Page 18

CHAPTER 16

SASHA

The golden tooth winks in my mind's eye the same way it did when the man smiled—too evil—about Vlad and my father. I'm on the terrace, nicking bites of toast, not really tasting them, while the Vegas sky churns a moody gray. I'm told it’s proper rare, this weather in the desert in summer, and it makes me ache for London and Alfie's crooked grin. But that ache twists into something else as I chew over what the man said. If Vlad really had something to do with Father’s death.

No!

Vlad wouldn't, I think to myself, fiddling with my earring. But doubt is a stubborn weed once it takes root and it’s hard to get it out of my head now that the seed has been planted. At least until the moment a grim "Morning" comes from afar.

I glance up to see Logan entering the terrace, his posture reflecting the somber mood that's wrapped around him like a shroud since his mum’s funeral. He's a large, unreadable statue in his usual black slacks and a black T-shirt, eyes fixed on some distant, sorrowful horizon.

"Hey," I say, pushing my plate away since my appetite never made an appearance this morning. "How was your week?"

Logan seems lost for a second as if I gave him a complex math task.

"Had better ones," he finally mutters. "That’s for sure."

"You holding up alright?" I ask, even when the answer is clear as day. He just lost his parent and he’s still mourning, and although I lost my mum at a very young age, I think I can understand how he feels. At least a little.

"Ivan took care of you well while I was gone?" Logan questions matter-of-factly, glancing over at the garden outside the terrace. I know what he’s trying to do. He’s pretending everything is fine, but his eyes betray him, showing the raw edges of grief.

"Yeah, he did okay," I supply. "I’m still alive, right?"

The next hour drags by. Logan is sitting in a chair and looking through some reading materials while I’m messing around on my iPad, checking on my mates back in London and doodling some pictures.

We exchange a few sentences here and there. Mostly, he comments on some political nonsense he reads, nonsense that I don’t understand or care about. My breakfast is stale and possibly covered by mold by the time I work up the courage to propose we get out of the house for the day.

"Tell you what, mate," I say, standing and brushing crumbs from my jeans, "why don't we bunk off for a bit? Take me for a spin down the Strip."

Logan looks up from a newspaper and raises his eyebrow. "What’s the catch?"

"No catch." I shake my head. "I haven’t had the real Vegas experience yet." Because I can’t tell him I’m miserable seeing him being this sad. Even if he tries very hard not to show it.

Logan looks at me then, very carefully. "You sure that’s what you want to do? It’s a hundred degrees outside and they don’t have fans on every corner." Logan juts his chin toward a massive cooler set in the corner of the terrace that makes this entire eating outside experience bearable in this heat.

"I want to hit some casinos," I say, mentally crossing my fingers and hoping that this little trip will distract Logan enough from the drab thoughts.

"Last time you hit a casino, it didn't end well."

"I'll behave. I promise."

Logan looks at me long and hard, then finally says, "Alright. You’re the boss."

"Exactly." I grin. "What's Vegas without a bit of sin anyway, eh?"

"Christ." There's almost a laugh there, buried under the weight he carries. "You make it sound like we’re about to bet all your brother’s money on some silly collectible Baby Yoda figurine."

"Brilliant idea. I would have never thought about it on my own. Now I know how to piss off Vlad." A spark of satisfaction lights up my chest as I head inside to grab the jacket.

Maybe, just maybe, I can distract us both from our hell—for a little while, at least.

The city blurs past, a smear of buildings drawn on the desert landscape as we slice through the traffic and to the heart of Vegas. I glance at Logan, his jaw set, eyes fixed on the road like he's trying to outdrive his own shadow.

We've already gone over all the must-do activities to fully experience Vegas. And for the most part, I did all the talking while consulting Google. Logan just nodded and grunted one-syllable words here and there, words I couldn’t decipher. Something very American.

Then we fell into an awkward moment of silence and that silence has stretched up to the point of uncomfortable.

"Sorry about your mum," I murmur, scarcely louder than the hum of the car's engine. The sentence hangs stiffly between us, like an unwelcome passenger in this vehicle.

"Thanks," he says curtly, focus unbroken. "I miss her a lot."

"She sure had plenty of people who cared about you and her show up."

"Yep."

"Can I ask—" I hesitate, but curiosity is a persistent itch. "The chap at the funeral. Tall, blond, was he your brother?"

"You mean August?" Logan's voice softens for just a second, a crack in the armor. "No. I’m the only child."

"Ah."

"We were...involved, once upon a time."

