Your Delusional Fantasies took the liberty in creating not one, but TWO, amazing cover arts for Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat. I can't decide which one I like more so I'll be swapping between the two!
This chapter is also over 5.7k.
xxx
Kennedy rolled up a clean, white sleeve, revealing a burly forearm carved with intricate tattoos. His hands were heavily scarred; most blemishes claimed his knuckles, suggesting the man had a penchant for fighting―or punching through windows.
"How do you feel 'bout an 'old fashion'?" he asked John as he rolled up his second sleeve. A decanter filled with bourbon, several glasses along the kitchen counter and, an orange sat before him.
"I prefer neat or on the rocks," said John.
"Ah, welp!" Kennedy shrugged, "We're all mad men here. Lemme make you an old fashion!"
John sat down as Kennedy went to work. He silently observed the heavily tattooed man add sugar, bitters, and a splash of water, and then carve a small curl of orange rind; dropping it into the mixture, he then added the bourbon before stirring the ingredients carefully. Slipping an orange wedge into the amber liquid, he slid the glass towards John and picked up his own.
Kennedy extended his arm, tinked it against John's glass and took a swig.
John took a drink as well.
Tasty and strong, but not as good as Addy's.
"So . . . allow me to tell you a l'il somethin', somethin' 'bout these folks here," Kennedy pulled up a stool and plopped down atop it, gesturing with scarred finger at the men he brought to John's attention. "We've got ourselves a little bit of everythang; got us here some Army Rangers, Texas Rangers, a couple o' SEALs . . . oh, and we got another gentleman who did some SAS trainin' in the UK. There's some Raiders outside, Caldron's buddies I like to go hunting with. And my buddy Nick's taken some interest in this recent development; he's a Green Beret."
Leaning against the counter, Kennedy propped an elbow up while the other arm rested with his drink. He began listing the names and professions from one end of the room to the other.
"That's my boy, Ayrie, that big guy with the long hair and beard. He was Watchdog leader for 2nd Battalion Ranger team up in Washington state; Texas boy, don't get confused now." The aforementioned was standing by the back patio door, a beer in one hand while he drew an elaborate story with the other.
Kennedy moved his attention over to several men grouped in the living room. Some were sitting, other were standing.
"The guy in the middle with the white cowboy hat, name's Morgan. He worked with Caldron; in fact, he was there when you kicked Caldron's ass. He's a Texas Ranger now. The one on the left is a SEAL, named McKinley. He's got eyes like an eagle and can shoot a man between the brows, three zip codes over before breakfast on Easter Sunday. The other man is just weird and name's Adam; he's from Austin―that there's the problem, they're all weird. He runs a shop designing tactical gear. Whatever you want, he'll get it for ya. We got eyes and ears all over the place, in all directions. If anyone so much as farts your name, we'll know."
"And then, there's ... me," Kennedy sighed. With a twinkle in his eyes, he gestured to himself almost reverently. "I'm just here for the fun and free booze."
He clapped John against the shoulder, giving him a firm, assuring squeeze. "I gotta say, I was convinced Logan had gone lesbo. I'd ask ya to tell me the story of y'all's meetin' and how you popped the question, but I ain't drunk enough just yet!"
Cackling, Kennedy raised his glass to John in a salute and took a long swig of his bourbon, before sliding off his stool and meandering around the island towards the man named Ayrie.
John was left in the kitchen to stare into his old fashion and his barren ring finger.
"Stop." Logan abruptly raised a hand, palm up, preventing Caldron from continuing. She dropped her horrified gaze to the floor, refusing to allow his audacious words to sink further into her mind or toy with her emotions.
Unfortunately, it made absolute sense to claim a recent addition to the Ryder family was in dire need of extreme help. What bothered Logan, was how insulting Caldron was with his statement, and the...emotional turmoil Logan was inadvertently subjected to on behalf of Wick's cause. Though she wished otherwise, she was developing a highly abhorred, yet powerful attraction to John.
But in the end, she was not some bargaining tool.
