311 DAYS
"Dude, yacht party this weekend."
Logan paused in his packing. "I'm going to Vegas for the weekend to see Pam."
A lewd smile from Dick. "The stripper?"
Ex-stripper, Logan silently corrected, but it didn't stop the picture of Pam in her costume from forming in his brain: black leather halter top and matching ruffled mini-skirt with stilettos, thigh-high stockings and garters. Too vivid. He shook his head to dispel the image. "She's a blackjack dealer."
"Uh-huh and I'm the Pope."
"That explains the funny hat." Pam was going to come to Neptune for the weekend, but she couldn't switch her shifts and asked him to come to her instead. I'll make it worth your while. Logan grinned. He had no doubt that she would think of some creative way to show her appreciation for his five hour drive. "Who's yacht?"
"Carrie…you know, from high school."
Logan nodded. The Bishops' sailboat, Serendipity, was docked at the Albacore Club in a slip not far from his…Aaron's yacht. He hadn't been on that boat since… "So it's, uh, what is the word? A date? Tennish- Albacore Club, slip five." That was the day she'd found out about the GHB.
He squeezed his eyes closed and went back to thinking about Pam. "Who else is going?"
Dick shrugged. "Her friend Susan, Luke, Gia…"
"You remember high school is over, right? We graduated. Cap, gown, big ceremony. Don't you think it's time to make new friends?"
"Like the Vegas—"
"Watch how you finish that sentence," Logan interrupted.
"So what are you two like dating now?"
"No, we're…" Fuck Buddies? Friends with Benefits? Sad, lonely individuals with fucked up lives?
XXXX
Sad, lonely individuals with fucked up lives who were skydiving while baked.
Pam baked brownies and Logan. Is that a zeugma? He was pretty sure it was. Or maybe a syllepsis? He smirked. A mind is a terrible thing to waste, but a wasted mind… Could you overdose on pot? Get too high? Considering their altitude that last thought made him giggle.
"You're so fucked up," Pam shouted to be heard over the wind rushing into the small plane.
Strapped to his chest with her back to him, she couldn't see exactly how fucked up he was and Logan was grateful. If she knew, she'd probably call an end to this plan —her plan— and make the pilot return the PAC-750 plane to the landing strip at Boulder City Municipal Airport. And he wanted to jump. Needed to jump.
He was definitely overdosing on pot. The nice, relaxed, floaty feeling was giving way to paranoia. Does the pilot know I'm wasted? Was it illegal to skydive while stoned? Fifteen thousand feet in the air and Logan was positive he could hear police sirens.
Pam was right; he'd eaten too many brownies. We're going to die. How the hell was he supposed to know that it took hours to start feeling the effects of an edible? Pam should've put a warning label on the plate of double-fudge brownies: 'high THC content - don't eat more than one.' Instead he'd had… three? Four?
Logan pressed his lips to her ear. "To die by your side, well, the pleasure and the privilege is mine."
"Are you quoting the fucking Smiths to me?" Pam sounded appalled, which just made him laugh.
He treated her to his off-key rendition of the song. "I never want to go home because I haven't got one." His voice climbed along with his high. "And if a double decker bus, crashes into us, to die by your side, is such a heavenly way to die."
Pam jumped from the plane; the tandem harness taking him with her. She rather die than listen to me sing anymore. The freefall was exhilarating and terrifying. A hundred and thirty miles an hour, two hundred feet a second, and he was flying. The Smiths were right this was a heavenly way to die. He frowned. No, Morrissey wanted to get hit by a bus. Stupid fucker. Logan wasn't sure if he was still talking about Morrissey or himself as they plummeted toward the earth and his untimely demise.
The slight jerk of the harness pulled him from his thoughts. Logan tilted his head back to watch the red, white, and blue rectangular parachute. Two forces at work. Gravity —pulling them down— competing with the upward drag force of the chute. Thanks, science.
