10. Logan

10

LOGAN

"Thank God our baby's in one piece!" cries out the older woman of the two. They've both smothered Teysha in tearful hugs and kisses.

I've fallen several steps back to make room. I might as well be invisible as the women dote on Teysha. If I had to guess, I'd say it's her mother and grandmother.

"We didn't know what to think," says her mother, blowing into her tissue. "We heard they had you on drugs and you were pregnant. You didn't know which of the cult members was the father."

"Mama," Teysha breathes, almost flinching.

"Oh, Teysha. What have they done to you, sweetie? The filth they put you through," says her grandmother. "My baby girl lost her spark. Lord, please give her back her light."

My eyes narrow, though I remain in the background. I come from a religious household. My mother had us in church every Sunday, and my father agreed because he loved her. But even at a young age I thought it was a crock of shit.

All of it useless garbage .

The more Teysha's mother and grandmother talk, the quieter Teysha becomes. The more she shrinks into herself. If there was ever any light, they're the ones putting it out. They're the ones making her feel like crap after what she's been through.

She's no less valuable because some sick fuck kidnapped her and brought her into his cult.

"Please stop fussing over me."

"How can I not? I heard all about it on the news. The vile things they expose their hostages to. But it's not over for you, sweetie," her mother says. "You'll still find your way. You'll heal and marry a nice man despite what's happened. Someone out there will be willing to overlook those things."

"She's already married."

The women freeze at the sound of my voice. Even Teysha's surprised by my interruption. Her eyes go wide, the rest of her face slack. She doesn't have a clue how to take me.

But her mother and grandmother do. The women mirror each other, their hands on their hips and brows arched, staring at me like I'm an intruder.

I guess, in a way, I am.

This is a private family moment, and I don't belong to their family any more than they belong to mine.

"And you are?" Teysha's mother asks.

"That's Logan, Mama," Teysha murmurs under her breath.

"Hey," I say, offering my hand to shake, "Logan Cutler."

Mrs. Baxter doesn't shake my hand, ignoring my gesture. "Are you the one she's been staying with?"

"That's right…"

She gives a deep hum of disapproval. "Well, Logan, I'm sure you believe you've done a good deed by giving my daughter a place to lay her head. But I'm afraid all you've really done is make the situation worse. My daughter needs to be returned home where she can begin healing from the damage that's been done to her. The last thing she needs is to be shacked up with some man looking to make trouble."

"Make trouble?" I repeat in a scoff.

"Teysha, what have we told you a thousand times? What does Corinthians 15:33 say? Bad company ruins good morals. We need to get you away from this terrible town right now?—"

"Excuse me, ma'am," I interject, taking a step toward her. "But your daughter's my wife. We're legally married."

Her eyes snap shut and her features pull tight. The mere idea causes her distress. It sickens her to know her daughter's married to me.

A biker covered in tattoos. I smell of the cigarettes I've been smoking and haven't trimmed my beard in over a week.

"We will be handling that situation," Mrs. Baxter says. "She can get an annulment from Boulder."

"She can go where she wants to go. And Teysha's said nothing about leaving."

"She doesn't live here," spits her mother. "We're taking her home?—"

"That's not your decision to make?—"

"Now, now," says her grandmother suddenly. "Let's not raise our voices in public. We can talk through this like civil adults. I hope we can all agree Teysha's best interests are most important."

Teysha's shrunk half a step back. Neither woman notices. They're too focused on me.

My objections have become an immediate inconvenience. They already had the entire situation mapped out. Show up here and take Teysha away. It didn't even occur to them to ask her what she wanted to do.

But I've got my own plan, and it happens to clash with theirs.

If I have any intention of getting this marriage dissolved as quickly as possible, I need Teysha on hand to do so.

Her family's going to have to wait.

For the time being, all they need to know is Teysha's my wife and we don't need their interference.

