Page 23 of Best Kept Secret (The New York Thunder #3)
MILLIE
M averick opens his door and shrieks, clutching at his chest. I gape at him, confused by his reaction. It’s not like he didn’t know I was coming down here; he agreed to help me literally three minutes ago when I texted him.
“Thought I’d opened the door to a masked psychopath,” he huffs.
Oh, yeah. My sheet mask. “It cost me forty bucks from Sephora. I’m not wasting it.”
“Is it one of the salmon ones because I’ve been wanting to try those, but I’m scared it’ll smell like fish.” He looks closer, inspecting the mask that’s melting into my skin, but I ignore him, turning quickly because this really isn’t the time to be discussing skincare.
I press the call button for the elevator, lifting my phone to my ear. The call is still connected and, although muffled, I can hear Logan’s shallow and shuddery breaths.
“Where is he?” Maverick asks as we step onto the elevator.
“He said he’s downstairs. In his car. That’s all I know.
” I shake my head, still confused by what the hell is going on.
When I got the call from Logan, I’d been fast asleep on the sofa.
It woke me, and when I saw that it was him, I knew immediately something wasn’t right.
When I heard him, it didn’t sound like him, and it scared me through to my core.
Maverick presses the button for the basement, looking up at the floor counter. “Did he sound drunk, or… I don’t know, high?”
I shake my head. “No. He didn’t sound drunk at all.
And he’s a professional athlete—he can’t do drugs,” I say a little more defensively than I probably need to be.
I soften a touch as I think back to Logan’s voice when he told me he needed me.
“He sounded… scared.” I tap my Ugg booted foot against the floor of the elevator, my stomach churning as we descend to lower ground.
The moment the robotic voice announces our arrival at the garage, I’m through the doors before they even fully open.
I haven’t been down here yet because I haven’t needed to.
I left my car back home in Texas because no way in hell was I navigating the streets of New York City behind the wheel.
The area is foreign to me, all cold cement and fluorescent lights, and fancy, expensive looking cars tucked away neatly in their designated spots.
I follow Maverick, spotting Logan’s shiny black Porsche, and I run past him to the driver’s side door, peering in through the dark tint, my heart jumping up into the back of my throat when I see him there, arms resting on the steering wheel, head bowed, shoulders quaking.
I yank open the door, reaching in and tentatively placing my hand on his back. “Logan?”
He doesn’t stir, just continues breathing scarily fast, and I know then what this is. He’s having a panic attack. Crouching down, I place my hand on his knee, leaning in so I can try to see his face.
“Logan, it’s me, Red.” I squeeze his thigh. “I’m going to get you upstairs, okay?”
He releases a shaky exhale in response, and I turn to Maverick, waving him over .
“Should I call 911?” Maverick whispers, skulking closer to the car, eyes furtively glancing at Logan.
“No, he’s okay.” I shake my head, squeezing Logan’s leg again. “I just need you to help me get him upstairs.”
Watching Maverick, dressed in a pair of luxe satin pajamas, struggle beneath the weight of Logan’s two hundred pound body is almost funny. Honestly, I’d laugh if it wouldn’t be considered highly inappropriate given the seriousness of the situation.
Pushing through the apartment door, I make sure the way is clear, opening the door to Logan’s bedroom for Maverick to help him in.
As I flick on the lamp and glance around the room, it dawns on me that this is the first time I’ve been in here.
And it’s exactly how I imagined it would be: super tidy and minimalistic with nothing but a big bed dressed in navy blue linens, a sleek leather couch along the wall of glass to catch the morning sun, and a TV hung on the far wall.
It’s very neat, very simple, and very sterile, and it does little to dispel those Patrick Bateman rumors I made up about him in my head.
When Maverick lets out a strained groan, I snap back to action, rushing over to help take some of the load off as he lowers Logan down onto the bed, helping him settle against the pillows.
I take a seat on the edge of the mattress, removing his shoes and lifting his legs up, and immediately he rolls onto his side, curling into a ball.
