BAD Beginnings Read online

  He was speaking in tongues. She had no idea where he was going but she figured she could handle a good riddle. “What option do you really have? If you give up, you know you’ve lost. If you don’t, at least you still have the hope for something good to happen. Don’t you?”

  “Something good,” Logan repeated before he strode away.

  “Hey asshole.” Tora’s familiar greeting announced where to find Logan and she headed toward the kitchen. The rustle of feathers and seeds scattering caught her attention and the bird blurted again. “Gemma kick bad.”

  What? New vocabulary? “Hey, that’s not nice. You taught him to say that?”

  “Not exactly. We’re still working on it.”

  She frowned. “You’re teaching him to call me bad? I’m not--” Okay, maybe she was. Not bad, but certainly dishonest. It was for a good cause though. She let the faces of the last three victims float through her mind. A very good cause.

  “There’s a couple of words missing. He’s not saying kick or bad. He’s—”

  “What? He’s what? Casting a spell on me?”

  Logan laughed and pulled a couple of wine glasses from the bar, along with a bottle of red. “He can’t say esses.”

  Gemma crossed her arms and shot a yeah, right glance toward the man’s silhouette. The blue lights behind the bar made him look almost surreal. God-like. Or devilish. “You seriously want me to believe that when his favorite greeting is ‘Hey, asshole’? Seems to me he has a very good grasp on the letter s.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s practiced that one for too damn long. I’m trying to teach him something a little less insulting.”

  “To me or you? Calling me bad isn’t exactly sweetness.”

  “He’s not calling you…that. He’s saying it wrong. Here.” Logan thrust a wine glass in her face and ordered her to drink. He drew slowly on his own glass as well.

  “But…”

  “Skip it. Stop talking, Gemma. I don’t want to talk about the damn bird.”

  “Okay. Then what?”

  She followed again as he led toward a room hidden beyond the bar. His house smelled of cinnamon and patchouli. Two of her favorites, which was odd that a guy would bother with scent. Gemma pulled in a deep breath. She glanced around the room. Or bother with obsessive cleanliness. Even more odd that a man would paste himself with detailed artwork in the form of tattoos that seemed rage-filled, then live in a completely sterile environment. Wouldn’t an artist like that want to live in an equally inspiring or creative environment?

  The ones she had known would.

  “I want to show you something.” His voice held that unfamiliar soft tone that always confused her. His shoulders were strong and taught within the cotton fabric of his shirt and she enjoyed watching his movements. The room they’d entered was similar to the other areas, void of furniture beyond a few chairs and a flat piece of wood about twenty inches tall with a padded leather top. Was it a chaise lounge or a foot stool? She had no idea. Logan walked past to the expanse of windows and turned to beckon her forward. “This view is incredible.”

  She glanced through the wall of glass. “Oh my God, it looks like a Vegas hotel room.” The city lights sprawled around them like a field of flowers below a mountain. She thought of her tiny place with a broken wooden fence for a view.

  “It does have a menacing flash, doesn’t it? That wasn’t what I meant though. Look just past the trees on the corner of my lot. See that light flickering there?” As she drew the wine glass to her lips, she followed his finger and concentrated.

  It was impossible to make out in the darkness. A campfire? A bunch of high school kids out partying? Gemma wasn’t sure.

  Logan pushed a button on the wall and the glass slid to the side allowing a cool breeze to rush over them. The gentle whine of an instrument reached them. It hadn’t been a radio she’d heard earlier. She widened her eyes and met his. He smiled. “It’s a trumpet or a coronet. I’m not sure.”

  “He plays his trumpet in the back yard?”

  Logan shook his head. “That’s Belin park. Haven’t you seen the homeless guy that plays on the streets for cash? He hangs out in front of Lo—my building sometimes. I guess he sleeps there at night, I don’t know. I sat here on the patio last night and listened for a while. It’s peaceful—and a gentle reminder that we’re all just a few feet away from being in each other’s shoes. Circumstances change and our lives turn. We have to grasp opportunity before it escapes.”

