The long night passed, and the morning started peeking over the horizon.
Logan had just drifted to sleep when her startling alarm clock erupted the silence. The blaring noise felt like claws raking against the inside of her skull with every honk, and that alone inspired a sleep-deprived headache.
Reaching out from beneath the blankets, she yanked the electrical cord, unplugging it from the wall and throwing the cord to the floor. She retracted back under the warm covers, only for the previous night's events to come rushing forth.
The wine did little to help her sleep. Though she was terribly tired, physically from the transfusion, and emotionally from her father, she found no solace slumber could promise. Throughout the night, she got up to swap bags while John slept. He'd taken three so far. She presumed the third was empty by now. Like a stretched rubber band, her mind snapped back to thoughts of her father. The beacon of light in her stormy thoughts.
He said he loved her. She played the words over and over in her head.
It wasn't a frequent endearment. It was both scary and exalting to hear him utter those words. The last time she had heard him say such a phrase, she had nearly drowned, and it was Caldron who resuscitated her. It was a harmless accident. One she didn't really think about often. Not in a bad way, at least. Most kids had trouble swimming. What's a childhood without a near-death experience involving lakes and ponds? If anything, it was waking up cradled in his arms that she remembered vividly; a burly man on the brink of tears. The experience was startling for any twelve years old and carved a concise memory into her mind, but she never thought of it negatively.
Sitting up, Logan could still hear it raining. Bringing her hands to her face, she rubbed her eyes and cheeks, then neck. There was tension there and in her shoulders, a soreness that ached where she'd squeezed, likely the result of hauling a grown man up a set of stairs. Had John survived the night? She wondered.
If not, easy fix.
Hiding a dead man was easier than a live one. However, she wondered if the news would affect her father for better or for worse? John hadn't divulged anything, so she had no way of knowing his worth or his connections. But, she was a patient woman. For now, she'd tend to him as best she could until his strength returned or until her father came for him.
Throwing the covers back, she headed downstairs to make a pot of coffee.
The illuminated screen of her cell phone turned black after a while. A cup of coffee rested between her hand as she was currently perched on her barstool, with one leg tucked beneath her and the other propped so that she could rest her chin along with her knee. Like her father, she kept her phone downstairs to charge overnight. It kept him from fiddling with it when it was time for bed, so it worked for Logan in the same aspect. Unfortunately, there were no missing calls from him or anyone for that matter. This was expected but disappointing. At the very least, she needed answers. An ambiguous, disingenuous half-assed one would do at this point.
Anything, really.
A good morning.
Another thank you.
Maybe a simple heart to let her know he was thinking about her.
Nothing.
Another sense of doubt prickled at her. Had she imagined it all? She couldn't have. There was mud everywhere and drops of dried blood in the foyer. Amidst hat, alarge wooden trunk she spotted on her way to the kitchen. Her eyes had lingered on the massive truck mottled with bloody handprints. Whatever it was to John or her father, she assumed it didn't concern her.
But it should.
Whatever he'd just dumped into her lap now involved her whether anyone wanted to admit it. She had every right to know who John was, what happened to him, and why bring him here, to her?
As if on cue, footsteps overhead lifted Logan's eyes from the mobile's black screen to the antler chandelier above.
John was awake.
She didn't mean to hold her breath as the steps descended the stairs. When he quietly came around the corner, Logan exhaled. Despite the overcast, the sunrise still filled the interior of her home and bathed the disheveled stranger in a spectral blue. He stopped midway and regarded her evenly, sleep hovering over his features. The cotton pajamas nearly covered his feet, and the large shirt was too baggy, making him look skinny and malnourished. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her it was time for breakfast. She hoped he liked rattlesnake.
Logan, however, had difficulty looking away. Time-stretched, and stretched, and would not break.
His jet black hair still appeared neatly parted down the middle, slightly mussed from rousing. Color had returned to his face, but the longer Logan stared, the less haggard he appeared, and the more... alive he looked.
"You're a pilot," John stated, interrupting her thoughts.