"I have much to say," she closed her eyes calmly, taking in measured breaths to prevent herself from hurling obscenities. "But I wished I hadn't known that."
Was that all she was to him? That she possessed no inherent value of her own and was chattel, merely a commodity to exchange, like livestock―as if John were some prized bull and she a breeding heifer.
Moreover, the sudden, unsettlingly large influx of people in her once private home was difficult enough to adjust to. To follow suit, her father just revealed how he voluntold his spinster daughter to tie up the loose ends to expedite the process! What happened to her quiet, solitary world? Where was the morning she woke alone? Ate alone? Breathed alone?
Now she was beginning to see her part in the entire operation and she despised it. Truly, she was no more than mere cattle; a sacrificial lamb to be offered on the proverbial altar of Wick's life. Did John view her the same way?
Unable to bear the sight of her father any longer, much less be in the same room with him, Logan scooted towards the edge of her bed, warily maneuvering onto her feet. Caldron stood, ready to assist her, but hastily withdrew and sat back down, when Logan angrily swatted him away.
"Just go, Dad," Logan's cutting tone warned Caldron away as she limped and hopped towards the bathroom, firmly gripping the doorframe as soon as she could, unaware of the paternal pride beaming from Caldron's face, as he watched her slow, but determined progress. Fierce as a lioness when her temper was roused, all the bald man saw before him, was his once-upon-a-time kitten.
Logan's ears felt hot as the pain surged through her, grating against her taut nerves and feeding her roiling anger. She hopped forward once more, slamming the door behind her after flicking the light on.
In her bedroom, the groan of relieved springs came prior to her bedroom door closing. Heavy footsteps faded away, leaving her to think in solitude.
It took Logan half an hour to gather clothes and a fresh towel, and another half hour to select and pour some bubbles while the tub filled, undress herself, then remove the old bandages. Producing her own first aid supply from beneath the sink, she tossed the items carelessly across the counter for later use.
Now hovering over the piping hot water, very carefully, Logan gripped the edges of the tub as she slowly lowered herself into its heated, foamy topped depths. The sultry heat melded with her wounds, biting into her flesh and sending chills up and down her arms. The displaced bathwater came up to her shoulders, ripples lapping at her chest as she settled in. Tilting her head back to rest again the rim, Logan winced as she straightened out her legs and wiggled her toes within the balmy depths.
Gradually, she relaxed. Steam rose from its its thin, scented veil drifting languidly to obscure the mirrors and fill the air with fragrant, pleasantly warm thickness. Her face and skin flushed pink as the heat spread throughout.
Closing her eyes, Logan immediately saw the jarring image of that damn wedding ring. She snapped them open, warding off the dreaded sight as she glared at the soft vapor blurred lights overhead. Nerves pitched within her belly as she resisted the urge to wonder what circumstances caused John to change his mind. And why so suddenly? Perhaps he knew their time together was limited. And being the only female in the residence, had something to say about his urges.
Or, her mind placated, feelings could be reaching a mutual understanding.
Probably not, she snorted derisively.
But there's always the possibility...?
Logan shook her head, silencing the internal conflict.
Complicating matters further was her father's impeccable timing with his outrageous, cock-n-bull story of a romance―an engagement, no less, between John and Logan―just as John removed his ring. Logan didn't know if she should laugh, cry, or flee from the mocking cruelty.
But what if…? Logan deliberated.
Dumbstruck, the mystery unfurled like a hard slap across the face; they were working in tandem. The timing was not coincidental but rather intentional. Caldron must have told John the only way to gather sympathy would be to tether him to something, someone they could relate to, which was Logan.
Before the hillbilly exodus, it was just Kennedy; another prominent public figure with a death toll and a stint for knife play. The man was crazy, but in a 'salt of the earth' kind of way. If that was in possible. He owned a gun shop, packed his own bullets, and knew people who knew people who knew Caldron.
That would explain her father's weird behavior after the crash; the faux-engagement was his secret, Kennedy being the first to know. Caldron suspected Kennedy would open his mouth. But why did he not want John to hear it?