  Was he serious? “You’re actually comparing yourself to a homeless guy playing a trumpet?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess I am. We could have been the same guy except for--”

  “An education, a family fortune, good work ethic, and a zillion other traits. Oh, and unless I’m mistaken, you don’t have any hidden musical talents.” She probably could have left out the work ethic thing. On any given day, one never knew whether he’d show or not sometimes. His substance fetish had made him unreliable, another one of the perks of wealth. His staff ran the company more than he but she’d never admit the truth.

  “We all have the ability to learn and work. Some of us don’t get the same chances—or maybe something happens that turns us in a different direction.” Logan stood watching the fire light flicker in the distance. His shoulders were stiff and his silhouette appeared—haunted. Us? Why was he being so cryptic?

  “Sometimes ability isn’t what matters,” she said.

  He grinned. “I guess you didn’t know I play a mean chopsticks on the piano.”

  She rolled her eyes and returned her gaze to the fire. “So does half the world. Don’t quite your day job. You better stick with what you do best and don’t romanticize over that campfire. I’d bet that guy would hand over his horn in a second if you offered him a shower, a good meal, and one night in this palace of yours.”

  Logan pulled an ice cube into his mouth and she heard the grinding of his teeth on the frozen mass. “Exactly what do I do best, Gemma? In your opinion, I mean.”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “Yes, I am. What is it that the great Logan Indiris does that the normal Joe doesn’t? What makes him so successful?”

  She eyed his shoulders warily. Discussing his talents—or lack of--was a thin sheet of ice to walk. Did he want her opinion in truth? “Is that a trick question? I feel like I’m being interrogated but the verdict was already decided and if I don’t give the desired answer, I’ll be…locked up.”

  Logan set his glass of melting ice on a table nearby and turned. He walked out to the patio and dropped into one of two loungers then turned his head to the stars. “Locked up? I doubt that. No, there’s no trick. I want to know what you see. I look in the mirror in that immense closet that most women would salivate over and I’m curious. What makes this man in the mirror different than the one downtown parking cars? Nothing. Not a damn thing, except money. Money makes the world listen—it makes the world see you. It makes the world believe in you.”

  Gemma followed him outside. His words intrigued. She dropped onto the adjacent lounger and rested her forearms across her knees. It wasn’t exactly a feminine move but who cared? It was her boss-slash-suspect and he was opening up. She needed him to continue. “What exactly do you want people to believe?”

  A few seconds of silence passed. The quiet drone of a plane in the sky caught her attention and they both followed it across the sky, the blinking lights differentiated it from the stars. The horn serenaded the plane’s departure. “The truth, Gemma. The truth.”

  She squinted at his features in the shadows. “And what exactly is that?”

  He sighed. “Who the fuck knows.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The weight of his deception had become an elephant on his conscience. He was a convict. Albiet, a wrongly convicted one, but still…he wasn’t a highly polished executive used to all the fancy trimmings. He wa
s no different than the guy in the woods with the horn other than he’d yet to spend a night sleeping under the stars alone. That might change should he confess his story.

  But it was time.

  A blast of wind ruffled Gemma’s hair and he sighed. Yes, he’d follow her anywhere. God she was pretty. But he couldn’t lead her down a road that would surely end up causing pain. It wouldn’t be right. Or fair.

  He felt a twinge in his chest and rubbed. Since when had his life been fair? The thought made him shiver. “Let’s go inside, it’s a bit too chilly out here.” He stood and waited as she led the way. She reached to the wall plate and touched the switch to close the sliding glass. It refused to respond. She moved her fingers and pressed again.

  Nada.

  “Which one is it?” She pressed another.

  “The one on the…” he stopped as a creaking noise across the dark room revealed a panel in the wall. It slid to expose a hallway. Blue fluorescent lights flickered on and the entire scene felt like the entry to a sleazy bar. A fake wall? A safe room? Was this guy that paranoid or that dangerous?

  “Oh my God, a hidden room Logan?” Her eyes popped to meet his gaze, seeking an answer he couldn’t give.

