let out a low whistle. “There are some nice bikes here, Logan.” I nod at the Indian in particular, salivating at the modern yet retro nature of it. “Good to know that crime pays, after all,” I add on.
“If I weren’t so sure you’d like it, I’d fucking spank you for that comment. Pick one before I change my mind,” he says, tossing me a black, leather jacket. I slip into its bulk and cast my gaze over the rest of the bikes, finally seeing something stable enough for this weather with two of us on board.
“The Fireblade. If you can’t handle a Ducati in the wet, I don’t want you to kill us on that widow maker.” He chuckles quietly and walks through the bikes, bypassing the Blade completely.
“And here I was thinking you liked a risk. Maybe I was wrong," he says, firing up the damn Ducati anyway. He revs it hard, his feet inching it out of the garage. "Risks keep this world we’re in unpredictable, chaotic."
I watch him watching me, his eyes amused at the fact I'm still salivating at the thought of both him and this bike.
"Why did it take you so long to walk into my bar, McCarthy?”
“You want an honest answer to that? I’m a cop. I’ve been looking at Cane corruption for years, and it’s clear your family feud was my way in.”
He shakes his head at my comeback as if every word against his family is something he refuses to hear, and nods behind him at the small pad that acts as pillion. “Make sure you hold tight. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you out there on the road.”
He puts on his glasses and starts the engine.
“Helmets?” I ask. I’ve always worn one.
“Risks, Red. Try a little trust. I'm not all asshole.”
