Page 7

Peyton

" W here are we going?" I growl, glaring at the back of Logan's head as he practically drags me through the parking lot toward his truck. I swear, he drives me nuts! One minute, he's being infuriating. The next, he's being sweet. And then the next, he's being bossy and mysterious. There are more facets to this man than a dang diamond, and I'm not sure any of them really capture all of him. He's complicated. Quadratic equations complicated, and no one understands those because math is situated on the level of hell Dante never traversed.

"To meet someone."

"Who are we going to meet?" I stop walking, squinting against the sun to stare up at him.

"You'll see when we get there."

"I swear to God, Logan Moreno. If you don't stop walking and explain right this–"

"Fucking hell," he mutters suddenly, jerking to a stop. I plow into him from behind, bouncing off his ridiculously hard body.

"Logan!" I cry, scowling up at him. Is murder really illegal, or is it more a suggestion like speed limits? Asking for a friend.

He turns to me suddenly, his expression grim. "Charles Montaque is headed our way," he says. "Don't confirm or deny a damn thing. Don't even speak to him. Just follow my lead, okay?"

"Who?" I ask, staring at him blankly.

"Investigative sports reporter," he explains beneath his breath, his lips barely moving. "He's a prick. Just follow my lead." He pauses, grimacing. "And I'm sorry in advance."

I peer around him at the guy in a suit hurrying toward us with a false smile pasted on his face. He's maybe forty-five, with way too much gel in his hair. He reminds me of my father, all fake smiles and patently false bullshit. I immediately dislike him.

Judging by the way Logan is scowling at him like he wants to set him on fire, he doesn't like him much either.

What is he sorry for in advance? I probably should have asked him that. It's too late now.

"Logan!" Charles says like they're old friends, stopping in front of us. "Just the goalie I was hoping to see."

"Fuck off, Montaque," Logan says, his tone flat. "I'm not interested in whatever bullshit rumors you've concocted today."

"So you're saying your sister isn't in a mental institution?" he asks. "Can I quote you on that?"

What in the world? I cast a quick glance up at Logan to see him staring through Charles, a bored expression on his face. But the anger banked in his eyes? That's hot enough to burn.

He is next-level pissed.

Is his sister really in a mental institution? God, no wonder he needs help organizing his life. He's trying to juggle more than anyone should have to juggle. And I'm guessing he's trying to do it quietly.

Is that why he didn't tell me about his nephew? Because he didn't want the truth to get out? My heart clenches at the thought. I'd never tell anyone. Of course I wouldn't. I know what it's like to be a media spectacle. Been there, done that. I've been dragged, kicking and screaming, into the press every freaking time…well, that doesn't matter. The point is, it's exhausting.

But Logan doesn't know that, does he? I never told him. It's one of those painful things I never discuss because if I don't talk about it, I can pretend it's someone else's life instead of mine.

I'm beginning to think maybe he knows how that feels. Beneath that devil-may-care attitude and the flirting, Logan may be a little bit more like me than I'd like to admit.

Why is that so terrifying?

Because you like him , my little angel whispers.

I ignore her. Mostly because she's probably right, and I can't deal with that right now. I can't afford to like him. That's a slippery slope that'll lead me right back to his bed.

"I'm not saying a goddamn thing to you. Ever, as a matter of fact," he says, stepping around the shorter man, his hand still laced with mine. "You can fuck right off."

Charles glances from him to me, homing in on the way our hands are locked together. Curiosity blazes to life in his eyes. "Hello," he says, planting himself in my path. "I'm Charles Montaque. What's your name?"

I stare at him mutely, refusing to say a word.

"Leave my girlfriend alone, Montaque," Logan snaps, sliding his hand around my waist to shuffle me away from the reporter. "She has nothing to say to you, either."

"Girlfriend?" Charles asks, sending a sharp glance in his direction.

I barely manage to keep from squeaking the same question. Has Logan lost his mind? We are not dating! I'm not his girlfriend. This is…Good Lord. This is going to be all over the freaking news by morning.

I'm going to kill him for real this time.

"Yeah, girlfriend," Logan snarls, gently nudging me to get me moving again, except my legs feel like rubber and don't want to cooperate so I stumble more than walk. "You know, the only one of the two of you with any right to ride my dick as hard as you do. Funny how that never stops you though, does it, Montaque? Come on, angel. Let's go home."

I stumble along at his side, my mind reeling.

Ride his dick? Oh my god. Did he just tell a reporter that I ride his dick ?

I'm going to go to jail for murdering DC's favorite goalie. It'll be all over the news. The only thing I'll be organizing for the rest of my life is Bertha's commissary and shank stash.

"What's her name, Logan?" Charles calls after us.

"Not your fucking business!" Logan yells back at him.

"You know I'm going to find out anyway."

"Yeah? How about I spell it for you, then? F-U-C-K O-F-F." Logan glances back at the reporter, lifting his middle finger in the air with an arrogant smirk. "Was that clear enough or should I spell it again, you dick?"

I whimper quietly.

Logan pops the locks on the truck, quickly ushering me inside.

"I'm going to kill you," I hiss. "Literal murder, Logan."