"Involved?" My pulse quickens, surprised by the revelation. Logan was involved with a man! And he is quite open about it. Doesn’t seem like it’s a big deal for him.

"Yes, as in seeing each other."

"I know what 'involved' means."

"Well, then why do you look like a third grader who’s just heard a new word?"

My mind is spinning. Because in my world, in the place where I come from you can get maimed or even killed for saying that you’re dating another man.

"Why did it end, if you don’t mind my asking? I remember you said the girl you dated, who taught you Spanish, wanted something different. Was it similar with him?"

"Sort of. Things were complicated between us from the start." The statement is like a door slammed shut, but I see the key left dangling in the lock.

"Because of the job?" I pry a little, my own secrets feeling like stones in my pocket.

"Partly," he admits, as fat drops begin to splatter against the windshield, an atypical case of rain in the desert this time of the year, at least what I’ve been hearing. "I couldn’t be out on the force. Not if I wanted to make detective someday."

"That's rubbish," I say, my accent thickening with emotion. "Having to hide who you are." Coming from me it sounds very hypocritical.

"Reality, Sasha. Prejudice might be quieter these days, but it's still there, lurking." Logan flicks the wipers on, the rhythm mismatched to the staccato of my racing heart. "August wanted more. I couldn't give it to him. Not then. I wanted to wait and he didn’t."

"Sounds like you were stuck between a rock and a hard place." I watch the beads of rain race each other down the glass, my reflection distorted in their paths.

"Something like that," he acknowledges, and our conversation fades into the sound of tires on wet asphalt, leaving us both stranded in the vastness of unsaid things for the next few minutes.

The rain drizzles down like a soft reminder of home, of London's perpetual gray skies—a stark contrast to the blazing sun that usually scorches my new home.

I think about Alfie and all the wild things we once intended to do together after graduating from uni. Backpack through Europe. See the African Safari. Maybe spend a summer in Bali or Thailand. And now, those plans are ruined and I’m to blame.

"Did you pick the casino to start?" Logan’s voice says next to me, pulling me out of my regretful headspace.

"I don’t care," I tell him.

"Alright then, let’s hit Mandalay Bay first and then go from there."

We circle around the building and pull up to the casino’s entrance where Logan lets the valet attendant take care of the Navigator. It’s still drizzling and the inviting neon lights of the Strip blink hazily through the mist.

"Perfect," I hype myself up, stepping into the lobby. "This is going to be fun." I don’t know if it will be, but I want it to be. For Logan.

He follows me inside, his shoulders slightly hunched against the heavy dampness of the city.

"I’m sure," he mutters a response, a gruff edge to his voice that doesn't quite mask the underlying grief.

The casino swallows us up as soon as we hit the floor. The ding-ding-ding of slot machines and cheers from the tables hug us like a gaudy, over-perfumed aunt. The air is filled with traces of cigarette smoke and the clink of coins. And desperation and hope hang in a delicate balance here.

I watch Logan's eyes flicker across the room, absorbing the chaos with a keen professional gaze. I have to remind myself he grew up here in this city and the novelty of the casino atmosphere is nothing new to him.

"First things first," I say, "I need to buy me some chips."

"Okay."

"Well, are you going to show me where to go?"

"You buy them at the table if you plan on trying your hand at blackjack, poker, or anything of the sort. For the slots, you’d want cash. ATM is right there." He points at the sign above our heads indicating where the ATM is.

Next we go through the motions of obtaining money and hit the slots. I lose all five hundred bucks I invested in my little plan to entertain Logan. An hour later, he’s still frowning and I make a suggestion that he needs a drink.

"I'm working," Logan protests, as I’m steering him toward the bar.

"No, you’re not," I say, waving over a bartender. "I officially relieve you of your duties for the rest of the shift."

"It doesn’t work like that, Sasha," he insists, arms crossed on his chest.

"It does if I say it does." I grab the shot I ordered for him and push a glass into his hand.

The physical contact is immediate where our skin touches. Logan’s jaw tightens but he accepts my offering.

"Consider it medicinal," I quip, giving him an elbow nudge. "And since you're now off the clock, it’s time to loosen up, mate."

I can see the conflict on his face—the trained protector wrestling with the man who needs to forget, just for a moment. But eventually, he takes a sip, and I count it as a tiny victory.

"Come on, let's give these slots another whirl," I suggest, my tone light, teasing, as I guide him through the labyrinth of flashing machines. If it takes me another five hundred bucks to make him smile, I’m going to keep spending. Hell, I think setting limits is not even necessary. It’s Vlad’s bloody money after all. If he can afford to have a garage full of collectible cars, he won’t notice today’s withdrawals.