Logan knew there was another shitty metaphor in here somewhere. Aaron, his mother, the past, Veronica - all pulling him down. While the drugs, sex, and alcohol were the parachutes he was using to reduce his drop velocity and mitigate the damage of a crash landing. And yet, Logan didn't want to be caught in the push and pull. He wanted to jump again. Experience that minute of freedom.
They hit the ground running. He stumbled and took them both down. "Asshole," Pam muttered as she worked to free them from the lines.
Was she mad? She didn't sound angry, but Logan couldn't be sure and he wasn't sure if he cared. He didn't offer his assistance; he just laid there staring at the clouds. I'm not dead. While not a comforting thought, it was a sobering one. No, not sober - far from sober.
Pam's concerned face blocked his view of blue sky and shielded him from the painful glare of sunshine. "Are you okay?" With her thumb and forefinger she pried apart first one of his heavy-lidded eyes and then the other. "You're ripped."
It was her fault.
When he'd arrived at her apartment, she'd been straining a batch of cannabis oil from her slow cooker. Despite the open doors and windows, the entire place reeked of pot, but Logan was too distracted by her ass to make the connection between the pot smell and the freshly baked brownies. So he ate one while watching her ass shake in the faded, cutoff shorts, to the sound of The Temptations singing "I Can't Get Next to You." And he had another one as her hips started to swing to "Ain't Too Proud to Beg."
By the time she'd turned around to catch him watching her, he was on his third. Then he'd completely lost count in between the rough, frantic sex against the counter and the slower, more leisurely round on the kitchen floor.
"Logan" —Pam smacked his cheek bringing him back to his present circumstances— "You have to get up."
He didn't want to get up; he wanted to take a nap. Ingesting pot was different from his usual high. Smoking, he could feel the effect in a few minutes and he always knew when he'd reached the right level. Science has a term for that, too. Logan frowned as he searched his brain for the word. Titration. He'd passed that level hours ago and he was still climbing. "I'm cold."
Grabbing his hands, Pam pulled him into a seated position. "We need to go now."
"Are the police coming?" He didn't know how he was going to explain this to Veronica. I don't cheat. But he was here with Pam and he knew for a fact that he'd spent the better part of the afternoon buried deep inside her - fucking her on the kitchen floor. He groaned.
This was worse than Madison. Madison had been an aberration of horrible sex and self-loathing. He'd been so sure that breaking up with Veronica was the best thing for both of them. That he was being fucking noble ending things before he could hurt her. Enter Madison Sinclair. Alone and hurting and almost done with his Christmas bottle of Macallen— he had let Madison fuck him. He'd kept his eyes closed and tried to pretend she was someone else, but even his imagination wasn't that good. When she was done, he'd pushed her off and went to throw up in the bathtub. So much for not hurting Veronica.
He tried to focus on Pam here in the present. This was way worse than Madison. Logan groaned again. "She's never going to forgive me," he mumbled. He hung his head and stared at the ground not quite sure how he went from supine to standing. If I could vomit now, I'd feel better. Pam was tugging him across the field. Logan smacked at her hands. "I don't wanna go to jail."
"You're greening out." She pushed him into the passenger seat of her car and shoved a water bottle in his hands. "Drink that."
"Is it vodka?"
"Yeah, absolutely." She rolled her eyes. Just like Veronica.
"Absolutely Absolut- that should be its slogan." He took a healthy swig and spit it out. "Water."
"If you don't fucking drink that, I'm going to pour it down your throat."
Logan laughed. "Big words from such a little thing."
True to her word, Pam straddled his lap, put the bottle to his lips and upended it. Logan spewed water across her face and grabbed the bottle from her fingers. "Okay, okay, you're really harshing my mellow." Under her watchful eye, he drank the bottle. "Satisfied, Ve-ro-ni-ca?" His tongue undulating each syllable enjoying the feel of her name in his mouth.
Pam flatly told him, "I'm not Veronica," as she removed herself from his lap. "Buckle up."
"Why? Is it going to be a bumpy night?" She just stared at him. "Bette Davis? Anne Baxter? Fasten your seatbelts… have you never seen All About Eve? No? Well, this is all about Veronica."
"Shut up, Logan."