And my heart breaks at the sight of the six-foot-two professional hockey player so small, so fragile, so evidently broken in the worst way.
“I should go,” Maverick whispers, pointing to the door, his gaze cautious when it meets mine. “Will you be okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll… stay with him,” I say, looking at Logan.
“You know where I am if you need me.” Maverick wraps one arm around me, pulling me in for a quick hug.
“Thank you. ”
After saying goodbye to Maverick and locking up, I hurry back through to Logan’s bedroom.
He’s still on his side, facing away, legs pulled up as much as someone of his height can pull their legs up.
I hesitate a moment, wondering if I should call someone.
Dallas? Hannah? But then, when I realize he needs someone right now to help pull him out of the darkness, I kick off my Uggs and climb onto the bed.
Nestling up against the pillows, I roll onto my side and face him. His eyes are open but they’re empty, staring right through me like I’m not even here.
“Hey,” I say softly, reaching out a hand and ever so gently placing it against his cheek, allowing my thumb to stroke his heated skin. “I’m here. Just follow my voice.”
As if he’s only just noticed me, Logan startles, sucking in a sharp and stuttering breath.
“It’s okay,” I assure him, cupping his stubbled jaw. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
When I see the telltale shimmer of tears well in his eyes, it takes everything I have not to wrap my arms around him. Instead, I continue stroking his cheek, my eyes bouncing between his, watching as he blinks hard, a tear slipping out and sliding down his face and onto the blue pillow.
I breathe in deep through my nose. Box breathing, like I learned all about when I took up meditation during my senior year as a way to help manage my stress. It didn’t help. Not even a little bit. But maybe it’ll help Logan?
“Breathe in,” I whisper, encouraging him by doing it too. “Hold.” I watch him follow my instructions, breathing in and holding his breath. “And breathe out.”
When Logan is successfully managing breaths in and breaths out, I offer him a small smile. “That’s it. You’re doing so well, Logan.”
He continues breathing—four seconds in, four seconds held, four seconds out.
I study his beautiful, handsome, tormented face, my brows knitting together as an unfamiliar rage courses through me. “Who did this to you?”
I wait to see if he says anything, but he doesn’t, my question left unanswered as he just lies there, staring at me, his body trembling with the breaths he’s trying to take.
“It’s okay. I’m here,” I remind him softly. “It’s just you and me. No one else. Come back to me.” I stroke his cheek again, gently swiping away another one of his tears, his lashes fluttering before his eyes close.
And, for a long moment, I just lie here, closing my eyes, my fingers lightly raking through Logan’s hair, allowing my nails to drag against his scalp, listening to the way his racking breaths slowly start to calm. I assume he’s falling asleep, but then, he speaks.
“Red?”
My eyes fly open, and I meet his kaleidoscope gaze. “Hey,” I whisper with a smile. “There you are.”
He stares at me, and I wait patiently for him to tell me whatever it is he needs to say.
His brows knit together, forehead wrinkling with obvious confusion as he finally croaks, “Why do you look like that psychopath from Texas Chainsaw Massacre ?”
My face falls, deadpan. Really? After one of the worst panic attacks I’ve ever witnessed, that’s the first thing he says? I can’t help but laugh. “It’s a face mask,” I explain, reaching up and gently patting the sheet melting into my cheek.
Logan says nothing, just continues looking at me, his gaze scanning the mask dubiously.
“Do you need anything?” I ask after a moment, cupping his stubbled jaw.
Logan’s eyes close on a steady exhale, and he places his hand over mine, holding it against him. “Just you.”
I swallow around the lump that’s suddenly burrowed itself into the back of my throat.
And I know I shouldn’t think too much into that right now—he’s just come out of a serious anxiety episode—but the fact that out of everything, everyone , he needs me…
I can’t help but allow myself to get carried away.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I assure him. And with a soft, unintelligible murmur, I feel Logan’s entire body sag, and I know that despite my ongoing worries that I might have made a huge mistake moving out here, right now, I am exactly where I need to be.