Last Summer (21 page)

Big P, B, and Smooth laugh even harder at
my seriously weak attempt to stop Ice from putting his hands on
Chloe. She’s dazed from hitting the ground so hard, and when her
eyes roll around and meet mine, I yell, “Chloe,
run
!”

She kicks and claws at Ice, but he’s just
too big for her to push him off; he’s too big for anybody, really.
Ice’s mouth moves, and Chloe looks horrified. Whatever he said to
her, I’m going to cut out his fucking tongue for saying it. Then,
he leans forward—so close their foreheads almost touch—and utters
something else. Chloe screams, panicked, and Ice’s mouth covers
hers in one rapid movement.

No.
My heart pumps faster.
God, no.
Stop!

Ice jerks back, and I see blood leaking from
the side of Chloe’s mouth. He backhands her across the face.

“
Son of a bitch!” I say through gritted
teeth, fighting against B and Smooth. Big P knocks me over the back
of my head, and I fall to my knees, unable to control my emotions.
There’s nothing I can do to help Chloe, and they’re going to make
me stand here and watch.

Ice rips Chloe’s shirt clean down the
middle, buttons flying everywhere. She continues screaming and
trying to fight him. With a couple of swift moves, Ice shoves her
shorts down to her ankles. Then, the unthinkable. When I see what
he does with his fingers, the way he
laughs
about it, I want
to vomit fireballs in his direction. I want to chop his fucking
head off with a guillotine. I want to kill him. Red surrounds the
edges of my vision.

But this time around, I don’t twist free of
Smooth’s grip when he reaches into his pocket for a cigarette. Nor
do I grab his gun and shoot. No, this time, I can’t free myself
from their clutches. I can’t summon the strength to fight them. I
can’t do anything, except fall to my knees and grit my teeth, as
Chloe’s screams carry into the night.

Chloe looks directly into my eyes when Ice
presses himself on top of her, showing no more fear, and says,
“It’s okay, Logan. We’re going to get through this, baby.”

But we’re not going to make it, Chloe,
I
think.
They’re going to be the death of us.

Twenty-four
•
Chloe

L
ogan’s head
writhes back and forth, and he mumbles incoherently. I lay one hand
on the side of his face, hoping it’ll sooth whatever nightmare he’s
living in.

“No,” he murmurs. “No, no, no.” The sound of
his voice, as if he’s in unforeseeable agony, tugs at my
heartstrings.

I don’t know if he can hear me, but I speak
up anyway. “It’s okay, Logan. We’re going to get through this,
baby.”

He bursts into tears, eyes still closed, and
I immediately wipe them from his face. Just seeing him this way
causes an unexpected clenching of my gut, and I cry with him.
Whatever horrendous dream he’s having, I want to erase it from his
mind.

Over the next hour, Logan is fitfully in and
out of consciousness. The nurses explain that the high doses of
pain medication they’re pumping into his veins make him lethargic,
but he should be awake soon. How soon is “soon,” I’m not sure.

“Why don’t you take a break, honey?” Mom
says, standing up from one of the chairs in the room and walking to
the end of Logan’s hospital bed. “You’ve been here for over two
hours and he hasn’t awoken. We can grab some lunch and stop by
later.”

I shake my head. “I want to be here when he
wakes up. I want to be the first thing he sees, so he knows I’m
okay.”

She nods, understanding. “Want me to bring
you something?”

I smile. “That’d be nice.”

“I think we’ll join you,” says Phil. He and
Marcie have been quietly sitting next to my mom all morning. I
don’t know if they got any sleep; they’ve been here all night.
Lucas naps on the other empty cot in the room. Marcie gently rubs
his back, waking him. He’s reluctant, at first, but he sits up,
wiping his eyes.

“C’mon, baby. Let’s get some food, okay?”
she coos.

“I don’t wanna,” he says. His hair sticks
straight up at the crown of his head. “I want to stay with
Logan.”

“Logan’s sleeping. He needs his rest.”

“Mama,” he says, looking up at her as he
slides off the bed, “is Logan going to be sick forever?” Phil and
Marcie explained to Lucas last night that Logan was ill. They
didn’t want to frighten the poor kid with what really happened to
his brother.

She laughs kindly. “No, baby. He’s not. But
we have to leave him alone for a little while so he can get
better.”