Many of the men gathered below had watched Logan grow from an unruly child to―let's face it―an unruly adult. They mussed her hair and threw her onto their shoulders on many occasions. They also brought her sweets when visiting their once happy family. When her parents enjoyed a date night, she had sleepovers with their children. When Caldron was out of town on business, they kept watch over her and her mother.
That's why they kept her around. Not because she could shoot; not really. Not because she could fight; barely.
In short, they were using her, both Caldron, John, and probably now Kennedy. Everyone else she witnessed were just as much fools as she.
Angry, Logan could hear him now.
"Oh, my poor, little girl! She's finally found someone to love and his past won't let him go! Please, please―help us!"
Rolling her eyes, she groaned.
"Boo. Hoo. Hoo." she muttered bitterly, filling the spite rise and fester.
Just how much was divulged? What did and didn't reach their ears? For certain, the men below weren't aware of the bounty placed on John Wick's life. If they did, at least one of them would turn against them. Logan thought about the first night she met John. She wanted him dead; how easily Caldron and Logan could have tied the loose ends, and returned as a family. It was all she ever wanted; her father back in her life, maybe even her mother.
With bitter remorse, she knew better. Caldron had come home to help John and in doing so, introduced Logan into the mix as some incentive. With her at John's side, it mitigated enough suspicion while breaking open the bottom of their hearts and left it swinging on old hinges.
Logan took a deep breath and slid beneath the water's surface until the bubbles swallowed her up.
Abram Tarasov, brother to the late Viggo Tarasov and uncle to the also deceased Iosef Tarasov, sat in his second floor office above his chop shop.
Down below, the remnants of his men worked to restore order from the chaos and destruction John Wick unleashed when reclaiming his car. They were several days in, and there was still much to accomplish.
Abram had not slept well since.
He could still hear the staccato report of gunfire … tires squealing, his men shouting and screaming in pain as John Wick delivered their irrevocable end.
He had waited, forcing himself to embrace the sounds of unadulterated obliteration like hot iron held to flesh. There wasn't much else he could do. He was powerless, the younger brother of Viggo Tarasov.
And just as suddenly and savagely as John arrived―killing everyone who dared to intervene, destroying everything in his path, the awful cacophony stopped.
Then steps ascended to the second floor.
Each clipped footfall ricocheted against Abram's straining ears, startling him, echoing through him in tandem with their sharp report.
Death was now closing in on him…
His frenetic heart clawed into his throat as dark fears manifested in his mind.
He thought of the ways he would die.
Strangulation?
Bludgeoning?
Would John Wick maim him with a fuckin' pencil?
Would it be quick and merciful?
Or would John draw out Abram's life, extending the torture, riddling his body with unfathomable agony?
He'd heard so much of the Baba Yaga, like a folk lore told to naughty children to usher them to bed. Unfortunately, it was the minds of grown men and women those haunting words reached.
Fortunately, Abram did not meet his end that day.
John had spared him, graciously bestowing upon Abram, a parting gesture of peace.
He thought of John as the surreal silence between the moment a spoon irrevocable detaches from a live grenade, that suspended moment of tranquility before succumbing to fatal and deafening explosion; that was John Wick.
The Baba Yaga's known modus operandus: killing and sleeping. A man could only pray to find Wick in the latter.
Awash with relief was Abram Tarasov on that day Wick turned away from him, strolling back out to merge again with the shadows. An extension of palpable darkness; the Baba Yaga.
Displayed upon Abram's cell phone was a text message he had read far too often, and would read many more times again.
Fourteen million for John Wick―and then!―excommunicado from all avenues of the underground.
The malicious syndicate that ruled Wick and Tarasov's world, had turned upon and exiled the one man who knew all the rules and played the game extremely well.
What happens to the Alpha wolf when he is driven from the pack? Tarasov wondered.
It deeply unsettled the Russian, knowing Wick was ignominiously stripped of all privileges and abandoned to his cruel fate. Someone as calculating as Wick could not be hunted, tamed, or scorned.