"Logan, I thank you for rescuing our baby girl," the elder Baxter says. She's a round woman that's dressed up in a hat and pearls as if on her way to a nice brunch. She aims a polite smile at me like I'm a kid on the block trying to sell her lemonade. "It means so much to us that you have stepped in and helped her. But it's best if she's taken home where we, her family, can be there for her."

"Teysha's a grown woman," I say. "I'm sure she can decide what she wants to do."

All eyes fall on her. Mrs. Baxter and her grandmother glare expectantly. Their brows have arched to new heights.

"Well?" snaps her mother. "Use that mouth of yours. Tell him what you want."

"Mama… we weren't expecting you," Teysha offers weakly. "We were in the middle of… of something."

"Unbelievable. We were beside ourselves when you were missing. We cried tears of joy when we found out you were alive. Do you know we got in the car that instant and drove hours to come get you? What's the matter with you?"

Teysha frowns, a soft wrinkle forming between her brows. "I don't mean to be ungrateful. I've missed you, and I want to come home. But… but I'm not… I don't think I'm ready yet."

Mrs. Baxter's sharp gasp sounds like she's a breath away from passing out. She clutches at her chest and staggers a step back. It's about as dramatic as the disgusted look on her grandmother's face. You'd think she sucked on a lemon the way her features pucker up.

Teysha seeks out my gaze. Her eyes speak to me.

Big and expressive like I'd noticed the first night we met. We'd stood in front of the Chosen Saints and exchanged I dos. I took a glance at her, and my first thought was about how deep her eyes were. Her every emotion swimming in them. They were like portals to another world.

Teysha's soul some philosophical prick would say.

Whether or not they're the windows to her soul or if souls even fucking exist, I get it anyway. I can glance at the woman who is legally my wife and sense how she feels. She's uncomfortable and overwhelmed, begging me to step in.

…because she won't stand up to them herself.

I clear my throat and scrub my jaw. "You heard her. She's not ready to go to Boulder."

"It doesn't matter if she's ready—Boulder is where she lives!"

"Just because it's her home address doesn't mean it's where she should be right now," I say in my best attempt at a calm tone. It's still rough and gravelly, but with forced restraint. My hand cups Teysha's elbow to ease her closer. "How about we give you a call when she's ready?—"

"I don't think so! Get your hands off my daughter!" Mrs. Baxter screeches. Her hysterical call echoes across the walkway area and earns curious looks from people in the parking lot. She shoves at me to sever my hold on Teysha's elbow. "That's my baby girl, and I'm not letting nobody else take her away! You're not about to sully her again!"

"Mama!" Teysha cries out .

As if shoving me away from her daughter wasn't bad enough, Grandmother Baxter swings her handbag. It collides with my shoulder, then the side of my head.

"Get!" she yells. "Go on and go, or we will call the police!"

How the situation has spiraled to the point I'm being whacked over the head by a mother-grandmother duo, I'll never understand. We sure as hell have drawn the attention of everybody around though.

I throw up an arm to block Mrs. Baxter's next shot. Teysha has inserted herself to pry her grandmother away.

"You two done?" I ask, jutting my chin at them. "Or would you like to cause more of a fucking scene?"

It's hard to say if they're more scandalized by my challenge or the cuss word. They exchange looks, their blinks long and slow like it'll help wake them from some shitty dream.

They'll get over it. They've got no choice but to.

I round on Teysha.

"Ready?"

Teysha's big brown eyes flick up to mine. So many damn emotions welled up in them, it's a wonder how one person can feel so much. She gives a small nod and leans into my side.

Tension clenches from deep within my chest.

I put an arm around her and wave off the Baxter women. "Sounds like it's decided. Teysha stays ‘cuz that's what Teysha wants. Don't waste your time coming by again. We'll call you."

"Teysha!"

"Come back here!"

"Lord, why has my daughter been led astray by such wickedness? "

I pull open the truck's passenger's side door and stand back for Teysha to slide in. Her family's cries have followed us every step across the parking lot. The others in the area haven't stopped gawking. I walk around to the driver's side, shooting a glare in Mrs. Baxter and her mother's direction.