“Okay,” he says, satisfied with her
response. He turns toward me. “Are you going to watch over him,
Chloe?”

“Yep,” I reply.

He nods his head once, swiftly. “’Kay.” As
he and the rest of the family exit, I hear him ask, “Can we go to
McDonald’s?”

Marcie laughs. “Whatever you want,
sweetie.”

Mom follows them closely, closing the door
behind her, but not before she winks at me. Whatever that’s
for.

Ten to fifteen minutes later, Logan begins
mumbling again, his head twisting back and forth. “Chloe,” I hear
him say. “
Chloe.
”

“I’m here, baby. I’m here.” I squeeze his
hand and resume caressing his face with my other.

Leisurely, he opens his eyes and blinks a
few times, as he figures out where he is. He squints at the
fluorescent lighting and groans. Licking his lips, he gulps once,
his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Chloe,” he rasps, gradually turning his
head to face me.

Oh, thank God! I might seriously scream from
excitement right now.

“I’m here, Logan. I’m here. You’re
safe.”

“I’m . . . alive?”

Fresh tears puddle in my eyes, and I can’t
stop them from rolling down my cheeks. “Yes,” I say, nearly choking
on my sobs. “Yes, baby, you’re alive.”

He moans and rubs his face with his other
hand. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“
You?
I thought I was the one who’d
never see you again.”

He swallows hard. “Big P . . . is he?”

“He’s dead.”

Tension leaves Logan’s body. “Good. I’m glad
we’ve seen the last of him.” He looks at me then, panic hitting
him. “Did he do anything to you?”

I know he’s thinking about Ice, about what a
close call that was. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “Nothing like
that, anyway.”

Logan grips my hand tighter. “What’d he
do?”

“Does it matter? I’m here. You’re here.
We’re together again, miraculously.”

“I want to know,” he presses.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I remember the gun
aimed at my head, the determination in Big P’s eyes. When I
visualize him pulling the trigger, I recoil.

“Chloe?” Logan’s voice drags me out of my
reverie. “What’d he do? Tell me.” He tugs at our entwined fingers,
and keeps tugging until I crawl onto the bed, lying by his side,
head resting against his chest.

“He pointed the gun at me, pulled the
trigger, and . . . it jammed.”

Logan flinches. “What?”

“Your dad shot him,” I add, as if that might
lighten the moment.

“He pulled the fucking—” Logan’s jaw
clenches as he grinds his teeth in annoyance. “If he weren’t dead
already, I swear to God I’d kill him myself. I should’ve when I had
the chance.”

Lightly, I graze my fingertips over his jaw
line and watch his muscles relax. “Ssh. Enough of that. No more
thoughts of killing anybody. No more fighting. No more wasting away
on hate. Got it?”

He gives me a sidelong glance, then mumbles,
“Yeah. Got it.”

“It’s over. It’s done with. Let the past be
the past. We can’t change any of it, and in a way, I wouldn’t want
to, because we both made it out. Alive.”

Shaking his head in agitation, he says, “I
can’t believe he—”

I place my index finger over his lips,
silencing him. “Shut up and kiss me.”

He obliges as I rise up, carefully brushing
his mouth over mine, slowly tracing my lips with his tongue. He
intensifies the kiss as I roll over, on top of him. Both of our
mouths move in a measured, agonizing rhythm, and I feel as if my
heart will fly out of my chest. Logan cradles my head with one
hand, and tilts my chin up even more with the other. With my neck
outstretched, he breaks away and trails soft kisses across my skin.
Lower, lower, lower. God, I want him to go lower, but he stops just
above the hemline of my shirt.

Lifting his head to glance at me, he smirks
and says, “We’ll continue this later.”

I hoarsely respond, “Okay.”

He chuckles. “You might want to hop down in
case one of the nurses comes in here and catches you in my bed.” He
kisses my forehead. “I wouldn’t want them to kick you out of
here.”

I slide off the side, a little put out. He’s
right, though. These beds were made for one patient and one patient
only
.

“Plus, our parents will be back soon, with
food,” I add.

Logan’s stomach growls in response, and he
rubs it. “I could use some food.”

“Sounds like it.”

“I could use you, too,” he says, with a
mischievous glint in his eyes.

I try not to grin. “I think you need food
even more.”