He took a step forward, and she could see the bags beneath his eyes, but the taut expressions she witnessed the night before were gone. He must have seen the pictures of her college days. Logan attended civilian flight school in the Dallas-Fort Worth area several years ago. Perhaps it was supposed to be a question; she wasn't sure. She was terrible at reading people, especially John, so she said nothing. Besides, pictures were worth a thousand words, or something like that.
The coffee mug was still warm between her hands. An extra mug had been set out for John, but she hadn't anticipated him to wake so soon. In fact, she hadn't anticipated him to be still alive. The foot beneath her posterior began to go numb, but she feared to move. It'd been a while since she was alone with someone else. How did the social cues go again?
When he realized she hadn't much to say on the matter, he cleared his throat and looked around. His eyes roamed the kitchen before settling along with his assigned mug. Shuffling quietly to the coffee pot, he poured himself a cup without a cue, which she admired greatly. Who else could the mug be for?
Logan examined him as he brought the porcelain gingerly to his lips. He sipped, adding no sweetener or sugar, like Logan. She listened to him swallow, expected a satisfied sigh as any normal person would perform, but her expectations were unmet.
"Apaches," she finally murmured, lowering her eyes to the inky pool captured in her own cup.
Without looking at her, he nodded, and took a second sip.
Uncomfortable with the idea of leaving John unattended for the first day, Logan called into work and told them she hadn't slept well. The point of lying seemed frivolous to her. The theory was she couldn't perform up to par fatigued. Flying a multi-million dollar war machine through the sky with two minutes of sleep seemed quite the feat. A simple feat Logan could accomplish but, frankly, didn't want to. The commander sounded worried near the end. She hung up before he started questioning her. When she returned downstairs, John had wandered out onto the back patio where there were several fruit trees and a small garden. The Ryder estate sat atop of precipice that overlooked the Texas hill country so perhaps he wished for a view. If he looked hard enough, he'd spot several creeks and a lake they fed on.
Cutting up pieces of the rattlesnake, she warmed the meat with diced vegetables, then mixed in a bit of eggs. A few minutes had passed before John returned, sitting along the island where she cooked. He poured a second cup and quietly drank. She wondered if he liked tacos and if he had ever tasted rattlesnake.
Whether he intended it or not, Logan was exceedingly uncomfortable around John. Something about the way his eyes followed her, narrowing at times as if committing every detail to memory. He was studying her, and she did not like that. Moreover, there was no emotion from the man; it seemed one of Caldron's many things he taught Logan was not to grant an enemy insightーmaintain unpredictability, therefore always possess the element of surprise. She still hadn't decided whether John was foe or friendly.
But how could she? Gauging him was like guessing a concrete wall's favorite ice cream. Certainly, he knew the way she balanced on her feet, how she looked before she turned. He probably knew what color of blue she painted her toenails. Hoping to harbor at least one secret, she placed one foot over the other and curled her toes from view.
The skillet and its contents hissed, filling the airy kitchen with spices and a musty fragrance of coriander and rattlesnake. She prodded the morsels with a spatula, feeling how rapidly her heartbeat as she grew more and more suspicious of this John. A fake name, no doubt.
There wasn't much she knew about him. Caldron just seemingly dropped him off and left her to figure out the rest.
Kill whatever comes after him.
She grumbled internally. Why should she? She thought defiantly. Why was this suddenly her fucking problem?
The sound of porcelain against marble brought her out of her mental chide, and she glanced over her shoulder. John was standing, looking down at his cup of coffee. There was a shift in the atmosphere; Logan felt as if fate had delivered an answer to her suspicions. He looked up, and their stares locked like a deadbolt. Something fierce darkened his countenance as he stalked around the large kitchen island towards Logan, panic licking her spine.
Dropping the spatula, she stepped back from the stove, turning so that she faced him as she backed away.
John lunged, sweeping his arm across as if to catch her.