And for only fourteen million?
You could not stab the Devil in the back without suffering severe repercussions.
Abram scoffed derisively, tapping the phone's screen with the tip of his finger; it illuminated, and the text displayed again.
It wasn't enough―not for John Wick. Abram himself wouldn't flick the Boogeyman in the throat for less than twenty million, but to kill him? The amount of money to convince him of such a task was enough to build a grand chateau on the Moon.
Again, he reflected upon the telling moment the Baba Yaga drew back the doors to Abram's office, and stepped in, ready to spill more Tarasov blood.
John would kill, and kill, and kill; this much Abram knew.
He had savagely demonstrated this countless times before. Eventually, people came to realize the horrible, unimaginable things they heard about the Baba Yaga were, in fact, true.
In the end, Abram should've just surrendered the car. He hadn't, for his brother and nephew had been extinguished and he wanted to make a statement, to hold the car as a reminder. However, he was nothing like Viggo or John; he was just an owner of a chop shop, wiping VIN numbers, papers and swapping plates. What did he know about such things as blood money? Sure, he had his fair share of interrogations and the occasional run in with opposing forces, which he handled graciously; no more, no less.
The cell phone screen dimmed again.
Abram sighed, worried as the prospects began to take hold. The underworld could turn on him, if he wasn't careful and discreet. But there had to be someone with the right answers to his absurd inquiries.
He was reflective.
Can a man like you know peace?
Why not?
"John Wick," his Russian accent rasped, "Let's see what I can do."
He picked up his cell phone and skimmed through his contacts. Abram stopped at the tail end of the C's, his thumb hovered over the words
Continental Hotel.
John, only very slightly inebriated after consuming far too many 'old fashions', faltered at the head of the stairs. His pup zoomed past him, disappearing into the bedroom where he leaped onto the bed, ready to call it a night.
Holding firmly onto the banister, John turned his head and listened; the number of men on the ground floor had dwindled to only Kennedy and Caldron, who assured John they would lock up on their way out. Caldron and Kennedy had assembled a remarkable group of friends willing to help the Baba Yaga, largely in deference to Logan ... his fiancée.
To his credit, John did not blink when Kennedy drunkenly whispered to John,
"Now, Logan's a bit rough on the edges, you can blame her daddy for that. But once you get past her prickly demeanor, she's a real charm. 'Specially with those eyes. Thank God she got everything else but them eyes from her mama. Now I love her, but Jen's one of them high maintenance girls that'll drive you to an early grave. I reckon Caldron likes them fancy. Don't worry, Logan ain't too fancy."
Kennedy took another gulp, polishing off his drink. Without hesitation, he made himself and John another old fashion.
"Shew! I was so sure she was gonna start swinging the other way."
Clapping John on the back, Kennedy fixed John with a playful wink and grin before he pinched his fingers between his lips and let out a loud, piercing whistle. The room swiftly quieted as the gathering turned their attention to Kennedy. The ones outside huddled in the patio doorway.
"I wanna thank y'all again for coming out tonight. As you can see there's a lot of land to be covered but most importantly, the reasons for why we're here to begin with; the Ryders need our help - especially Logan. Our little girl ain't so little anymore." The men murmured amongst themselves, nodding and looking at John with open concern in their eyes. Undeterred, Kennedy stifled a belch and laid a brawny arm atop John's shoulder, pulling him close as he raised his other hand for silence. In a booming voice that carried to the men standing outside, he waved his hand at the crowd before them and assured John,
"Son, don't you worry none. My boys are gonna set it all straight―the Texas way."
Raising their drinks high as whistles and hearty claps filled the room, the men toasted to John and drank bottoms up, echoing Kennedy's sentiment and declaration. John forgot to correct Kennedy. Although quiet, he was keen.
As the celebratory spirit continued, the brawny man had insisted on working the room with a stoic Wick in tow. Surprisingly, John was well acquainted with the majority of the men present; as he mingled, he shook hands, holding his own when exchanging many extra firm handshakes and coolly returning a great many friendly, though envious glares as several younger men scrutinized and congratulated him on his and Logan's engagement.