"Is this your idea of fun?" Logan asks me thirty minutes later when I’ve spent all my cash playing some cheesy Mega Fortune machine. But there's a hint of amusement finally creeping into his voice.

"Absolutely." My reply is cheeky. I catch a glimpse of a smile across his lips as he watches me slide the last hundred-dollar bill into a machine and pull the lever with a dramatic flourish.

"Look at that—jackpot," I exclaim as bells ring out and lights flash. "Lady Luck must be on our side today."

"Or she's just taunting us," Logan counters, but he's smiling at me now, and that's what matters.

We hop from casino to casino, the hours slipping by unnoticed. Each time Logan starts to retreat back into his shell, I coax him out again with a joke, a touch, a look. His resistance wanes with every drink, every win, every shared laugh.

"See, you can have fun," I tease him at the blackjack table, leaning in close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body.

"Maybe," he concedes, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "But don't think I'm going to start dancing on tables."

"Pity," I shoot back, and there's an electricity between us that feels dangerous, thrilling.

"Maybe another time," Logan says, and his words send a shiver down my spine—not from fear, but from something entirely different.

"Promise?" I challenge, locking eyes with him.

"Maybe," he replies again, and it's not a no.

"Gentlemen?" the dealer calls and suddenly we're lurching back to reality. And the reality is Logan showing me how to play blackjack. He’s bloody good at it too judging by the reactions of the other patrons at the table, and I’m a bit jealous.

Time melts around us, hours stretching into one another in lazy succession while we nurse our drinks and buy junk food from the stalls.

I know I’m playing a dangerous game here. I know I should dial it down, stop being all flirty. Keep a lid on my secret. But the fact that Logan likes both women and men and is so calm about it does something to my brain. It’s almost like I can’t control myself anymore in his presence. My body and my mind aren’t communicating.

And it’s bad.

Very bad.

As the colorful glow of the Strip begins to merge with twilight, Logan and I step through the casino's glass doors, into the cool embrace of the drizzling rain. It's been such a laugh, the sort that makes your belly muscles sore. But as the damp night air hits us, his chuckle fades into a silence that's thick with something unspoken.

"Bit of a wet one, isn't it?" I say, glancing at the sky, trying to keep the mood light. "Reminds me of London."

"Never been to London," he murmurs, hands in his pockets, eyes on the ground.

"Maybe one day, yeah?"

"Maybe."

The moment stretches between us, a little bubble of calm.

Then, without warning, it bursts. A screech of tires shatters the tranquility, followed by a staccato noise that chills my blood—the unmistakable sound of gunfire.

"Down!" Logan's voice is sharp, commanding. He grabs me by the jacket and yanks me back toward the casino as bullets sing past, thudding into the wall where we stood moments before.

"Shit, shit, shit..." My heart hammers against my rib cage as I duck and stumble beside him, trying to process the chaos erupting around us. People scream and scatter. Suddenly, they are a stampede of terror.

"Move, Sasha!" Logan shouts, pulling me along, his grip iron-tight.

We crash back into the casino, the lavish interior now a maze of panic. In the corner of my eye, I see them—two dark figures, faces obscured by ski masks, guns in hand as they barrel through the entrance after us.

"Run!" Logan barks, and we're sprinting through the mayhem, dodging gamblers and overturned chairs. The slot machines are a blur of flashing lights and jarring noise, but all I can hear is my own ragged breathing and the thundering of my pulse.

"Here!" Logan yells, shoving me around the corner, then to some door. "Upstairs, now!" His voice is devoid of warmth. It’s cool and sharp like a blade despite all the drinking we both did.

He pushes the door open and drags me toward the staircase. We take the stairs two at a time, my legs burning with the effort, every cell in my body screaming to just keep moving.

We burst onto the third or maybe fourth floor landing, the service corridor oddly silent compared to the pandemonium below. Logan slams the call button for the staff elevator, his eyes darting back to the stairwell.

"Come on, come on..." I mutter, every second turning into an eternity.

The doors open with a ding, and we lunge inside, Logan hammering the button again. This time for the roof.

As the doors seal us off, my chest heaves with desperate gulps of air.

"Are you hit?" Logan's gray eyes scan me, intense and searching.

I pat myself down, half expecting to find blood, but there's nothing. "No... I'm alright."

"Good." He nods, and for a second, his gaze lingers on mine, a promise that he won't let anything happen to me.

"What do we do next?" I ask.

"Hide."

"You don’t think they’ll find us?"