  Because he didn’t know. Was that where the guy kept his blow? Or something else? Maybe that’s where he went to recoup his massive injuries? His curiosity was as deep as Gemma’s. “What can I say? Everyone should have a safe room to keep their things safe, right?”

  “Assuming we have important things worth keeping safe, I guess. Can I look?” She swallowed nervously. Logan noted a nervousness to her words and a pallor to her skin. Was she afraid? Her eyes darted toward the bar where her bag resided.

  Something deep in his core shivered and prodded him to say no. He had no idea what was down that eerie hallway and he abhorred surprises. “Wait.” Before they ventured into that unknown chamber, he had to clear the air. “I have to tell you something.”

  She turned toward him. The glow of the lights created a halo over her hair and shadowed her face into total darkness. “I’m here.”

  He strode forward, needing to read the expression on her face when he divulged his identity. The fluorescent light flickered over his head as if to chastise. “I can’t really continue the charade Gemma. It’s not right. I’m not--” A tiny sizzle and zap signaled the darkness that followed and he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. He bumped solidly into her, instantly the scent of her skin flooded over his senses. The force of his body against hers sent both of them in an overbalance. “Oh, sorry.” He wrapped a hand around her waist to steady them both then cursed for the touch. How was he to expose his lie when he couldn’t see her and know her thoughts?

  The heat of her breath washed against his collarbone then her shaking fingers entwined in the fabric of his shirt. “It’s okay. I know. I can feel the difference.”

  He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Really? You can tell?”

  She let out a nervous laugh and her chest surged against his own. “I wish I couldn’t.”

  “It’s not fair, you know.” He ran a hand up her arm and stroked his thumb against her cheek. “You shouldn’t be so gorgeous. It’d make this a lot easier.”

  “That would be a lot easier to believe if we weren’t in complete darkness at the moment.” She hiccupped. Was she drunk? God, he hoped not—that would make it even worse. He lifted her face and the tip of his thumb felt damp. No, she was crying.

  “What’s wrong, Gem?” He moved his other hand from her waist so he could encase her face in his palms. “Did I hurt you? Step on your foot?”

  She thumped her head to his chest as she hooked her fingers into the belt of his pants. “No, nothing that easy. It’s just—I wish things were different, that’s all.”

  He heaved a sigh and wondered at the slight bit of encouragement she’d given. Her hands continued to tremble and he pulled them from his pants to hold them against his chest. “So do I, believe me. But I can’t think about that at the moment.”

  It was now or never. As soon as the light came back on and exposed him for who he wasn’t, it would all end. So he did what felt right. He leaned down and put his lips softly to hers and let a moan escape. God he wanted her. All the other fancy shit around them could fall to pieces. Who cared? He’d been broken. He’d been jobless. He’d been without family. He could do that again but hell, this wasn’t the same. Something in his brain locked up. He couldn’t imagine hurting this woman.

  He tried to break free but Gemma thrust a hand into his hair and held firm. Their breaths mingled between them, heating the air and filling his nostrils. Her lips trailed his then before he could back away, her tongue flitted over his lower lip. Oh shit. Logan crushed his mouth to hers and drew the flesh of her skin inside, tasting her fullness. He shoved his hands down to her hips and yanked her tight, feeling the throb of his own body in response. Guilt and fear battled his libido and lost. This was his moment and by God, he’d have it—even if it would only be a memory for the rest of his life. “You feel amazing. Gemma, I want you so fucking bad.”

  A noise came from her that sounded as close to a purr as he could imagine. Her hands clutched into his right pectoral and he growled low and deep in response. “You feel pretty great yourself.” When her hands returned to his pants he wanted to plead for release. He kept silent and closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of her lips against his neck then down his chest. She tugged his shirt up and over his head. It dropped to the floor with a whisper. When she flicked her tongue over his nipple then bit softly into the flesh he wanted to melt into the floor. Instead he leaned hard into her touch. She fumbled with the zipper of his jeans. He should stop her. The ratchet sound of his fly opening filled the silence. Warmth encased him as her hands enclosed over his hardness.