“I don’t think so,” he says, his voice
dropping an octave; it’s throaty and gruff and I’m doing everything
I can
not
to jump back in bed with him. I think he feels the
same way, because he doesn’t break eye contact with me for a
second. There’s an electrical charge in the room, one that wasn’t
there before. “Chloe . . .”

“Yeah?” I squeak.

He extends one hand, and I take it in mine.
“Chloe, there’s something I’ve wanted to say for a while, but I was
too chicken shit to admit it to myself, let alone say it out
loud.”

My throat dries up, like the heat from the
sun outside has found its way through the hospital window and
sucked away the fluid in my mouth. Wide-eyed, I feel as if my
eyeballs might escape from their sockets. I know what he’s about to
say; I just can’t believe he’s going to really say it.

“I love you,” he blurts, throwing his head
backward against the stack of pillows behind him and sighing. “I
think I would love you even if we never met. If we lived separate
lives in some alternate reality, where I was never homeless or a
drug addict, I would’ve never truly been happy, because all the
other girls in that world wouldn’t have been you.”

He clutches my hand with such strength, it’s
as if he’s afraid I’ll slip away. “I think I would’ve searched for
you, even though I wouldn’t have known what I was searching for.
But I like to think that, when I found you, I’d be like a blind
person seeing for the first time. The world would open up, be
colorful, magical, and infinite—and I would conquer it all, as long
as I could have you.”

I can’t see through my tears. “I love you,
too,” are the only words I can push out of my throat.

“Come here,” he whispers, pulling me closer
to the edge of the bed. I lean over and lay my head on his chest.
For a while, the only present sounds are that of my sobs and his
heartbeat thrumming against my ear. “We’re going to get through
this,” he says, now taking on the role of emotional supporter,
which is what I’ve been for the last two months.

“Yes, we are,” I agree, wiping away the last
of my tears. “But first, you need to rest up.”

“For what? I’ve been resting.”

I smirk. “For that sensational,
over-the-moon girlfriend of yours, named Chloe. I heard she’s made
of awesomesauce.”

“I heard she’s the icing to my cake.”

“The butter to your bread, too?”

Logan attempts to hide his grin. “The banana
to my split.”

I giggle. “That doesn’t even make
sense.”

“Okay, fine, then,” he says, pretending to
be offended. “I heard she’s the apple to my apple tree, the
hamburger bun to my hamburger patty—”

“Oh, my God.” I burst into laughter. “Why
are all of the comparisons food-related?”

Logan raises one eyebrow. “Probably because
I’m hungry.”

“Mom’s bringing me some food, so you can
have mine.”

“But until then . . .” Logan trails off,
pinning me with his eyes.

I shake my head. “Until then, you get some
rest.”

“How about we just make out instead?” One
corner of his mouth curves into a wicked leer.

“It wouldn’t surprise me, Logan Andrews, if
you said you wanted to make out, but then you had something else in
mind.”

He presses one hand over his heart, faking
insult. “Chloe Sullivan, you offend me. I would never taint the
good graces of a lady.”

I begin tugging on the privacy curtain
around the bed, the metal clinking as it gradually closes us in,
creating a thin veil between us and the outside. “Too bad I’m not
much of a lady. Besides, your muscles haven’t been limbered up for
a couple of days. Don’t you think it’s time we fix that?”

Epilogue

One Year Later

“
I
s that the last
of them, babe?” I ask.

Logan carries five grocery bags on each arm,
setting them on the counter. He nods. “Yep. That’s it.”

“Our first groceries,” I say with a
smile.

He kisses the side of my head as he slides
both arms around my waist. With his forehead pressed against mine,
he admits, “I have a feeling there will be many more firsts with
you.”

“Mmm. I think you might be right.”

“Of course I am,” he says, pulling away to
help me sort through five-hundred-dollars worth of food and
household items.

Since the move to California with my mom,
Logan and I stayed in touch, making a point to speak to each other
every day, at least once. But that was never really enough. Three
months later, Logan came to visit for a couple of weeks, decided he
liked California, and planned on moving once he found a job and a
place to live. Eight months after that, he found both: a job at a
local rehabilitation center, counseling those who are trying to
cope with their addiction, and, as for a place to live, well, he
found that with me. We signed the rental agreement just last week.
The place is undecorated, but we decided we’ll furniture shop this
weekend. Food, however, was a must.