My warning is clear: Teysha has made her choice. Get the fuck over it.

The truck rumbles to life at the turn of the key in the ignition. I check on her one more time before driving off.

"You alright?"

She's shaken. Eyes wide and misty, her body stiff and uncertain. "Get me out of here."

Teysha only needs to ask once.

The truck gives another deep rumble as we ditch the clerk's office parking lot.

We drive for a while in silence. Just the background noises around town. School-aged children giggling on a sidewalk. Rubber tires on tarmac and the jingle from the local ice cream truck.

I glance at her in between watching the road. "I'm taking you back to my place."

She's turned her head toward the window and gives no sign she's heard me. Is she regretting her decision already?

Around her family, she seemed like a wilting flower. Any personality—or spark as they'd called it—went out. She'd looked over as if pleading with me to help her. Did I misread her reactions? Otherwise, what the hell could be wrong with her?

"You sure you're alright? I can take you back to your mother?—"

"I…" she says suddenly, then pauses a second. "I… need a drink."

Ask me what I expected Teysha Baxter to say in this moment, and I'd tell you I had no fucking clue. But I do know her asking for a drink was nowhere on the list. Even if one existed.

My brows lift higher. I barely remember to watch the road. "You mean something with alcohol, or are you asking for apple juice?"

The tension breaks with a soft laugh from Teysha. "A drink with alcohol. Why would I want juice?"

"The same reason your family came by yelling about wickedness. You sure it's allowed?"

I'm giving her a hard time. Pushing her buttons. Working her up.

But my attempt falls flat.

Any humor Teysha's found disappears. Her laugh's long gone. She turns her head back toward the window.

I let it go. That scene with her family obviously messed with her head.

We pull into the nearest gas station. I reup on some gas and then walk Teysha into the convenience store. A week since her rescue, she's still nervous in public. She's never said so, but I've picked up on it.

Once inside, she almost turns down the wrong aisle.

"Beer and liquor's this way."

I grab her hand and head in the opposite direction she was going. As I lead her down the aisle filled with salty snacks like potato chips and popcorn, another hunch takes shape. Teysha's hesitant steps tell me all I need to know.

This is a first-time thing for her.

"You ever drink before?"

"That obvious?"

"How old are you again?"

"Twenty-two. "

"Jesus fucking Christ," I swear. "You're almost a damn kid."

"I'll be twenty-three in September. I was supposed to graduate college this past semester, but obviously I… I never got to finish."

"Jesus fucking Christ, it gets worse. You're in college ?"

"Don't speak the Lord's name in vain," she scolds.

I'm still too stuck on her age to care.

I'd known she was younger than me. But I didn't realize it was by almost a whole decade. I'm thirty years old married to a damn college student barely legal enough to drink.

No wonder she feels so… inexperienced . From the moment she was hauled into the Chosen Saints ceremony and deposited in front of me, I picked up on it. That she was green.

I corrupted her that night and I'm about to corrupt her again.

"We'll start you off simple. Some wine coolers. There's barely a drop in those."

Her brows knit. "I want what you drink."

"Trust me when I say you couldn't handle it, babe," I say with a rough laugh.

"Yes, I could. Babe ."

I open the refrigerator door to grab a case of beer. "Feeling snippety, are you? Where was all that mouth when your family was around?"

"I'll buy my own."

She spins on her heel, her chocolatey hair flipping with her, and sets off toward the bottles of hard liquor. I grit my teeth and shake my head.

There's something about gas station convenience stores that feels dingy .

But Teysha Baxter in a gas station convenience store is its own category—she manages to change the atmosphere in a girl-next-door-picking-flowers-in-a-fucking-meadow kinda way. Her sandals and sundress are practically church clothes, yet the sneak peeks of bare skin hint at the shapely curves hidden underneath. I follow half a pace behind, almost a foot taller, close enough to touch her.

