She was not fragile like a flower;
she was fragile like a bomb.
3.9k word count.
John led Logan to his bed.
It was the first and unfortunately, she determined, would be the last. For now, she indulged in the warmth and overwhelming scent of him that surrounded her. It was in the sheets. It permeated the air. He was everywhere, against her body, filling her lungs with every breath, absorbed in her soft tissue. Beneath the blankets, their legs were tangled. Despite what felt like suffocation, she thrilled in the intimacy. Still, she feared at any moment the pressure would sweep her away into oblivion. The view was indeed beautiful, but there was always the fear of falling from the cliff. A word drifted to and fro but no matter how incessant it seemed, it could not, would not define her. It did not control her. It drove people away. It sapped away self and sanity; Logan had not once considered herself broken or wrong before John arrived. Normal people explored illnesses they knew they didn't have. There's safety in established knowledge.
Logan could never look up the word that defined her. The truth was too hard to swallow at times.
In the quiet darkness, she waited.
Once John's breathing deepened and his limbs slackened, Logan slipped out from the cage his arms formed and then quietly dressed. Heading to her bedroom, she grabbed her luggage and paused in the doorway, taking a moment to soak in her decision.
The bed was made. The curtains were drawn open allowing the moonshine to bathe her bedroom in a spectral glow. Since she'd inherited the estate, she'd been the only person here for years, hardly sharing space with others. Though what little friends she conjured made their visits, those events only happened less than a handful of times.
Logan leaned against the door frame, appreciating what was likely the last moment she'd gaze upon her bedroom or reside in this house.
Her attention was drawn towards the nightstand, where it remained even after she discovered it: John's wedding ring. He never came for it, and she hadn't disturbed it. Staring at the small item, she wondered if, later down the road, it would prove useful―as a reminder when she got off track, or ... a source of comfort, when she needed it.
Sitting the bags down, she grabbed a chain from her bathroom and came back. She slipped the ring onto the necklace and fastened it around her neck. The cold tungsten hung low against valley of her breast. Feeling it there―knowing it rested near her heart―truly did comfort her. She felt connected to him some how, like it belonged to her―like he belonged to her. What to do with such a discovery was unknown at the time, so she buried it. If she ignored it, perhaps it would go away.
Whatever it was, it wasn't love. She couldn't stomach that.
Love favored a delicate woman who was refined, charismatic and adept in the art of charming those around her―like her mother. Love bestowed upon the paragon of woman a worthy counterpart―a man, strong and fearless―like her father. That was love, not … this.
This was carnage.
Once downstairs, Logan grabbed the remaining duffel bags at the top of the basement stairs, and then secured them into her truck's tool boxes. The old, maroon '93 Ford F-150, once her father's truck, was now hers. If she wanted to remain anonymous, the Corvette or any of Caldron's ostentatious toys must remain behind. The dilapidated truck would prevent her from speeding or placed in the backseat of a trooper's cruiser in handcuffs; no man, or woman had any business transporting assorted weapons and firearms across multiple state lines.
Not any good, well deserving, business at least.
Gingerly fastening the latches securing the tool boxes, Logan returned to collect the last of her belongings, and to lock the doors.
The MRE boxes remained at the vault entrance, where she dropped them after John's intervention. Restacking them, Logan knelt to hoist them up and spotted a trunk.
A nondescript, wooden trunk pushed against the wall beneath a work bench. Hidden deep within dense shadows cast by the glaring red interior lights, it didn't belong to her or her father. Though this was not Logan's first time seeing it―then she realized; it was the same trunk her father hauled inside the night John arrived. Initially, it's presence held no significance to her. Neither Cauldron or John spoke of it, and Logan had completely forgotten about it. Until now.
Reaching for it, she slid it out into view and investigated the edges. Nothing secured it closed, so she flipped it open. The first item she noticed was a Glock pistol, a model she wasn't familiar with. The slide was more aggressive than the models she recognized. Engraved, slimmer, more tactical.
She scrunched her nose with disdain. Despite its pleasing aesthetics, it was still a Glock. Interestingly, John's weapon of choice was hemmed in by vertical slots housing columns of bright, shiny coins, tinted red from the refracted vault light; curious, Logan ran her fingers down the cold pieces before plucking one up and examining it. Closer inspection revealed they were gold. Certainly the pieces were not of legal tender; the unfamiliar, foreign coinage was beyond her scope of exposure. A cursory glance failed to reveal any meaning regarding the blindfolded figure and laurels on one side, nor did the lion and shield depicted on the other. Logan's gut instinct spurred her need to leave quickly, and she absently pocketed the coin.