Leaping back, she evaded several more grabs but couldn't maintain her footing fast enough. John seized her shoulders, pulling her towards him, and the kitchen descended into chaos. A mug was knocked from the countertop, smashing to pieces and spilling coffee everywhere. She tried twisting from his grasp but ended up spinning herself into a chokehold. Dropping her arm, she got a fistful of his thigh instead of his groin. He wrenched, loosening his hold, allowing Logan to spring free. Her bare feet slapped against the floor as she faltered, slipping on the warm liquid beneath her. The moment she regained her footing, he was already upon her swinging just as she turned. Ducking, Logan took several blows, parrying a majority, but the man was fast and obviously well versed in jujutsu, even despite his injuries he was too damn fast. It seemed she had been bested by her own advice. Caldron would be disappointed.
A few times, Logan managed several of her own strikes to his midsection, and she wondered how the stitchings were holding up. She had given him her blood, and here the bastard was trying to kill her.
He cuffed her ear, nearly stunning her, and a single high-pitched tone rang out in her head. This reminded her to keep her hands up and in front of her face. Logan had this. She'd been here before many times, and after this, if she made it, Caldron was going to get an earful.
John was taller, denser in muscle, sure, but he could fall. He could fall hard. They grappled, and Logan waited for him to seize her again. When he did, she slapped the bend of his elbow, trapped his foot beneath hers, shoved the palm of her hand into his nose with enough force to drive his head back.
It all happened in a blink.
Like a chain reaction, his center of gravity shift, and the rest of him followed. He collapsed to the floor, thrown from his balance, but Logan was far from finished. She followed into a full mount, straddling him and wrapping her hands around his throat. She began to choke him, driving her thumbs into either side of his Adam's apple.
Using her body weight as leverage, Logan held fast atop him, and furiously. His hands gripped her all over, seeking a weak spot, anything to dismantle her.
Rage kept her strong. Anger towards her father for allowing this man into her home gave her conviction.
In a blur, her elbow was struck, collapsing it just as something firm jabbed her in the jugular notch. He tossed her onto her back, where she gagged and coughed while her lungs fluttered for air. He didn't follow her. In fact, he remained supine, touching his sides tenderly with a wince.
Was that it? she wondered, pausing.
That was it.
It had to be. Why would her father want her to hide a man intent on hurting her? It wasn't possible. He'd never bring an untrustworthy subject within miles of Logan. So what the fuck was that?
This was something else. John did not advance her thereafter, nor were there any indications that she had stunned him. In fact, there was one frightening occasion John could have easily snapped her neck. Not to mention, he had willingly loosened his hold on her, allowing her to slip free.
Was it a test?
She dropped her shoulder and flopped against the floor, defeated. Together they caught their breaths against the cool hardwood, staring into the high ceiling as they winced and groaned.
"Good," John muttered roughly. "Good."
It was a test, she realized. Somehow she had been assigned to protect him or, at the very least, hide him. From what? Logan deserved to know and soon. But it made perfect sense. If the shoe were on the other foot, she would want to know what he was capable of.
"Jujutsu?" she asked between breaths.
"Yeah," he responded breathlessly. "Krav Maga?"
She licked her dried lips, nodding. "Yeah..."
Logan sat up as gingerly as she could. Not only was she tired, she was also bested, and the damage to her pride her more than the playful patting John subjected her to. Everything hurt now, and her ankles felt banged up where he had attempted tripping her. John remained strewn along the floor and paid little mind as she stepped over him to return to the kitchen.
Annoyed, put off, and confused, the maelstrom of emotions whirling inside her conjured a different appetite.
After cleaning broken glass and coffee, they ate in silence, and it seemed as though they were more at ease after the strife. Logan didn't find him staring at her in that peculiar way as if she had grown ahead out the side of her neck. Whether he felt the same, there would be no way of telling. He was impossible to read, and she was envious of that. When she finished, Logan dropped her dishes into the sink and headed for the stairs. She expected John to say something to her like any curious guest would, but again, what did she know. His silence told her apparently nothing as she hurried up the stairs to her bedroom. The need to get as far away from him as possible was consuming her.
Throwing the shower on, she undressed quickly and stepped under the scorching stream. Her skin prickled as she slowly rotated beneath the spray, hoping the heat melted her muscles and her mind.