Notes of her perfume sweeten the air.

She even smells like a damn meadow.

Summery and floral, with a woody edge.

When we were with the Chosen Saints, we were so filthy, so beatdown, I had stopped picking up on things like smell and taste.

Since returning to Pulsboro and Teysha's come to stay, it's a scent I've been forced to endure. In the crammed space of the convenience store, it's rewiring my brain. Making me feel even more protective of her. Making me hyperaware of not just our surroundings but her .

I'm forced to notice the gentle sway of her dark, shoulder-length hair. From far away, it looks almost black. Up close, there's these chocolatey brown tones that are easy to get lost in.

She stops in front of a shelf stocked with White Oak products. Her eyebrows draw together in scrutiny, a tiny wrinkle on her nose. She leans in as if to read the nutritional label.

I roll my eyes. "It's whiskey, Teysha. Pick one."

"But what's the difference between the Gold White Oak Whiskey and the Silver White Oak?"

"They're just different collections. The gold line's usually the good stuff. That's why it's priced more."

She hums, then almost shyly blinks over at me.

I get it immediately. She wants me to help her choose .

I sigh and jut my chin at the shelf. "Just grab that big one of the gold. The one that looks like a trophy. We'll toss it in with my case of beer. I'm gonna need it with the headaches you give me."

"I'll pay you back?—"

"Don't worry, babe. Your payback's coming when you're kneeling by the toilet."

"I can handle it," she mumbles.

For half a second, I consider bursting her bubble. Telling her how Steel Kings like Bush and Ozzie end up puking their guts out by drinking this stuff. Men twice her size. Men with borderline alcoholic drinking habits. Men who might as well have guts made of steel, like our club's named after.

But this seems to be some hill she's hell bent on dying on.

So I let her have it. The whiskey and the last word.

Teysha clutches the large bottle like it really is a trophy, holding it close to her chest. I take a second to stand back and watch as she carefully walks it up to the register.

I'm not sure if I'm more amused by the situation or irritated that I'm stuck with her for an extra few weeks.

Her family was overbearing. The definition of religious nutjobs. She needed to be bailed out of the situation outside the clerk's office earlier.

But I didn't intervene just for Teysha's benefit.

I intervened because I saw the opportunity to have this marriage dissolved as quickly as possible slipping through my fingers. If her family took her away, it would make it a hell of a lot harder to appeal the clerk's decision in the next few days. Who's to say her nutty family would even let me contact her?

I come up from behind at the checkout stand and heave the case of Pike beer onto the counter. I toss a hundred dollar bill before the clerk's even finished ringing us up.

He flashes me a toothy grin. "I was about to ask this one for ID. Sweet little thing looks like she's never held a glass of White Oak let alone drank any. But you… I remember you. Tom Cutler's son, ain't ya? Didn't you go away for a while?"

"If being thought dead is going away for a while."

I snatch back my change in cash and gather the rest of our things. We walk out with the case of Pike and a bag of other one-off items I've picked up.

And then there's the bottle of Gold White Oak Whiskey.

Teysha's still holding onto it like a lifeline.

I don't say anything as we make our way back to the pickup truck. Something tells me this is a victory in her eyes; something that's not so common.

She's finally gotten her way for once.

"Go ahead. Take a drink."

I jut my chin at the red Solo cup filled with an ounce of White Oak. The pale brown liquid looks almost gold under the kitchen's fluorescent lighting.

Teysha stands on the other side of the counter, perched on one of the stools. She eyes the Solo cup like it's a dangerous animal liable to bite at any moment. The second thoughts are written all over her pretty face. Her brows have inched closer together and her teeth nibble away on her bottom lip.

"What does it taste like?" she asks.

"Strawberry ice cream. "

She goes from nibbling on her lips to pursing them. "I might be inexperienced, Logan Cutler, but I'm not stupid."

"Then go on and try it for yourself. Don't chicken out now. You're the one that made a big stink about having a drink."

