I am absolutely speechless, hunched over in the tub, cowering, dripping wet, cold, shivering.
“On your knees, fucker.” Logan taps Len on the back of the head with the gun barrel.
Len hesitates.
Logan presses harder, draws back the hammer. “Don’t make this messy, man.”
My heart stops. Len blinks, squeezes eyes shut, shoulders lift... and then Len slowly kneels, a heavy, lumbering motion. Logan is visible now: distressed blue jeans, scuffed black combat boots, a gray V-neck T-shirt tucked behind the buckle of his belt with the rest left untucked, sleeves stretched taut around his arms. Black hat, brim tugged low to hide his face.
“Take off your belt, shoes, and socks,” Logan instructs.
Len complies, unbuckling a thin, shiny leather black dress belt, sweeping it off, then sensible black dress shoes and argyle socks.
“Lie down on your side and put your hands by your ankles.”
Once again, Len complies, slowly rolling and extending wrists together. Logan, the gun still in one hand pointed at Len, shoves the end of the belt between Len’s ankles and the floor, draws the tip of it over Len’s ankles and wrists, feeds it deftly through the buckle, all one-handed. Tugs it taut, and then harder, until Len grunts in pain. Only then does Logan stuff the pistol in the back of his jeans. A few quick motions, and the belt is tied in a knot. One sock gets balled up and shoved in Len’s mouth, the other stretched around to form what looks to be a painfully tight gag.
The whole process of tying up and gagging Len takes Logan less than thirty seconds.
“You okay?” Logan takes two quick steps to me, kneels in front of me.
His eyes are on mine, and they are the indigo of the deepest ocean blue, calm, concerned.
I nod. “Yes.” But then I glance at Len, and I start shaking. “No.”
“You hurt?”
“No, I’m not hurt.”
He glances around, as I did, looking for a towel. He sees what I didn’t, however: a cabinet hidden in the wall. He moves like liquid, retrieves a thick white towel, holds it up for me. “Come on. Easy now.”
I stand up, step out. Logan’s eyes remain on mine, and though I am naked in front of him, I don’t feel as vulnerable as I should. He wraps the towel around my shoulders, cocooning me in it.
“Can you walk?” he asks, his voice soothing and warm in my ear.
“Yes.” I take two steps, but then my knees make me a liar. I am still dizzy, disoriented. I feel sapped of strength, and thirsty. Logan’s arms are around me, catching me easily. “I’m sorry. I fell asleep in the tub.”
“That’ll do it. You’re overheated.” He moves with me, twists sideways out of the door, carries me across the room in easy strides. “I need to set you down. I won’t let you fall, though.”
I find my feet, lean against him. I feel stronger now, but his proximity is calming, and I’m confused, tired. I never take naps, and I feel as if I’ve fallen through a hole in the ground into some other place. Like Alice down the rabbit hole. Nothing is right. I shouldn’t be in Caleb’s penthouse, and Logan shouldn’t be here either.
And I certainly shouldn’t feel safe in the arms of a man who just bound and gagged someone at gunpoint, using his captive’s own belt and socks.
But I do.
Logan produces a key—Len’s, I assume—from his pocket. Inserts and twists it to activate the elevator, which takes a moment to arrive, and then the doors open.
Logan nudges me on. “That won’t hold him for long. We gotta move, if we want to pull this off.”
He brings us to my floor, his arm around my waist, holding me up, helping me walk, swiftly, but carefully.
At my door, he reaches behind himself, withdraws the gun, a black piece of metal that looks small in his hand, held naturally, as if an extension of his arm. He throws my door open, an arm around me, his body in front of mine. The barrel sweeps the opening, quickly and professionally. He sits me on the couch, waves at me in a gesture to stay, and then disappears into my bedroom.
Moments later he’s back, a stack of clothing in his hands, shoved at me. “You have literallynopractical clothes, X. You don’t even have practical underwear.”
He’s chosen a set of black Agent Provocateur lingerie, shelf bra, boy short panties. A pale blue sundress, sleeveless knee-length, red flowers printed around the hem. Strappy silver sandals, the smallest heel in my closet.
I shrug, take the clothes. “I don’t purchase my clothing.”