Speaking of Logan…
Shaking off the slight vertigo, he moved towards her bedroom.
When he entered, he found her bed still neatly made. Crossing to the empty balcony, he verified she was not just beyond his sight, and he looked down at the empty pool, vividly remembering the day he first held Logan in his arms, before Caldron threw her into the water. Turning away from the large, arched windows, his eyes lit upon the closed bathroom and the sliver of light shining beneath it. Pausing, John considered walking away; this was beyond his jurisdiction, but an undeniable part of him demanded he verify her whereabouts.
Drawing in a deep breath to clear his deluded mind, he approached the door. Turning his head, he leaned in close and listened . . . silence.
Brow furrowing, he rapped lightly with his knuckles against the surface.
No response.
He knocked again, more loudly.
Still no answer…
Checking the doorknob, he found it unlocked, and slowly pushed it open.
"Logan?" he called. Her clothes were piled neatly on the floor and the tub was filled with bubbles and water, but she was nowhere to be found. "Logan?"
He quietly moved towards the tub. The water was still, the bubbles dissolving.
Then he saw her.
The alcohol haze disappeared instantly as panic flooded him; John surged forward, his hands plunging into the warm depths, grabbing the fully submerged woman firmly by the shoulders. He hauled her up, ready to perform CPR, and was both surprised and thankful to discover she wasn't limp and lifeless in his grasp. Instead, she yelped and flailed, startled―until she saw it was John.
She clutched his strong forearms, the suds from her hands sliding over her knuckles, as she stared up at him, transfixed by the naked emotion openly displayed upon his face. She had never seen him look so . . . disheveled.
She wasn't trying to drown herself…?
"John!?" she gasped, startled. "What are you doing ...?"
Blinking, John was transfixed. Water beaded her thick lashes, clinging to their length and accentuating her slate gray eyes. The refracted light from the watery surface danced over her features, weaving and glimmering between and along her freckles.
He blinked, drawing a blank, thankful to be proven wrong―for once. His sleeves were now soaked, a delicate fragrance wafted up from the bubbles.
He furrowed his brow in thought. Concern and confusion coalescing as John considered a reasonable response; he went with the truth.
"I thought you were trying to drown yourself." he eased his grip along her shoulders and she sank back down into the water. The contents sloshing, bringing the mountains of bubbles to and fro.
Her gaze wavered between a scowl and thwarted humour. A smile hovered upon her lips and she bit down, turning her head and hemming. As if she realized something, the smile vanished and a cold expression took its place. She hadn't heard his call, or any of his knocks because she was underwater.
"No, John," she softly assured him, staring at the foamy surface. "I was just taking a bath."
Logan sank deeper into the water, feeling vulnerable in his commanding presence. She lowered herself until the water leveled beneath her nose while she peered up at him. The water rippled against the backdrop of dark hair drifting weightless about her shoulders. The bubbles shielding Logan's chest and nether regions from John's sharp gaze only increased her sense of vulnerability; the bubbles wouldn't last for ever.
As his eyes roamed the length of the tub, John found he could not and did not want to look away; nor could he prevent his body from powerfully responding to the tantalizing site Logan presented . . . not this time.
John sat back onto the white tile, exhaling sharply with embarrassment.
"I see that."
Aside from humility, John also felt a distinct and unmistakable sense of relief―which was peculiar, because it was directed towards Logan's well being. He was relieved...why? Because she wasn't attempting suicide?
What if she was?
John wondered at his reaction, how his chest tightened as he got to his feet.
Across the counter, John found clean gauze, iodine, bandages and other medical supplies. He picked up a roll of ace wrap, gesturing if she wanted any help. She didn't need anything from John.
Logan didn't answer right away, but eventually, she nodded. John grabbed a folded towel from the counter, spreading it as Logan pulled herself up, he stared into the wall on his left.
The towel was ripped from his grasp as she wrapped it around herself.
When he looked back, he blinked and dropped his gaze.