Eyeing the Glock with contempt one last time, she quickly closed the trunk and slid it back under the workbench. Perhaps Caldron knew what it all meant. She'd bring it up once she revealed it was time to find a new hideout for John Wick.
Carefully gathering the MRE boxes together, Logan quietly closed and locked the vault door. Tossing the boxes into the truck bed, with the keys gripped tightly in hand as dawn warmed the horizon, Logan glanced at her home one last time.
The doors were closed and secured, her home's interior dark and quiet―a calm and tranquil illusion. Wick was not safe. John and his dog could no longer stay here. Without raising suspicions, she would have to warn Caldron. Their next location must less obvious than a ranch home set on a precipice for the entire hill country to see. Perhaps a hotel, preferably one out of town.
Logan climbed into her truck; when the engine turned over, she pulled out of the driveway and drove through the open property gates, ceremoniously releasing Logan Ryder into the wild unknown.
Deep down, she feared she might never return to Texas. Maybe that was for the best.
Palming the backpack next to her on the truck bench, she retrieved her phone and called her father. It was a shot in the dark and almost ritualistic. Over the years, the vast majority of her calls were never answered.
It took three tries until he picked up.
"Is this an emergency?" His voice, deep and rough from sleep, cut through the static.
"Sort of," Logan replied, put off by his brusque response.
"Well, what is it now?" he grunted, shifting into a more comfortable position. "I'm doing what I can on my end. Kennedy and I are up to our necks with these damn thugs. Did something happen?"
A swarm of morbid images flashed across her memory. Logan put to rights what remained of Jennifer's dismembered body. Mechanically cleaning her mother's face, sifting through the fractured, severed limbs while the earth yawned open, ready to receive grisly offering. The numerous, cruel wounds Jennifer received were catalogued in her flesh, embedded with debris; adding insult to grievous, fatal injuries, Jennifer was covered with maggots. Detached was Logan's method of protection. Should her thoughts roam, fear and pain and blinding retribution would conquer her senses. The agony and vicious abuse Jennifer was subjected to and endured until death took the reins was unfathomable. Logan didn't want to think about that right now.
She knew she would never be able to scour the horrific memory from her mind's eye for the rest of her natural life. Her mother, once so vibrantly beautiful and alive, was tucked deep within the earth, beneath a blanket of loosely packed dirt.
Cringing, she cleared her throat. "No, not yet. But I think it's time we move him somewhere else."
Lifting her grey eyes to the rear view mirror, she expected to see a dark colored Mustang closing in on her six o'clock; there was nothing but dust billowing in her wake.
"What makes you say that?" Caldron's voice came again.
Logan blinked, feeling contested with her decision.
"What doesn't?" she spat, "It hasn't been safe there since the first intruder. It's time he's relocated or someone with enough balls will burn down my house."
In fact, it was shocking they hadn't done more. Despite the estate's remote location and technology, They breached her property without triggering any of her sensors; what else could they do and why hadn't they already done so? Unless they knew no one was home. If they destroyed the house, it meant John would have to go elsewhere, and thus have to search for him again. At least, with it still in tact, his return was guaranteed―however, short. This revelation unsettled her, especially with John still residing there.
Or was it because of something else? It didn't seem practical to come whatever distance they may without returning with their prize.
Unless they were scared...
The line went quiet as Logan drove on, occasionally jostled by uneven road. Dirt and rocks pelted the sides of the cab as she traversed towards the highway.
"He can't stay there anymore," she resolved, "He needs to stay somewhere less obvious. Like a motel."
"No," Caldron interjected, "People are already staked out at those places. I've got eyes everywhere, Logan."
Flexing her jaw, Logan squeezed the steering wheel. If that were the case, she wouldn't have had to bury her mother.
The stacking transgressions were taking a toll on her bearing, making it difficult to keep her emotions in check. An emotional, physical, or even by spiritual catharsis. She didn't care, she just wanted some sort of release.
"Then what do you suggest?" she asked in clipped tones, rising in volume. "You want him to stay there and die? Because that's exactly what's going to happen, to both of us!" Her voice filled the cab suddenly, the anger she had been staving off coming to a head. Taking a deep breath, Logan relaxed. Appearing too concerned would raise Caldron's suspicions; or … it could distract him from her intended motive.
A long silence encompassed the father and daughter until finally...
"I guess I've gotta place," Caldron murmured, uncertainty tracing his voice. "It's nothing like the ranch house, but it'll do. He can stay here."
"Here?" she echoed, suddenly confused. "Where's 'here'?"
"Kennedy's," he said quickly, "I'll text you the address."
Logan hung up and pulled off to the side of the road. When the text message arrived, she entered the address and discovered Kennedy's home was a short distance away.
