He is all those things for about three whole seconds.
And then I say, “It’s my choice, AJ. You don’t get a say. I’m done here. My time is up, my game over, my cookie… is baked.”
Logan walks over to the coffee machine and starts making a cup.
AJ renews his badass glare. Staring me down like a wolf looking at prey.
I shrug. “That’s just how I feel.” And then I frown. Because I realize it’s true. I’m not just saying that to argue, or be right, or any of those things. I’m saying it because I feel it.
He frowns with me. Closes his eyes. Sighs.
Logan turns around, his coffee cup in hand. Takes a sip. Then says, “So go swallow all those pills. They’re still sitting on top of the jukebox.”
This time AJ doesn’t tell him to stop.
I turn back to the French toast, flip each piece one by one, and say, “I used to make breakfast like this for my family. Every single day I’d come down here and open up the kitchen. Sometimes it was French toast. Sometimes it was pancakes. Or eggs. Bacon occasionally. Bonnie just started eating finger foods a few months before the ‘accident.’ She liked pancakes.”
Every time I say the word ‘accident’ it comes with quotes. Even when I’m not talking about the non-accident that ruined my life. It’s just habit now.
I turn to face them, spatula in hand. And sigh. “It’s too much, ya know? It’s just too much. I can’t stay here. I have nowhere else to go. Damon wants me dead. You have to kill me or he’ll kill you. And I can’t be responsible for any more death. I just can’t.”
Logan puts his coffee cup down and walks towards me. He smiles. Just a small one. And says, “You let us worry about us, Yvette.” Then he leans down and kisses me on the top of the head. “But I’m not gonna talk you out of killing yourself.”
I look at AJ to see if he’s gonna say something. But he doesn’t.
So Logan continues. “I’m not gonna do that. If it’s that bad, then check out. But don’t do it because you think you’re saving us.” He hardens his face into an expression I haven’t seen before.
This is his dangerous look as well. The one men see right before he kills them. Or beats them up. Or threatens them with such things if they don’t do what he says.
“We’re perfectly able to save ourselves.”
Chapter Twenty-One – LOGAN
I say it because it’s true. AJ and I aren’t looking for someone to rescue us and even if we were, we wouldn’t call Yvette Nightingale. She’s a fucking mess.
“So…” AJ says, breaking the tense silence I created. “French toast.” He smiles.
You gotta give that guy credit. I mean, Aje is a wall of muscle. Tattoos, scars, bad attitude, will kill you dead if you look at him wrong on a bad day… and still, when he smiles, the world wants to stop to witness it.
“What can I do to help?” he adds.
Sometimes I want to punch him, he’s so damn charming. Or maybe it’s the rest of the world I want to punch? The people who fall for it.
And why does everyone fall for it, anyway? Why am I the mean one when he’s the actual killer in this operation?
I’m the money launderer, for fuck’s sake.
Not entirely true, my little inner voice says.
But true enough.
AJ is staring at me. He says, “I make an effort.”
“What?” I ask.
“I see you looking at me. I know that look, Logan. You’ve been giving me that look since we were fourteen.”
“Is that right?”
He nods. “That look says, Why you?”
I roll my eyes.
“It says, Why not me?”
“Fuck off.”
AJ directs his attention to Yvette. “He secretly hates me.” And he says this the way he says everything. The way he says, “I’m gonna kill you now,” just before he crashes a baseball bat into someone’s face. “He’s always hated me because I’m likable.”
Yvette looks at me.
“Oh, it’s nothing personal,” AJ continues, walking over to Yvette. He takes the spatula from her hand and begins lifting the French toast off the grill. Places them on a nearby platter one at a time. Then looks over his shoulder at me. “He hates all likable people. So I’m no one special. Right, Logan?”
I shake my head a little. “I don’t hate you.”
“No,” AJ agrees, even though he just said I did. “Not any more than you do anyone else. That was my point.”
“I don’t hate you like that either.”
“Hey,” he says, flashing that smile again. “I don’t take it personally. These are just your demons to deal with, Logan.”
“When did you become such a fucking philosopher?” It comes out angrier than I intended. “When did you come up with this bullshit? ‘You’re a half-baked cookie, Yvette,’” I mock him. “‘Just stay in the oven a little longer.’ What the fuck are you doing?”