Logan's skin was flushed, the scented bubbles clung to her toned shoulders, glistening on her collar bones. There was a pressure in his chest; the effects of his lowered inhibitions, surely…
A heavy war drum boomed, boomed, boomed in his rib cage.
Thanks to the adrenaline rush from his mistaken situational assessment, his mind had mostly freed itself from the drink induced stupor. John reminded himself to turn down any drinks Kennedy touched. The man had a heavy hand when pouring. The polluted stated provided details where they shouldn't be.
"Help me," Logan muttered, standing still in the tub.
What for? Then he quickly realized, her knee.
John looked around, assessing the situation as best as he could―considering his...convoluted state.
"Just…," Logan huffed impatiently. "Grab me."
So he did.
Stepping closer, John wrapped his arms around her lower waist, smelling her fragrant skin still warm from the water, and lifted her.
She draped her arms around his shoulders, holding him tightly as he turned and carefully settled her atop the bathroom counter.
They were so close…
Boom, boom, boom...
John faltered, palming the counter's surface on either side of her hips. Surely it's the intoxicating effects from the alcohol, but John was no stranger to bourbon's kiss. His mind wandered.
She smelled good, she felt good and the ever present guilt did not manifest as he expected...as he hoped.
Logan watched. Her heart quickened, sensing and feeling the change in him; normally, he'd quickly distance himself from her, but he remained. She stilled at his close proximity, sharing her personal space. With her back to the mirror, she was unable to see John's expression as he leaned closer. An internal, unseen, struggle ensuing within.
John lifted his eyes, studying his reflection. His hair, his eyes, his face belonged to a man returning to himself from a self-imposed exile to a bleak, emotional wasteland. A dark feral look filled his eyes and an insatiable hunger took hold of him.
How much time had passed since he'd been with a woman?
Helen's illness… as it progressed, her health and strength steadily declined.
He couldn't...
"John . . . ?" Logan's voice was weak and breathless, caressing his ear and pulling him aware from those dark thoughts.
Carefully, John turned his head, coming to meet and hold her stare. Her breath turned shallow as he lowered his gaze, counting the freckles that sprinkled her nose, thinning out as they stretched over her pale cheeks, then lower…
The tip of her nose, the curve of her lips. John was forgetting to breathe as he descended, unable to break away. Her knuckles were white, gripping the folds of her towel in rigid anticipation.
Lower…
Past the towel, he came to her powerful thighs he once felt constrict around him, squeezing the air from his lungs and forcing his heart to work harder.
A wild need consumed him, blotted his mind, blinded him.
Too many 'old fashions' . . .
John placed a trembling hand, gently, tentatively on her bare thigh, seeking permission. Beneath his touch, she quivered, her skin bristling with chills under the contact.
Emboldened, he slid his palm up, gripping the soft, firm flesh while he ventured further, his hand disappearing beneath the towel. He leveled his gaze, holding her stare, searching her face as his hand continued to explore upwards.
They both stilled.
A beat...
Then Logan moved, leaning forward. John leaned too and their lips collided. Her hands found his face, claiming him, the towel forgotten. The dampened fabric slipped down, exposing her chest to him.
She ran her fingers through his hair, pulling him roughly against her mouth, hungrily kissing him. While John's fingers tickled the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, he reached up with his other and palmed her breast gently.
Arching her back, she leaned into his touch, encouraging him wordlessly. Harder. John obliged, running the pad of his rough thumb over a pert nipple, enjoying the way it responded to his touch. Blood pounding, roaring through his head to his heart as the life force abandoned his mental faculty to surge...elsewhere.
Her warm mound filled his entire hand, the softness of her silken skin against his rough fingertips and calloused palm stirred something deep and long forgotten. His body almost responded too fervidly, far more eager and willing than the mind, even at its current state.