She replayed the fight, spotting her weaknesses, and where she went wrong. There were too many moments she should have blocked instead of sacrificing her stance by ducking.
Throughout the throbs and aches where John had painfully landed was something new. Something she hadn't felt in quite some time. This only heightened her curiosity. She knew next to nothing about him aside from the obvious connection to her father. But Caldron had admitted John wasn't apart of Blackwater. However, that didn't mean he wasn't affiliated with other brother divisions like DynCorp or Triple Canopy. Maybe even organizations she'd never heard of, smaller or lesser-known groups.
She could still hear him and feel him. His huffs and grunts so close to her, she felt his breath. Why was she thinking of that? Why did her mind keep replaying the images of how his hands seized her hips when she went into a full mount? Or the way he bent his knees and tried tossing her off with his hips?
Stepping closer to the stream, she lifted her face into the harsh spray and closed her eyes. This place was too big and too empty to be alone. Working was not a medium Logan used to socialize. The military had ranks and a chain of command. Just another job. That's all it was.
But this... heat had nothing to do with the shower.
Logan wondered if she was just lonely. During SERE training, her body had responded similarly during interrogations where they beat and threw her around. Another way to survive, perhaps. An embarrassing female hindbrain trying to exploit weaknesses if it meant survivng.
She hadn't been this vulnerable around someone in quite some time. That's why she needed to get away from him, she assured herself—nothing else and certainly not a faint attraction.
Scrambling for an excuse, Logan thought of the men at the brigade. They were narcissistic and obnoxious. She abhorred their ostentatious behavior. Though she had been there for several years, a lot of them were strangers to her.
But so was John.
Along her back, her dark hair joined in a solid rivulet channeled by the water. Her skin prickled again, flashing images of John beneath her, teeth gritted, eyes of sheer will and determination. He showed her something. She saw the true him if only for a moment.
Before she realized it, her hand drifted down the plains of her stomach, traveling lower, and lower. She turned her head aside, and the water pushed ribbons of hair forward, bowing under the weight of warm cascade. Tendrils slipped from her shoulders like she slipped a finger inside. Her knees trembled as she worked another finger into her wet center. The other hand pressed against the stone wall. She could hear him in her head. The hand against the wall curled into a fist while the other pushed her fingers deeper.
John.
Logan squeezed her eyes shut and tried to shake away the man's face from her mind. Between her legs, the pleasure bloomed and throbbed with her heavy heart. Her ears began to burn, and her face grew hot as the build came. Around her fingers, she felt the cinching and milking of her walls as she felt the climb.
John.
Sucking in a sharp breath, she gasped quietly as the climax shattered her from within. Her knees wobbled, and she sank to the shower floor, stifling the stream of noises. Conflicting emotions poured over her.
Lust.
Guilt.
Shame.
It was pitiful how little it took to get her off. It'd been so long.
She was lonely; that's it.
Logan finished showering, dried off, and dressed in something loose and comfortable. Fatigue descended upon her like a heavy curtain as soon as she entered her room. Her bed was terribly inviting. Pausing mid-step, she thought of John again and wondered if leaving him alone was a good idea. A yawn came, and she tiredly shuffled to her bedside.
From what she observed just moments ago, she shouldn't have to worry. If he needed her, he could find her.
Logan peeled the covers back and crawled into bed. She could still feel the small aftershocks of her orgasm twitching between her legs as she pressed her face into the pillow. Another yawn seized her, filling her lungs and guiding her to sleep.
Before anyone is confused, (because I was) there's Traditional Japanese jujutso and Brazilian jujitsu, also BJJ. BJJ is a newer, more modern sense of close combat but it is heavily influenced by its the original Japanese art, jujutso. Anyway, some trivia told me that was John's fighting style and I'm not one to argue.
Right now my intentions are to form a sort of connection. This might be a slow burn considering John still wears a wedding ring and is determined as shit. I know there are many questions and the answers are well on their way.
HollyHobbit13: not going to lie, after reading your review, I considered going to see it a second time. Did you learn anything new from this one?
Guest(s): Yay! Good!
Thanks for reading and reviewing!