"We'll talk in a minute, angel."

"There will be blood. And pain. And death."

He buckles me in, leaning forward to brush his lips across my forehead. "Sounds kinky. I like it."

"I hate you. I hate you so much."

"No, you don't." He slams my door.

I slump in the seat, whimpering like one of those baby dolls that's running out of batteries. They're supposed to talk or sing, but instead, they just make that god-awful shrill sound that haunts your nightmares. Yeah, that sound actually leaves my lips. It isn't pretty.

Logan climbs in beside me, slamming his door. "Are you okay?"

"I'm not alive right now. Please check back later."

He has the audacity to laugh. Mighty bold for a man on death's door.

I turn to glower at him. "You told him that we're dating," I growl. "Do you have any idea what you just did?"

"I know exactly what I did, angel."

I close my eyes, practicing deep breathing. It doesn't help. He may think he knows, but he really doesn't. He doesn't have a freaking clue what he just did. As soon as Montaque finds out my name…

"Have you completely lost it?" I cry, whipping my head around to glare at him. "We are not dating. Never, ever!"

"I can explain."

"Is he still out there?"

He glances in the rearview mirror and then nods. "Yes."

"Then you should drive."

"Why?"

"Because I'm pretty sure my head exploding all over your truck is just as newsworthy as you telling a reporter that I ride your dick."

"So…you're big mad, huh?" he asks, grinning at me like he's pleased with himself. And I have never wanted to kiss someone and kill them at the same time before. Being this infuriating has to be a kink with him, right? It's the only explanation.

" Why did you tell him that I'm your girlfriend?"

"Two reasons," he says, starting the truck. "You didn't want the whole world to think you were fucking your boss. Now, they won't. They'll think you're fucking your boyfriend. They never have to know you work for me unless you want them to know."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"I actually do. Second reason?"

"Give me a second to get out on the road," he mutters. "You're less likely to kill me if I'm driving."

"So you think."

He glowers over at me, all hot and bossy. "You aren't allowed to endanger yourself, Peyton."

"The only danger to me in this vehicle is you, Logan. You are a hazard to my health." I lay my head back against the seatbelt. "You're giving me high blood pressure. I probably have angina now."

His laughter rumbles across the truck. "You do not have angina."

"Says you," I mutter. "If I spend much more time around you, I'll be gray and have wrinkles before I'm twenty-five."

"You'll still be stunning."

I crack an eye open to glare at him. "Start talking, Moreno."

"Ouch. You're using my last name now? I'm in serious trouble."

I reach for the latch on my seatbelt, ready to crawl over the console to kill him. Who cares if he's driving? Watching him struggle and panic will be worth the risk to my health and safety.

"I'm kidding!" he says through laughter, flipping on the blinker to get into the turning lane. "I'm just kidding, angel. Jesus. Settle down."

"Start talking," I growl. "Now."

"My sister, Lauren, has schizophrenia," he says, sobering instantly. "She's struggled with her mental health her entire life, and people have always treated her like shit because of it. Like it's her fault she was born the way she was. They compare her to me and treat her like a fucking failure. It's been that way since we were kids."

"That's awful," I whisper, my heart aching for her.

"Yeah, it is." His hands clench around the steering wheel. "Life is hard enough for her without constantly feeling like she doesn't measure up because of me. So when I was drafted, she begged me to keep her name out of the press. It's the only thing she's ever asked of me. She doesn't want to spend the rest of her life being Logan Moreno's poor little schizophrenic sister. And she doesn't want me to be poor little Logan Moreno, the motherfucker who accomplished so much despite having a sister like her. That's what they always fucking turn us into."

My heart clenches at the pain in his voice. At the guilt. He hates that she's treated that way. It's written all over his face. "You're trying to protect her," I say quietly.

He jerks his chin in a nod. "Montaque found out about her somehow and has been sniffing around, asking questions. He knows enough about her history to know she's been institutionalized in the past. I figured if I gave him something else to chase, he'd back off, at least long enough for me to figure out what the fuck I'm going to do." He sighs. "I have to find a way to tell her, and I need to ensure that her and Lachlan don't suffer for whatever bullshit he decides to print. It'll destroy her if she loses Lachlan because of him."

"Lachlan is your nephew, right?"

"Yeah. He's eleven months old." Logan sighs. "He's the reason I requested to be traded to the Carvers. She was struggling right after he was born and ended up in treatment again. His dad has a construction company and travels a lot. She doesn't trust herself to stay alone with Lachlan yet, so when Roland is out of town, she and Lachlan come and stay with me."

"You switched teams to be here to help with your nephew?"

"Yeah," he says, shrugging like it's not a big deal as he merges with traffic headed away from the city. "They needed me."

I stare at him silently for a long moment, anger dying a swift death. It's impossible to be angry at a man willing to change his entire life around for a baby that isn't even his. And I accused him of being like my father, who couldn't even acknowledge the baby that was his. I feel smaller than small.

"I'm a jerk," I whisper, regret heavy in my tone.

He glances over at me, a question in his eyes.

"I accused you of being a cheater and an asshole and a terrible person." I swallow hard. "I thought you were like my father."