"They won’t," Logan reassures me. "I’ll make sure of it."

But as the elevator ascends, I can't shake the cold dread in my stomach. Whoever wanted me dead in London is now trying to kill me here in Vegas. I know they're not going to stop. Unless someone stops them. And Logan's caught in the crossfire, all because of me. The weight of that realization is almost suffocating.

"Do you have any idea who these people are?" I manage to ask, though my voice sounds distant, even to my own ears. Besides, Logan probably has no clue. I’m not even certain why I pose the question.

"I’d say you probably know better." Logan's jaw clenches. "But we're not out of this yet," he adds. "So let’s worry about it later."

The elevator dings again, and we step out onto the top floor. From there, Logan takes me up another flight of stairs and we’re finally on the rooftop of the hotel.

The view here is a cold, wet slap of reality—a vast expanse of tables and chairs under the dark sky. The air is filled with the tang of impending rain. It's been on and off all day today. My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs as we stumble across the roof, past the furniture, and toward the edge.

We are on top of the building that has at least thirty floors. The city lights below us are reduced to a smear through the tears accumulated in my eyes when I look down over the parapet.

"Logan, what the bloody hell is going on?" The question comes out in a gasp, my lungs struggling to keep pace because of the fear and exertion.

He doesn't answer right away, instead concentrated on the view below. His silhouette is a neat wall of muscle against the backdrop of Vegas's neon veins. There's a tension to him, like a coiled spring, every sense heightened as he surveys the Strip.

"I don’t think you can see anything from here," I supply.

"Probably not," Logan agrees, then points at the red and blue lights down below, moving toward the casino entrance. "But since the police are here, I think they are going to retreat… for now."

"So we've lost them?" But even as I ask, part of me dreads the answer, the truth that might unravel the last threads holding me together.

"I believe so. Yes."

Closing my eyes, I inhale sharply and hold the air in my lungs for a moment before exhaling loudly. I don’t know if this is actually going to help me but I can’t think of anything else.

"Sasha?" Logan calls. His voice is softer this time.

I snap my eyes open and look up at him. "Are sure you’re not hurt? Sometimes adrenaline can make you feel like you’re fine when it’s the opposite."

I shake my head, still trying to process the insanity of it all. It's only when he steps closer, his large hands coming to rest on my arms, that I realize how close we really are—his body a solid mass of heat in the wet chill of the night.

His eyes lock onto mine, and something in his gaze—something a lot like care—snags at the raw edges of my emotions. This vulnerability I glimpse washes over me, like a tidal wave I can't outrun. Before I can think better of it, before I can stop myself, I lean in and press my lips to his.

It's a shock, a jolt of electricity that zings through my veins, filling my bloodstream with something new, something bright and warm. But it's over almost before it begins. Logan freezes. I feel it, feel the surprise, feel the confusion.

Carefully, oh so carefully, he takes hold of my shoulders and eases me back, putting space between us. The distance feels like a rift between worlds, and I'm left reeling, the kiss now hanging between us like something ugly.

"Sorry," I mumble, my cheeks burning with embarrassment and something else—something bitter and twisted. "I shouldn't have..."

The uncertainty etched into the lines of Logan’s face makes my stomach churn. His rejection stings.

"Sasha," he whispers, lost. "Let's just... focus on getting out of this alive, yeah?" His voice is gentle, but firm, a barrier thrown up against whatever might have bloomed in that reckless moment.

The burn of regret claws at my insides as the raindrops land on my forehead. I'm rooted to the spot, drenched in more than just the beginning downpour. The silence between Logan and me screams louder than the chaos we've fled, the void widening with each second he doesn't speak.

"Logan, I...," I start, but the words dissolve on my tongue, useless.

"We can't do this, Sasha. Not now."

"Right, of course." My voice is a mere murmur, lost against the thrumming of the rain. I turn away, watching the droplets shatter against the concrete like my foolish hopes hitting reality.

"Look at me," Logan's command is gentle.

I face him, steeling myself against the unreadable storm in his eyes. There's a war there, one I've inadvertently sparked, and I'm already mourning the loss before the battle has even begun.

"Whatever you're thinking, don't," he says, voice filled with something I can't place. "We need to stay alert."

"Alert. Got it."

Only my mind is anything but focused; it's a whirlwind of pointless what-ifs. "Logan?"

He continues to look at me.

"Please don’t tell Vlad," I plead.

"I won’t." Pause. "Now we need to get out of here." He's all business again, the bodyguard, the protector. And I'm just the charge, the responsibility. Nothing more.