  Logan sucked in a deep breath and cursed. Her fingers kneaded him, coaching him to respond. God help him, he did. He wasn’t ready—he wanted it to last. Dropping to the floor, he shoved her skirt up until it circled her hips then licked along her thigh until he met the softness he’d dreamed of the night before. He delved further and Gemma grasped her hands to the back of his scalp. Her stilted breathing encouraged him to enjoy the liquid heat of her core.

  “Oh, God. Logan. Oh, it’s…” Gemma shuddered and let out a soft squeal as the orgasm ripped through her in spasms. Holy Christ she felt good—he could do that all night. He kept going until she pulled his hair and begged him to stop. He slowly rose to wrap his arms around her and draw her tight against his skin. He had no idea how long they embraced. Eventually she pushed a hand against his arm. “This isn’t over.”

  Unfortunately, it was. The light flickered again like a disco ball on a dance floor and she was bathed in the iridescence. It was surreal. He wanted to step back and survey all of her, the raised skirt, the silk panties he’d pulled to the floor, her smooth skin. But he wanted to keep touching her more.

  A clicking noise made both of them turn toward the darkness beyond their tiny space. “What was that?” she asked, her breathing stilted.

  He shook his head. “No clue.”

  Smoothing her skirt over her ass, Gemma padded barefoot toward the darkness. Where’d he tossed her shoes? He looked back at the trail of their clothes and smiled. The throbbing in his body still hadn’t been satisfied but he wanted her to know who she was with before they went any further. He wanted her to be with him, not Logan. Was that selfish?

  A gasp echoed toward him. “Wow. Don’t you think this is overkill? You obviously have some paranoid fears that I wasn’t aware of.”

  What did that mean? He followed, noting the room was hard to make out with the hall light. Still, she was right. It appeared to be stocked with supplies of food and blankets on shelves that lined the far wall. Some furniture, a desk, a file cabinet, and a freezer chest filled the space and left only short walking spaces between. A wall plate next to him caught his atten
tion and he pressed the switch. The track lighting above them blared to life. “Is it paranoid to be prepared for any scenario?”

  She shrugged. “I was hoping for something…else.”

  He lifted a brow. “Else?”

  “You know, a sex slave room, or something more exciting than rows of boxes and blankets.”

  He wanted to laugh but couldn’t seem to get a grip on the relief of finding—just a room. He half expected to find the real Logan, battered and cold. “Sorry to disappoint…but we could move things around a little and still do that sex slave thing if you want.”

  Gemma surveyed the row of perfectly symmetrical boxes, each with a label proclaiming the contents. “What? And mess up your perfectly organized system? How would you ever find anything? Look, there’s your car tools.” She pointed to the label. Her finger moved to the left. “And your woodworking tools. I doubt you’ve ever misplaced anything in your life. Have you?”

  Except maybe the real Logan Indiris. He shrugged. “Everyone needs tools. How many times have you needed a hammer or a screwdriver and couldn’t find one?”

  Gemma strolled along the boxes, trailing her fingers over the labels in a waving pattern that made him want those fingers back on his body. “Good point. Nothing is lost here.”

  Logan sighed. She was wrong. Everything was lost now because they shouldn’t have met in the first place. They wouldn’t have if she’d figured him out to begin with. “I’m lost. You obviously know who I am—or who I’m not. Where do we go from here?”

  Gemma’s eyes narrowed as she rotated to meet his gaze. Her lips turned seductively into a sexy grin that made him instantly hard.

  “We go forward, of course.”

  About Shelley

  Shelley K. Wall was born near Kansas City, the middle daughter of three. She is a graduate of Oklahoma State University with additional post graduate work there and at the University of Wyoming extension in Casper. She worked for many years in Information Technologies, as a Network Engineer, a Project Manager, Operations Director, and I.T. Department Head. Above her writing efforts, she continues to maintain her technical certifications in various technologies and consults regularly on projects.