"You didn't know, angel."

"Doesn't excuse the way I acted."

"I happen to like the way you act." He arches a brow, shooting me a smirk. "Your little attitude is sexy as fuck, Peyton. You don't take any bullshit, and you call me on mine. You know how many people are willing to do that? Not many. Most people let motherfuckers like me do whatever the fuck we want. They roll over and take it simply because we are who we are. You have a voice and a spine, and you know what you are and are not willing to tolerate. It doesn't matter what my name is or how many people know it. In fact, that doesn't mean a goddamn thing to you at all. That's sexy as hell to me."

"I spent my whole life being bullied by guys like you, Logan," I mutter, glancing out the window as we crawl through traffic. "Eventually, you learn to stand up for yourself or you keep getting knocked down. I got tired of being knocked down."

"Why the fuck did they bully you?" he asks, a growl vibrating in his voice.

"Because I'm me?" I shrug. "Because I'm everything they aren't? A lot of reasons, I guess. I'm mouthy and combative and I didn't fall at their feet. I was awkward and made things uncomfortable. I didn't just go along just to go along. And…" I lick my lips nervously. "And I guess because my father made it easy. When you're a news story every few years because your father hates you, it makes you an easy target."

"Hold the fuck on." He glances at me, his expression sharp. "What do you mean, you were a news story every few years?"

"Michael Keller is my father," I whisper.

His eyes widen with shock. "Michael Keller? You mean…?"

"Yeah. Senator Keller."

"Jesus Christ, Peyton," he whispers.

I glance down at my lap. "Every single time he's up for reelection, I'm the skeleton people drag out of his closet."

"That's fucked up."

"I'm not mad about it." I shrug. "Honestly, as much as it sucked for me, I appreciated that his opponents never really let him forget that he had a kid he just threw away. Especially after…"

Logan growls, and I know he's worked out the rest of the story. The stuff I didn't tell him back in the conference room. Refusing to acknowledge me wasn't the worst of what my father did, not by far. Sending me to foster care after my mom was killed by the guy who robbed the convenience store where she worked?

Well, there's a special place in hell for him for that.

"That fucking prick," he rasps. "He abandoned you after your mom was killed."

"He abandoned me long before she was killed, Logan." I rest my head against the window with a sigh. "You can't re-abandon a kid you never bothered to meet in the first place."

"How the fuck is he a senator?"

"Because the truth about who he really is only matters when it's convenient. The rest of the time, it gets swept under the rug. People see what they want to see. He talks a good game and trots his perfect little family out to play the perfect husband and father. That's what they see. Not the daughter he never wanted. Not the woman he cheated with and then abandoned. They see the lie. It's all they ever see."

"Fuck," Logan growls, jerking beside me. "Peyton, I–"

"If pretending we're dating will help protect your sister, I'll do it," I say, cutting him off before he can apologize. He didn't know, and he was trying to protect me. It's not his fault I had a target on my back before I was ever even born because my father is evil. I appreciate him for trying to protect me. It's more than anyone else has ever done.

"Why?" He glances over at me, curiosity burning in his gaze.

"Because sometimes, the lie is worth it," I murmur. I've survived being a media spectacle my whole life. There's nothing they can throw at me that I haven't already heard. His sister is a different story, however. She has a baby to protect. She doesn't deserve to be in the crosshairs just because some reporter wants to blow up his life. If I can prevent that, I want to do it. "Your sister deserves peace. I'll do my part to make sure she gets it."

"Had I known, I never would have…" The guilt is heavy in his voice. "Christ, Peyton. I'm an asshole."

"You didn't know." I lick my lips, eyeing him warily. "But just so we're clear, we aren't dating, Logan. This is just for show. I'm your fake girlfriend and your assistant. Nothing more."

"Yeah?" He meets my gaze, his eyes dark and fathomless. "How long do you think you're going to be able to keep selling yourself that lie, baby?"

For as long as it takes for it to become true.

"It's not a lie," I say instead of voicing that frightening truth.

"Whatever you say, angel." He smirks at me, shaking his head. "But we both know you're full of shit. Just like we both know you only pretend you hate me because you know if you stop, you'll have to admit how you really feel."

"Yeah, and how do you think I really feel?"

"You're falling for me. You were falling for me before you ever left the bar with me. That's why you were so goddamn mad. And it's why you're so afraid to trust me now. I feel like something you need, and Peyton Cloud doesn't want to need anyone."

"You should really stop buying into your own press, Logan. It's giving you a big head," I mutter, my heart pounding. He's got me pegged so well it's scary. It's uncomfortable. It's…kind of beautiful, too.

What? No. I didn't mean that last part. Absolutely not.

"Whatever you say, baby," he murmurs, exiting the freeway. He meets my gaze again, a smirk dancing on his lips. "But just so we're clear…it doesn't matter how hard you fight or how hard you run. You're going to end up in my arms anyway. Make me bleed if it makes you happy. I'm not afraid of that attitude. You aren't pushing me away. All you'll do is make my fucking cock hard."

"Logan?" I hold his gaze, my eyes narrowed. "Shut up and drive."