"I didn't make a big stink," she says almost defensively. She reaches out and curls hesitant fingers around the plastic red cup.

Then she bows her head and sniffs it.

I lose any bearing I have. A raspy laugh cranks out of me.

Fuck.

She really is irritating and cute all at once.

"Okay, okay. I'm trying it! No need to laugh."

Teysha tosses the ounce of whiskey back. Her throat muscles work as the liquid makes its way down the slender column. The smoky, spicy taste doesn't hit her 'til a second later. She coughs, her chest jerking forward and eyes squeezing shut.

"You alright?" I slide a cup full of coke across the kitchen counter.

She gratefully accepts, washing away the whiskey taste on her tongue.

The corner of my mouth quirks in half a grin. "Well? What'd you think?"

"You drink that for fun? Why would you do that to yourself?"

"I'm a glutton for punishment." I raise my glass of whiskey and ice and then show her how it's done. I drain the whole fucking thing in one swallow. The glass chinks against the counter when I set it back down. "Are we done? Is that little experiment of yours over?"

"Make me a drink," she says. She points at the two liter bottle of coke and then the White Oak. "Don't people mix coke with whiskey?"

"I thought you were inexperienced?"

"Do I have to remind you I said inexperienced, not dumb?"

"And again I'm asking where was all that mouth earlier today?"

For a second time, she doesn't answer me. I start fixing her drink request. Another ounce of whiskey and a hell of a lot more coke.

Joke about kneeling by the toilet aside, I'm not spending my night babysitting a lightweight.

"You're gonna have to tell me anyway, you know that, right?"

"Tell you what?"

"About earlier. Your family." I nudge the cup of whiskey and coke toward her. "You didn't seem all that happy to see them."

"Is that why you stepped in?"

"You were begging me to with those puppy dog eyes."

She makes a face and shakes her head. "I've missed them so much. I've prayed I'd be fortunate enough I'd see them again."

"So? Why didn't you want to go with them?"

"I never said that."

"You damn sure did with your behavior. But no need to answer anyway. I know all about what it was." I set to refilling my own glass, pouring whiskey in straight.

Teysha spends a moment taking another sip of hers. A small taste test to see if she can handle any more. Either she decides she can or that she needs to as a distraction.

"How can you know all about it when I didn't tell you?"

"'Cuz I know your type. You think I've never met anybody like you? My mom was religious. She took us to church every week. I'm more than a little familiar."

Her eyes narrow. "My type?"

"Sheltered. Wholesome. Raised in the church. Formed your whole identity around it. Everything you believe is what they told you to," I say with a shrug. "Your mother's the stereotypical overbearing kind that dictates everything you do. Why would you want to go back to that? Especially after what's happened to you?"

I'm not sure what reaction I expect. Part of me hopes it's more sass. More mouth.

Then at least the tension would ease and I could forget I'm irritable for a couple seconds. I could find amusement in whatever sassy thing she's said and give her more shit about it.

But as I drain my second glass of whiskey, she's stopped touching hers. She won't even look me in the eye. The sweetness about her is gone; the girl-next-door-picking-flowers-in-a-fucking-meadow disappears.

The frigid woman I'd witnessed one too many times with the Saints returns.

"Teysha—"

"Thanks for the drink."

She slips out of the barstool and heads straight for the spare bedroom.

The room I've allocated for her. The room she never spends any time in. She much prefers the couch or, better yet, my bed.

I wait five minutes then go knock on the door. She never answers.

I turn in for the night reminded why I didn't want her around. Why I should be spending my newfound freedom alone rather than babysitting some woman I don't know. Her issues with her religious-freak family's got nothing to do with me.

I've got no shortage of my own damn problems.

Shit I haven't even begun to sort through.

I go to sleep only to be woken up a couple hours later by my phone vibrating. My hand stretches out to grab hold of it. In the pitch dark my screen practically fries my retinas. The text is simple and short.

To the point.

We've caught one of them.