Fuck. How pathetic does that make me? Willing to risk death at the hands of a rich psycho just so I could have the chance to talk to her again?
But, really, what kind of life am I living? I’m a fucking zombie. I’m half-dead, even without the booze and the drugs and the pussy. Maybe seeing her, talking to her, might energize me in a way nothing else can.
I make a decision right then, as I resume my walk to my next class: I need to see her, but I need to wait until her roomie is out of the house.
I can be patient, can’t I?
Chapter Five – Wren
First few days of class went fine. Nothing spectacular. I’m still getting my core classes out of the way, but soon enough I’m going to have to narrow down my focus and decide on my major. I… haven’t spent much time thinking about it, honestly. My parents nagged me a lot over holiday break.
You know, I used to like having everything planned out, but lately I’m finding that sometimes it’s just as fun to go with the flow and be spontaneous. How else can I describe how happy I’ve been since that party?
My mysterious masked man… I still don’t know who he is, and I didn’t breathe a word of what happened to Sloane. It’s my secret. Mine and his, whoever he might be.
And all that says nothing about Reese and the fact that, last I knew, he wanted to take me out somewhere. We texted a little this week, but nothing too crazy. No plans were set in stone or anything.
Maybe he changed his mind and doesn’t want to take me out anymore, or maybe the start of the semester is already more hectic than he anticipated. Either way, I’m in limbo when it comes to the sexy professor.
Thursday night rolls around, and Sloane tells me she and Elias are going out to dinner. They ask me if I want anything brought back, but I tell them no. I’ll make do with whatever we have in the fridge. I do tell them to have fun, though. They really don’t go out just the two of them that often. Their date nights are few and far between, but whatever they’re doing, it seems to work for them, so I guess that’s all that matters.
A few minutes after they leave, I’m in the kitchen with my head in the fridge, wondering what the heck I’m going to eat, when I hear someone knock. I straighten out, shut the fridge,and wait to see if I hear it again. It didn’t sound like it came from the front door. No, the weird thing is, it sounded as if it came from the back, but who in their right mind would skip the front door and go straight to the back?
It’s dark outside. It’s not even a good time for door-to-door salesmen trying to get you to upgrade your windows or your siding or whatever.
Hmm. This is odd.
I hear the knocking sound again, so I creep over to the nearest window that can see who’s standing near the back door—and when I see who it is, my breath catches in the back of my throat and my heart constricts.
No. No way.
I push away from the window, my nerves at war inside of me. Is this really happening? Did I fall asleep when I wasn’t paying attention? That’s the only logical explanation for who is currently standing at the back door, waiting for me to answer.
My throat gets dry, and my heart aches in my chest. Though that night at the karaoke bar is still fuzzy in my mind, I go right back to it, to the argument, to how he stormed away and left me—and then how he never once visited me after the accident.
He’s a jerk. He’s the biggest jerk around, I have no doubt about that. Really, it’s no wonder he got kicked out of his band. He definitely deserved it.
Freaking Logan.
I shouldn’t open the door. I shouldn’t see what he wants. Whatever it is, it can’t be good. To have waited this long… I mean, why the heck is he here, anyway? Has he run through all the girls he wanted and now he’s seeking to ingrain himself with me again? Answering that door could only lead to more heartbreak on my part, and I’ve had enough of that.
But at the same time, I don’t think I have the willpower to resist.
Swallowing hard, I approach the back door. With a flick of my wrist, I unlock the deadbolt and yank it open, revealing the muscular, six-foot-tall, ex-rocker standing in the darkness outside. He wears an old leather jacket, his black hair messy in all the right ways. His square jaw is covered in stubble, like he hasn’t shaved in a while, and even though there are slight bags under his green eyes, those eyes still light up when he sees me.
And, darn it, he’s just as attractive as he was months ago, I am hesitant to report. Just as drop-dead sexy as ever, the kind of guy who knows he looks good and knows how to use his power over the opposite sex to his advantage.
I hate him. I really do. Standing there, staring up at him, I hate him so much. All the anger, all the rage I’ve felt these past few months over being abandoned; I want to yell at him.
And at the same time, I don’t.
His name doesn’t want to surface, and as I struggle with asking him what he’s doing here, he’s the one who speaks first: “Can I come in?” The way he asks, it’s clear he knows he might not get an invitation inside, that I might tell him no and he’ll have to accept it.
I should say no. I shouldn’t let him in. With how much I talked about him to Sloane these past few months, the only reason my roommates aren’t speeding their way back by now is because Logan had the wherewithal to avoid the camera at the front door. He was smart enough to know Sloane wouldn’t want him here, which begs the question: was he watching, waiting for me to be alone at the house?
Creepy, but also… kind of sweet, in a weird way.
Oh, God. My brain must’ve gotten jumbled up when I got hit by that car. Stalking someone isn’t sweet.