Logan - A Preston Brothers Novel (Book 2): A More Than Series Spin-off Read online

  Logan - A Preston Brothers Novel

  A More Than Series Spin Off

  Jay McLean

  Copyright © 2017 by Jay McLean

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Art: Jay McLean

  Editor: Tricia Harden (Emerald Eyes Editing)

  For Kelli Ann Basil Collopy

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part I

  1. Logan

  2. Logan

  3. Logan

  4. Logan

  5. Logan

  Part II

  6. Aubrey

  7. Logan

  8. Aubrey

  9. Logan

  10. Aubrey

  11. Aubrey

  12. Aubrey

  13. Aubrey

  14. Logan

  15. Aubrey

  16. Logan

  17. Aubrey

  18. Aubrey

  19. Logan

  20. Logan

  21. Logan

  22. Aubrey

  23. Logan

  24. Logan

  25. Aubrey

  26. Aubrey

  27. Aubrey

  28. Logan

  29. Aubrey

  30. Logan

  31. Aubrey

  32. Logan

  33. Logan

  34. Aubrey

  35. Logan

  36. Aubrey

  37. Logan

  38. Logan

  39. Aubrey

  Part III

  40. Logan

  41. Logan

  42. Aubrey

  43. Aubrey

  44. Logan

  45. Logan

  46. Logan

  47. Aubrey

  48. Logan

  49. Aubrey

  50. Logan

  51. Aubrey

  52. Aubrey

  53. Logan

  54. Aubrey

  55. Logan

  56. Aubrey

  57. Logan

  Epilogue

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  Also by Jay McLean

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Friday night, and it’s my first date with Mary since before what my dad likes to call an “episode.” She’s so deep in my lungs, in my blood, in my thoughts, in my mind that I can feel myself losing to her, giving in to her touch, to the way her fingertips stroke against my flesh. She’s whispering words in my ears, from all angles, all spaces, “Because you never asked, Logan.”

  I’ve been to Aubrey’s house, been to her shop, been inside and around and over her, and she’s right; I never asked, but she’s wrong because she never told me. Never hinted. And that’s what Mary’s so good at; this mind space, these circles, and I can’t get enough, because I inhale and inhale and chop, lick and roll, chop, lick and roll just so I can inhale and inhale and inhale some more.

  “Because you never asked, Logan.”

  “No,” I say aloud.

  Mary calls to me again, warns me of what’s to come: You’re nine years old, and the leather cracks beneath your weight…

  Part 1

  1

  Logan

  There are two types of people in this world, the fakers and the realists, and I’m pretty sure I hate them both.

  Even as Joy sits in my truck, her long, bottle-blonde hair blowing in the wind, I get this tingling inside me, like pins and needles, only worse. She’s as fake as they come, but she’s also the closest thing I’ve had to a girlfriend, excluding Mary, of course. Mary, short for Mary Jane, aka marijuana.

  Joy’s laugh is as obnoxious and as fake as the smile that accompanies it, and she’s giggling at something I said, something I can’t remember, but I’m willing to bet wasn’t funny.

  Joy… what a name. It’s so weighted. As if it’s her life’s goal to bestow joy amongst everyone she comes across.

  Poor Joy.

  She reaches across the front seat, her hand going to the back of my neck, to the hair there, and she digs her false nails into my scalp while she fakes a moan. I turn to her, smirk, and she bats those inch-long, stuck-on lashes at me. It takes everything in me not to pull over and get my fill of the only thing that makes me enjoy anything other than Mary. Her hand moves from my neck to my shoulder, down my chest until the warmth of it spreads across my stomach, and I internally beg, pray for her to go lower, lower, lower.

  Instead, she stops completely and says, “We have to pick up Aubrey.”

  I grasp her wrist and push it away.

  Aubrey: her friend, also known as the most annoying person in the history of existence. If I had to create a graph of fakes versus realists, these two girls would be on opposite ends of the spectrum.

  I say, “I thought it was just you and me tonight.”

  Joy scoffs, and I hate the sound. “And about fifty other people. We’re going to a house party, Logan.”

  It’s Friday night, and I’ve been up since 5 a.m., and at nineteen, I’m too young to be too old for this but too agitated to care. I’m tired and I’m antsy and I just want to spend the night getting the week’s worth of aches and pains and frustrations out of me and just blow off steam. Or just blow… a few times… inside the girl who’s sitting next to me. But now Aubrey’s in the mix, and “I don’t want to hang out with Aubrey tonight.”

  “She’s my friend,” Joy whines, as if I’m stupid, as if I don’t know. I’ve been with the girl for almost three months, the longest I’ve spent with anyone. I’ve kept my dick in my pants. Kept my eyes from drifting. Kept it all in check while slowly losing my goddamn mind.

  “Besides,” Joy adds, “she didn’t have plans tonight.”