Odd, she thought, he'd never once mentioned a second house or that it resided so close to hers.
But then again, years had gone by since they last saw each other. Time, among other things, changed people.
Furrowing her brow, she started the navigation and in minutes she was taking another dirt road between steep, craggy cliff faces, sharp inclined turns, and over a railroad track before rolling up to a worn down mobile home. Her father's large white diesel truck was the only vehicle parked out front.
Parking, she got out while Caldron emerged onto the porch in his boxers and an undershirt.
Slamming the truck door, she approached, gesturing towards the pale yellow trailer that bore no connection to the high maintenance, materialistic man that was Kennedy.
"This is Kennedy's house?"
Caldron glanced back as if he had to make sure of it himself before answering, "Yeah."
She mounted the stairs, surprised. "Since when?"
Staring up towards her father, there was a rise and fall of his shoulders. He was breathless. She waited, expecting common courtesies exchanged between a father and daughter. But he did not come forth and hug her, ruffle her hair or tap her chin gently with his knuckle.
Still dressed in what appeared to be pajamas, Caldron pulled the screen door opened and gestured her inside.
"Since well, recently," he muttered as she walked past.
Entering, it took a moment for Logan's eyes to adjust to the darkness. Every blind was pulled down and the curtains were closed. Despite the ragged exterior, the dwelling was well furnished and tidy. Glancing about the room, she searched for more indicators that it was Kennedy's estate. The man was an Army Ranger and he made sure the world knew. Whether that be a decorating shadow box, a United States Army flag or a regiment scroll patches strewn about; Kennedy made it no mystery.
"Let me put some clothes on." Caldron shut the door behind him and stepped around, heading for a hallway in the back left side of the living room.
Logan moved out of the way to further examine the home, as she wandered around, she asked, "Doesn't he live near San Antonio? With a successful business?" Kennedy had no shortage of money and never had made early mention of moving to Comfort. The town was too small compared to San Antonio.
Approaching several furnishings, she looked around for decorations, anything to entertain herself while she waited. But there were no picture frames or figurines. Nothing to tie together a home, which was unlike Kennedy.
Caldron spoke up from the back. "Yeah,...well, since this whole ordeal happened, he got tired of drivin' back and forth from here and San Antonio. His oldest is runnin' the shop while he's away." His voice drifted as he migrated further down the hall. Logan was still eyeing the top of the dresser where it appeared a thin film of dust caked the surfaces, sans a few markings, as if items had once rested on the surface. It was a smart move to hide all of Kennedy's personal belongings, now that she realized. The place wasn't entirely secure. No fencing or surveillance that she noticed.
In the back, Caldron rummaged around, knocking things over as he continued to talk. "Place is pretty secluded. Most visitors we get are coyotes and other vermin. No foot traffic, trespassers, or hunters to worry about. And not every vehicle can maneuver through the loose sand."
Logan reached up and silently pulled the top drawer open.
Caldron's voice continued, "That way none of those city rats and their damned convertibles can make it back here without findin' themselves in a rut. Like quicksand!" He chuckled to himself.
Curious, Logan peeked inside, discovering dozens of framed pictures. Furrowing her brow, she drew the drawer open wider, allowing what little light to spill in.
"I'll be settin' up traps later," her father added, "Still tryin' to get everything settled. Most of my time is spent at that damn farm with the silo, can't seem to get away long enough to take a shit." He laughed some more.
The first face she spotted was her own, which was odd for Kennedy to have, and immediately threw red flags.
Then she saw her mother's and then her father's. Everyone side by side.
A family photo.
Dozens of them.
All framed. All snapshots of a brief moment in time. When Logan was younger, covered in cake, wearing nothing but a diaper. When her mother was still apart of her life, much less alive and still in one whole piece. When her father still had hair on top of his head and a smile that wasn't so forced and weary.
Why would Kennedy have these?
Another photo was of a small rat terrier, her neighbors dog, before Caldron and Jennifer divorced. Logan remembered it was hit playing in the road. She was there when it happened. Yes, she remembered, feeling her stomach twist with regret twenty years later. It was her fault. They'd been playing. Snickers was his name and he loved to chase and chase and chase. He chased her across the road but never quite made it to the other side.
Eager for more, she yanked the drawer almost completely out of its shelf as more photos of her adolescence revealed themselves. This was not Kennedy's home.
This was her father's home.
He was lying to her.
Taken aback, she glanced around frantically, absorbing as much of her surroundings as she could. He was living here. A tide of questions crashed into her. It was obvious he'd tried to make a quick sweep of the house, tossing items that connected the two out of sight.
This is where he had been hiding all along, she realized, from her.
