I recognize what I’m doing. I’ve been pushing her to get what I want. Like the job, the place to live, and now our relationship, I press on her bruises and weaknesses, overpowering her senses until she yields to me. I don’t know what will happen if—when—she stops.
Twenty Seven
Sierra
The pen I’m using is bleeding ink.
It’s my third attempt at writing out the emcee cards for the Blackstone Legacy event. I should throw in the towel, since I can’t concentrate anyway. Especially since Logan told me that Marshal Dawson took a Futon Drift flyer and said he loves that band.
I’m so screwed.
And not only because Dawson has a hard-on for our headliner, but because nothing I say seems to convince Logan to change the conditions of the trust. When I first made a few subtle remarks about maybe the town marshal’s office needing more funds to handle the increase in tourists, Logan snorted and said he hoped the whole department went under.
When I pushed, asking why, Logan said he’d change the conditions of the trust to include the town marshal’s office “over his dead body.”
“They’re scoundrels, Sierra,” he said, looking puzzled by my recent obsession with law enforcement funding. “They bought a Humvee. A freaking Humvee and riot gear for a town of seven thousand people. Like they expect an uprisinghere, of all places, which they clearly relish the idea of violently stomping on. They have too much money for what little good they do, anyway. Harassing everyone who’s not an old, white, cisgender dude. I’m open to defunding them completely, if the town council and mayor weren’t such cowards.”
So that’s a very strong no.
And the girlfriend introductions didn’t end at the party. If Logan were a medieval lord, he’d raise a banner with my virginal bloodstains over the ramparts to assert that I belong to him. Logan now announces our new dating status every time we go out—to pretty much anyone within earshot.
It’s the perfect setup for Dawson to release the recording if his goal is to humiliate not just me, but Logan and his whole family. Dawson would love it—seeing it blow back on Logan after he so publicly announces his relationship with the “whore.”
I set aside my cards, nauseated.
Logan also seems to be having trouble concentrating, though his distractions are decidedly more amorous than mine. He keeps playing with my hair, tickling my cheek with the ends. We’re clearly getting no work done.
“Let’s go climbing,” he murmurs.
“But—” I glance at the laptop screen. An intimidating Excel sheet stares back at me.
“I’m the boss.” He kisses my cheek. “Be a good employee and do what I say.”
I don’t need to be told twice. We hurry to gather our gear.
It’s exactly what I need. We travel a little farther today, outside the jurisdiction and clutches of Dawson, and I feel lighter and happier than I have in days. Once I’m on the wall, I can almost forget everything that’s happened.
I enjoy watching Logan climb too. Logan’s style on the rock is different from mine—more strength than momentum—but it’s mesmerizing. Every movement is deliberate, every reach purposeful. He’s all muscle and focus, and I can’t look away. Usually, I watch other climbers to study their technique, to compare and learn. But this—watching Logan—is something else entirely.
I never thought I’d be turned on by climbing. But this. This is Logan at his hottest.
“Give me pointers,” he calls down, grinning. “You’re better at this than I am.”
I try not to preen. “Slow down a little. Take time to assess your options. See that hold above your left foot? It’s narrow, but you can use the momentum from that step to push upward. Yeah—just like that.”
I keep coaching as he climbs. Nearby, another couple finishes their route and watches us. The guy waves and comes over.
“You’ve got great teaching instincts,” he says. “You live around here?”
“Ah, that’s a tricky question,” I admit. “I’m based out of Sagebrush right now.”
“No way! We’re opening a guiding company in Isolation Canyon. You know, right outside Sagebrush. ”
“Yeah, I know those climbs,” I say, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. I know them a little too well now, after Logan and I christened the place with some hot and heavy action weeksago.
“Take my card—I’d love to talk to you more. If you’re ever looking for a job, we could use another instructor.”
My stomach dips. If they set up in town, they’ll find out who I am soon enough. “It sounds like a great opportunity,” I say—and it does. What a shame.