  Can’t say I’m surprised. “So now we have to join her pity party?”

  “Just be nice.”

  Be nice?

  “And if you’re a good boy,” she says, grabbing my wrist and placing my hand between her legs, “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  And this right here is why I tolerate people. Why I tolerate Joy.

  Aubrey’s sitting in her driveway when I get to her house. In a long skirt, white tank top, and an oversized fucking granny cardigan, the girl looks like a hobo.

  Joy flips the visor and checks out her made-up, flawless face. “Can she get in on your side? I don’t want to get out.”

  Arguing would be pointless, and so I step out, leave my door open for Aubrey to get in the middle. “Hey, asshole,” she says.

  I roll my eyes. “I must’ve missed the memo for the party tonight. Didn’t realize it was Hobo Dress Day.”

  She stops a few feet in front of me, smiles that wicked grin I’ve come to hate. “That memo was for the girls. The guys’ theme is High School Reject Stoner.” She claps once. “And look, you didn’t even have to dress the part!” She passes me, tugs on the brim of my hat to cover my eyes.

  After adjusting my cap, I follow her in and put my truck into gear. And because I’m only slightly affected by her dig, I say, “Your skirt’s ugly as shit.”

  “Awesome,” she deadpans. “Matches your face.”

  Joy sighs, applies more lipstick to her already pink lips. “Can you guys at least pretend to get along?”

  “Nope,” Aubrey and I say at the same time.

  Welp, at least we agree on something.

  I reverse out of her driveway and make it back on the road before Aubrey’s voice grates on my nerv
es again. “Besides, you need me. I got us the invite.” She’s lying, of course, because besides Joy, Aubrey has no friends. Given, she’s new in town, but still…

  “It’s open house, smart-ass.”

  “Nope.” Aubrey shakes her head. “There’s a big sign on the front lawn that reads ‘No Dogs Allowed,’ so I had to convince Brittney to let you come.”

  “Then I guess you must be some super unique breed of bitch.”

  Aubrey murmurs, “Let’s just go to this stupid party.”

  “Look,” I start, “if you don’t want to go, then, by all means, I can turn around and drop you back home.”

  “Please do,” she says.

  I flick on the blinker.

  Joy reaches across the seat to switch it back off. She turns to her friend. “We’re doing this. All three of us. And we’re going to enjoy it.”

  Joy: The giver of joy.

  Sucks to be her.

  Our town is small, socially split in two by Main Street.

  On one side are the Haves, on the other are the Have-Nots.

  Cliché, right?

  The Preston “estate,” so the assholes in town like to call it, is situated at the end of Main Street. Geographically, socially and economically, I consider my family to be right in the middle. Aubrey lives somewhere closer to the Have-Not’s, while Joy’s basically the queen bee of the Haves, which means the people she acquaints herself with are exactly like her. Both the girls graduated from high school a few months ago. Joy from St. Luke’s, the only private school within fifty-miles. Aubrey—I don’t even know. Neither of them is off to college. Joy is spending her time doing nothing because she can, because her daddy’s money allows it, and because why the fuck not? Aubrey—I don’t know what she’s doing with her life, and I don’t care. The point is, up until I met Joy at one of my regular parties on the other side of Main Street, I’d barely even seen this side of town unless I was working construction for my dad. The parties, though, are in a world of their own, and I love them for one reason and one reason only:

  Free weed and booze.

  I don’t even drink.

  The bass from the DJ—an actual DJ brought in from somewhere much cooler than here—rattles the windows, the walls, and I inhale all Mary has to offer while I sit back on the couch, watch my girl dance with another girl who looks identical to her. Or maybe I’ve smoked too much. Maybe my vision’s blurred.

  Ruby-red satin clings to Joy’s curves, ending just past her ass. Long, tanned legs atop black, six-inch stilettos, tiny diamonds on the heels leading up to the red bow on the back, and I’ll be sure to have her keep them on later—let them dig into my hips while I dig into her. I lick my lips, take another hit of the blunt, and watch the ribbon of smoke rise to the ceiling, disappearing into nothingness, the same nothingness that lives and breathes inside me.

  The couch cushion shifts as someone sits down next to me, and I keep my head back, eyes on the light show cascading on the white ceiling. Flecks of red, blue and green reflect off my irises, and I love this—this feeling of weightless, free euphoria that takes away the darkness, the moments I hide from… the memories. This is what living should be… and on Friday nights, every Friday night, I start to exist again. If only for two days. If only for me.

  “Your girl’s looking fine.” I recognize the voice as Denny’s: the town’s supplier of all things recreational, the dealer of my drug of choice. “Yo, you want to stock up? You may as well while you’re here. That Brittney girl’s got everyone covered.”