There was no business trip, no contractor job. Perhaps not even Blackwater. Did he ever touch the middle east or was that the catch phrase he kept telling her to get her off his back?
The shambly exterior, the cozy, well furnished interior. He'd been here for some time.
Logan was too afraid to ask herself why. Did he not want her? Had whatever deterred her mother from Logan's life also claimed her father?
No, the pictures said otherwise. He still loved her. They were once a harmonious family. These were reminders of what had been real and true. They adorned the shelves, she could see it, the markings were there.
Caldron continued to talk from the back of the mobile home, but she couldn't pay attention to what he was saying. Even if she did, she couldn't hear around the blood whooshing against her ears.
He'd been here this entire time, just miles away from her…
The things she had done to lure him back into her life. Threatening voice mails, angry lash outs―the sleepless nights, the gut-wrenching worry, the overwhelming silence. It'd gotten to the point she thought he was dead―hoped he was dead―and not willfully ignoring her. Her mother was already doing a fine job of that.
Moreover, it wasn't just in trying times she needed him, but also her victories and milestones. He wasn't there to encourage her to submit her warrant officer packet or there to congratulate her upon selection. She was the only one in her class unable to be pinned by a family member or a loved one. All others had their husband's, wives, family members mount the stage and slip on their brand new wings against the Army dress blues. Between their tears and proud embraces, Logan stared off stage, hoping Caldron emerge at the last minute. It was no help she told no one her intentions, but she knew Caldron had a way of finding out things. His network ran deep and wide. A fact she still had yet to understand.
Even now that he was back in her life, things were different. There was hardly a trace of the man she knew growing up. He was affectionate once before, but no longer. In truth, he was all she had. Now more than ever and by no means would she fall onto John Wick to fill in the attention she craved.
Certainly Caldron loved her, even if her mother did not.
However, when he did come around, it was to cater to John. What attempt had he made to spend time with her?
No amount of self actualizing could help Logan see what went wrong. Where she went wrong. She was long past damage control.
John Wick was the decided priority, she knew. Keeping alive that fourteen million dollar man commanded Caldron's focus. This was known from the begging. Why did she feel this way now? How could she be so selfish?
But the fact remained, glaring her in the face with a harsh smile. She was an incentive, a ploy, for others to empathize and pity by pretending love could band everyone together.
Everyone except the lovers...
Logan couldn't stop jealousy from rearing an ugly head. A part of her wanted to storm down the hall and reveal everything to him―that her mother was killed, divided and cruelly eviscerated then delivered to her doorstep. That Logan carved a whole into the earth, paces away from raccoons and strays that wore out their welcome. That his perfect little daughter was fucking John Wick, unforgivably riding that fourteen million dollar cock with eagerness, wet and heedy every time he came near her, touched her, looked at her.
Yes, these things would inflict damage monumentally...
No father wanted to think and know that the little girl he raised was a whore.
Anger flared; she wanted to hurt him. Logan wanted him to feel just as low and misused.
But then…
She caught herself. She reined it all in, internalizing it like she always did.
He didn't deserve to know anything. Withholding seemed far more rewarding than revealing that godawful truth. Rather make him work for it, than hand it over. That was unfair. He should find out on his own, like she did. That way he'd know what it was like, to stumble upon the ugly truth, the shocking reality that awaited in shadow. She would abandon him here, flee to New York, and find more answers to what she was dealing with. Time was of the essence.
It went without saying Caldron would not explain further―who they were fighting and why. She understood the principle; save John, protect him―Caldron made a promise. An unbreakable one, she gathered.
Logan reached in, picking up the frames and positioned them back on top of the dresser as she did, more items beneath revealed themselves. One being a large jewelry box which she grabbed and flipped open, assuming it was more pictures and trinkets from her earlier life.
Instead, it was just gold coins and a large medallion.
Logan found it strange that these very coins had come to find her discovery a second time, but the medallion was new. It was slightly larger than her palm with the side profile of a skull dead center surrounded by filigree. It felt heavy in her hand, valuable.
Footsteps came, alerting her.
There was no way she could pretend; Logan was a poor liar and an even poorer actress.
And why did everyone have these damned coins!
Putting the box back together, she wanted it all: the coins, the medallion and one last picture of her family.
It was time to leave.
It was time to go to New York.
disclaimer; love is however you define it.
Obligatory declaration of love and appreciation for the one we all know as Holly !
l0velylexx: thank you for that tremendous compliment. I'm glad my muse can extend you into the Wick universe! And I wish you the best during the aftermath. I'm in Austin, where there was some minor flood and wind damage but nothing to the extent of the gulf. I'm thinking about you!
Inkandtrees: What is my muse for if not for huge shoot outs and sex scenes?!
thank you for the reviews & your time!