Logan was not an ample woman, nor was she overly muscled. Her active lifestyle and choices kept her trim; life kept her limber and flexible, otherwise her knee injury would have been much worse. He enjoyed the weight and feel of her everywhere he touch. How the well proportioned mound, with its pert, high outline filled his large hand. The gentle flare of her hips and tightly rounded bottom indicative of the female anatomy. He'd forgot their curves, their warmth. The fairer of the sexes. The softness she did have, in all the right places, John enjoyed ―as any man would.
Logan turned her head, deepening their kiss while yielding to John's gentle torture. The fingers that tapered closer to her warm center, their tips now brushing the sensitive skin. Her body growing hot the closer he became. The hand tenderly fondling her breast, kneading and tugging the supple skin. Their tongues dancing, lapping, tasting, exploring…
He was drowning in her.
She moaned against his mouth and he tasted the sound.
Logan shifted; moving herself closer to the edge, she spread her legs wider to accommodate him as she pulled him closer.
―thunk―
She smacked her bad knee against a half-opened drawer.
Gasping and wrenching away from him, the pain ricocheted through her leg and obliterated all other thought as her injured limb throbbed sharply once more.
"Fuck!" she cried, squeezing her eyes shut and gnashing her teeth.
John stepped back, alarmed, even though he heard and knew what had happened.
He asked if she was alright in which she replied in another wordless motion, eyes shut tightly, head shaking. Blindly, she felt for the towel, pulling it back up and shielding herself once more.
Their bout of passion was over.
John rifled through the cabinets, searching for painkillers. When he found a bottle, he shook two into his hand and offered them to Logan with a glass of water. Trembling with the intensity of her discomfort, she quickly took them as he tended to her wounds and carefully wrapped her knee with a fresh compression bandage.
As best as he could, without hurting her, John helped her dress and put her to bed. Easing down, Logan pulled her legs beneath the covers and scooted far towards the other side, before she threw a look over her shoulder.
The house was secured. The sensors, monitors and security system remained online, and the indicators were blinking green. John knew Caldron or even Kennedy could be trusted to lock up the doors on their way out. He turned away, leaving.
"Good night." His hand hovered over the light switch. Logan still eyed him from over her shoulder.
Reaching back, she pulled at the bedding, patting the sheets beneath.
Come, come. . .
John flipped the switch and the room went dark.
The door shut as he peeled away his shirt, tossing it onto the floor as he moved. His pants quickly followed, until he was down to his boxers.
It's the bourbon, but the mind and the heart had their way of knowing better.
John carefully eased into Logan's bed and pulled the blankets over himself. She waited until he was comfortably settled, before she reached out and took his hand. Their fingers interlaced and he closed his eyes.
You still need someone, something to love...
So start with this . . .
Quick sidenote; a grenade does come with a pin and a spoon. My earlier reference, the pin was not mentioned, but understand, it must be removed in order for the spoon to detach. I didn't want to congest that paragraph with too many details and I know Holly is going to yell at me, but I'm sORRY!
Holly, I will not every be able to thank you enough. Truly. You're my BFFF, even when you scold me for using military jargon or what you consider 'gun fu.'
Sylarfan: Oh no! I tried keeping that from happening by submitting two chapters, but we're working up to some stuff; I promise! Hopefully this steamy chapter can alleviate it?
Brausepanther: Whoa, indeed.
Your Delusional Fantasies: YAS, HELLO! Thank you for the artwork! UGH, it makes me sO HAPPY
jayjay0815: It did it again! But also, I laughed so hard when I read your review! *laughs in hidden*
Mo Eazy: I checked it out, found some other errors while doing so (thank you!), but the last portion between Caldron and Logan isn't missing anything. The sentence might look odd, but there's a reason; he's struggling to find the words. I'm also very happy you mentioned Stormare! I love him as well. He has this sort of flippant, maniacal twitch to his mannerisms. I see it a lot in his work like Constantine and the most recent horror game he portrayed in, Until Dawn.
Suzzie: I'm sorry! I probably did it again, too! Don't worry, I'm up late writing it.
I'm posting this chapter early because Friday I have a concert to attend and this weekend, I have drill. I'll be too busy to submit anything.
Thank you all for reading/reviewing, and have a good weekend!