  I choke on another inhale and nod at the same time. Something light falls on my lap: another ounce of green to get me by. Thank you, Brittney. Whoever the fuck you are. “Thanks, man,” I mumble, rolling my head to face him. But he’s already gone, walking toward the corner of the room. It’s only when he stops there that I see who he was following: Aubrey.

  I sit up higher, blink hard to fight the high.

  She’s up on her toes, her hands on his chest, her neck craned to whisper something in his ear. The girl’s so fucking naïve, she’s borderline stupid. At a party like this where dank smoke overpowers the smell of expensive perfume, cologne and hairspray—where the drug is free, she doesn’t need to be pulling him away to ask for what she wants.

  Denny nods, reaches into his pocket while she reaches into hers. She pulls out a twenty. He’s ripping her off, and I’m on my feet to tell her, but then he pulls out a bag—pills—and she’s not here for the weed and what the fuck is wrong with you, Aubrey?

  In all the forced hanging out we’ve done over the last few months, she’s never once taken a toke of my joint, and neither she nor Joy have ever mentioned ecstasy. Weed is one thing, pills… nope.

  I move my feet to stop the exchange, but I’m too late. By the time I get to them, they’re already breaking apart and walking in opposite directions:

  Denny to the left.

  Aubrey to the right.

  I should follow Denny, ask him if she’s a regular.

  I should follow Aubrey, ask her what’s up.

  Really, I should do neither. I’m not her boyfriend, and it’s not my place, and I don’t give two shits.

  Only I do.

  I go right, follow Aubrey past the sea of bodies in the kitchen and out to the patio, more people (ugh), and stop next to her. Elbows on the railing, she looks out into the yard. Summer nights mean twilight until around ten. Parties around here last until twelve. Until some old person who can’t handle kids decides to call the cops. Same old, same old.

  I say, still standing behind her, “What’s up?”.

  Aubrey turns to me, her eyebrow quirked. “Where’s your leader?”

  “My leader?”

  “Joy?”

  “Ah.”

  “So?”

  “She’s dancing.” After shoving my hands in my pockets, I motion with my head to her hand. “Watcha got there?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Didn’t look like nothing when Denny gave it to you.”

  Red lips to match her fiery-red hair, her mouth parts while her eyes narrow to a glare directed right at me.

  “You poppin’ pills now, Red?”

  “Red?”

  I tug her hobo hair.

  She taps my hand away with a flick of her wrist. “I don’t recall when my life became your business, but you can fuck off now.” Another wrist flick to shoo me away.

  “They’re bad for you,” I say, shrugging, because this is fucking awkward, and I hate this girl.

  Aubrey laughs, right in my face, and I wish I’d never cared enough to come out here. “And what you inhale into your body is okay, because why? Because it cures cancer?”

  With a heavy sigh, I shove my hands back in my pockets, and rock on my heels. “I don’t know that weed cures cancer, Red. But it sure as hell takes away the pain of treatment like chemo, and if I’d known about it back when my mom was going through it, I’d have blown this shit down her throat so she wasn’t in agony when she fucking died.”

  Aubrey’s a bitch, and I need to get her bullshit out of my head.

  I need to get out of my head, period.

  I leave her on the patio with her ugly clothes and her stupid hair and her fucked-up opinions and go in search of my kind-of girlfriend so I can get us the fuck out of here and take out my frustrations in the form of wild and pointless fucking.

  The living room is the same as I left it, only Joy’s not there—neither is her apparent twin. I check the kitchen, the laundry, the entire downstairs. She’s nowhere to be seen, and so I check my phone, make sure she hasn’t called. She hasn’t. Fear and restlessness fill my already paranoid bloodline, and I see Denny by the front door, ask him if he’s seen Joy leave the party. He shakes his head, shaggy brown hair covering his red, raw eyes. He slurs when he speaks, and it’s too low to hear over the thump, thump, thumping of the bass.

  “What?” I shout, pointing to my ear.

  He raises a hand, slow as hell, his finger pointed to the staircase. />
  The first two bedrooms on the second level are empty. The third has a couple on the bed, on top of the sheets, and I can’t make out much, just the sounds of rhythmic ball slaps and him telling me to shut the door. He’s between her legs, his boxer shorts to his knees, jeans and shoes still on. He’s thrusting, and she’s moaning, and he’s groaning, and she’s whimpering, “Please please please please.”

  Please please please please.

  I know the words.

  Know the voice.

  Know the fucking six-inch heels on the end of fake diamonds and fake bows and fake, fake, fake emotions and desire, and I’m no longer high.

  No longer floating.

  The guy’s nameless, faceless, but he’s full of joy when he grunts, “I’m coming!” And Joy’s full of him when she chants, “Please please please please!”

  She’s begging and panting, and I switch on the light. My name? It’s never been screamed as loud as it is at that moment, neither from pleasure nor fear. The fuckers are separated now, hustling to find their clothes, and I feel everything at the same time as I feel nothing.