Or a way to turn back time and figure out what I did wrong with Logan.
What I did to make him try to pay me off.
I’m beyond exhausted by the end of the night. David takes me into his office right after we shut down the kitchen, and I’m ninety percent sure I’m getting fired. But he says it’s my final warning. He reminds me that I am one of the best workers he’s ever had, but that my attitude is “completely unreasonable” sometimes, and I need to watch myself.
As I’m walking out the back exit, I feel Logan’s envelopein my pocket again and anger rips through me again like a living thing.
Fuck this.
I stride back inside through the kitchen and into the Bellwood lobby. I use my badge to beep in, granting me access to the top floor.
It’s like there’s a ball of fire inside my chest propelling me forward toward Logan’s door.
Shouldn’t be here,I tell myself as I walk forward down the short hall.
Really shouldn’t.
But I’m possessed by something stronger than myself. My mom has always told me to channel it into my art, when I have these moods. But right now Logan’s door is closer than my canvases.
I reach up and knock hard on his door many times.
I pause, then do it again, making sure he knows I’m here.
Blood’s rushing into my ears and my heart is pounding so hard I can feel it, but I’m not turning away now. I probably look like shit and smell terrible after my long shift, but I don’t give a fuck right now.
I feel for the envelope in my pocket.
The moment Logan swings open his front door, I push the envelope against his chest.
“I’m not accepting hush money,” I tell him. “I’m not a whore. And you can’t pay me off to keep quiet, either, and honestly I can’t believe you think I would tell anyone about us without your consent, anyway, I’m not a monster—wait, fuck, Logan, are you bleeding?”
I release the envelope on his chest and it drops to the floor.
I move down to clasp his hand in mine, bringing it up so I can see it closer.
“I want to do the nude photoshoot,” he tells me, completely ignoring my question.
“Logan.”
“I want to do it,” he insists.
“Can you tell me why you’re bleeding first?”
“Oh, fuck,” he says, looking down at his hand. “I am.”
“What the hell happened?”
“It’s nothing,” Logan says. “I wasn’t trying to even hit the wood, but I slipped, and…”
Three of his knuckles are coated in red. They’re gashed pretty badly, and even as I’m bringing his hand up, another trickle of blood comes out.
He needs bandages. And antiseptic, and maybe even a little bit of gauze wrap.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell him.
“Chase, it’sfine?—”
“You better fucking open this door when I get back,” I call out to him as I head back down the hallway and go straight for the elevator. I take it down to the kitchen and tear into our first-aid kit, grabbing way more supplies than I’ll actually ever need.
