Smoke & Mirrors by Skye Jordan
24
Logan
Ileave Royal to watch Lucky, step up beside Isabel, and slide an arm around her shoulders. From the look on her face and her tight posture, I’m damn sure this is Aiden. He’s good-looking in that pretty-boy way and smug as hell.
He didn’t come all the way across the country for one stupid two-thousand-dollar rifle. He came for Isabel, either for revenge or reconciliation, but neither works for me.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Isabel says, wringing her hands. “I was just telling him—”
“She was just telling me you’re the flavor of the month,” Aiden says.
Another spike of anger strikes. “This is a private event. You need to leave.”
“Don’t get attached,” Aiden says, straightening from the bar. “You’re temporary, like everything else in her life.”
I lunge for him even before I realize that idea is in my head. Aiden steps back, but I still get a fistful of flannel shirt, one he bought when he got into town judging by the crispness of the fabric, and he smiles as if he’s not seconds away from getting my fist in his face.
“No, no, no.” Isabel grabs my arm and pulls, finally prying my hand free. Then she steps between Aiden and me, keeping me from going after him again.
Dalton steps into the situation from the left. “Looks like we’ve got a problem here.”
“Get out,” Isabel tells Aiden, “or I’ll let these guys handle you.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Dalton says. “I’ll escort you to your car, just to make sure you get there.”
I shoulder Isabel out of my way and follow Dalton’s path. As soon as I’m outside, Isabel grabs the back of my shirt. Angry, I spin to release her grip and grab her arms. Then I freeze.
Everything slows to a crawl and vivid, split-second images hit my brain—the way my fingers indent her flesh, the shock in her eyes, the confusion in her expression.
A white-hot streak of fear jolts through me. Time returns to normal, and I let her go and step back. Way back. I just got a glimpse inside my father’s head, and it’s making me physically sick.
Aiden is already backing his car out of the parking lot. Dalton strolls back into the restaurant, still holding a beer. Others, standing in the doorway, ready to defend, wander back into the bar, and Isabel and I are alone outside.
“What the fuck?” I say. “Why are you protecting him?”
“I’m not. I’m protecting you. He’ll litigate a broken fingernail, and he’ll enjoy watching you spend your life savings trying to defend yourself against nothing.”
“Why did he come all this way?” I’m not yelling, but I’m not exactly calm either. “Is there more between you two than you told me? More to the gun you have or why you have it?”
“I don’t know why, but I don’t care.” Her words are sharp with anger. “I just want to give him what he wants so he’ll leave. I want to move forward, not stay trapped in the past.”
I pace a circle, hands at my hips, head down. There’s a lot of ugliness inside me right now. Anger and pain that comes from the darkness of my past. I can’t seem to separate the now and then. This and that.
“Look,” she says, tossing her hands in frustration. “You be however you have to be, and I’ll do what I have to do.”
“What are you doing? Where are you going?” My questions come out as unintentional demands. Before she answers I add, “You’re not going by yourself.”
“I’m sure as shit not going with you.” She opens the door to her Jeep. “I stopped seeing him, because he treated me like this. I’m not going backward. Fuck that.”