12. Sasha

CHAPTER 12

SASHA

Fuck’s sake, Vlad's gone again. Poof, off like a magician after a measly three days, leaving me with more questions about what’s going on than answers. Typical Vlad, isn't it? Our time together amounted to one pompous brekkie on the terrace, him sipping tea and me pushing eggs around my plate. He hired some local celebrity chef to prepare this nonsense. If you ask me, I can whip up a better dish. And I pretty much have two left hands.

"You like Logan?" Vlad asked that morning, eyes on his plate.

My stomach churned. A thought that my older brother somehow found out I have a crush on my bodyguard flashed through my mind. "Eh? Erm, what do you mean?"

"I mean is he doing a good job? Do you feel safe with him?"

"Ah…he's alright," I mumbled.

Did Vlad want to fire Logan? Shit, I couldn't get a read.

Vlad just hummed, a cryptic sound that revealed bollocks all. Then back to his precious tea. Brilliant.

Now, days later and with him gone I'm lying in my bed and staring at the ceiling. I’m contemplating the sodding mystery that is my brother when a sharp rap on the door jolts me.

"Yeah?" I call out, voice croaky with disuse.

The door swings open and there's Logan, looking all proper. "Stateside's coming to town," he announces like I’m supposed to know what that means. "Get up and get ready. It's almost noon."

I squint at him. "Stateside? The hell you going on about?"

"Stateside BBQ. Best barbecue food truck in the country. They're only in Vegas today."

Food truck? I snort but on the inside I’m all giddy. "I think I'll pass on questionable meat served out of a lorry."

Logan rolls his eyes. Damn, it’s fucking cute. "Don't be a snob," he says. "You ate tacos from the food truck and you’re still alive. This is the real deal. Brisket so tender it falls apart and ribs that melt off the bone. Trust me, it's amazing. You have to try it."

I’m not exactly feeling like getting up. I’ve been all up in my head, going over what I could have done differently for Alfie to still be alive, but spending time with Logan in the city has become my new drug. It helps me forget about the fact that I’m a Solovey and I killed my best friend.

"Come on, get your ass moving, Sasha!" Logan shouts on the way out of my room as if he’s the boss here and he makes the decisions where we go and what we do. "The brisket awaits!"

"Oi, enough of that," I warn, chucking a pillow at him when he’s at the door. He ducks it easily, the wanker. "Fine, I'll come to your little lorry meat party. But if I get food poisoning, you're cleaning it up." I don’t really mean it. I just feel like playing hard to get with Logan.

"Nope. Not gonna happen," he replies with a poker face. "That’s not part of my job and you’ve got staff to do that." With that, Logan pivots and exits, leaving me no choice but to haul myself vertical.

As I stumble to the loo, I note the change in Logan. The serious, stoic man has been replaced by someone a little bit more human, someone who cracks a smile from time to time or says a joke. I shake my head at my reflection, splashing water on my face.

Down, mate. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.

An hour later, Logan and I approach a bloody chaos surrounding a colorful truck parked by the curb somewhere just right off the Strip.

"Fucking hell," I mutter under my breath, trying to understand where the line begins. It’s all just a sea of people, carrying food or eating right off the plate while standing by the curb or under a tree. Sadly, this particular area lacks vegetation. Mostly buildings, so the sun beats down on us without mercy.

It’s not summer yet but I can feel that famous Las Vegas heat coming.

Logan navigates this mess with ease, his tall frame parting the crowd like Moses the Red Sea.

"Bet you hundred bucks you'll love it," he supplies.

"Someone's rich and ready to lose."

"We’ll see."

"Fine. You're on," I agree as we move along with the line.

"Two brisket plates," Logan calls out when it's our turn. He holds up two fingers in case the cashier hasn’t heard because of all the noise. "Extra sauce."

"You got it, man," the bearded bloke in the truck replies, already assembling our meals.

I hang back and watch Logan pay for the food. He seems in his element here, relaxed. Happy, even. It's a good look on him. Like I'm finally seeing him being in his own skin.

"This is better than anything you've had in London." Logan hands me a plate piled high with meat and fixings when our order is called.

"Quite confident, aren't we?" I raise an eyebrow, but can't hide my smile. It’s like my mouth has a life of its own.

"Oh yeah. I’m confident food made by real people and not robots like those chefs that come around is much better."

"You're on, Muscle."

There are no tables here and virtually nowhere to sit, so we get back to the Navigator and climb back in our seats, balancing our plates on our laps.

"That’s going to get messy," I say, inspecting the plate and trying to understand how to begin without dirtying the car or my clothes.

Logan shoves me some napkins and I accept them.

"Just dig in," he instructs, already chewing on a slice of meat he’s dipped, rather generously, into some red sauce the bearded block gave him. "I want my hundred bucks."

I brave myself and pluck a piece from my plate and send it into my mouth. The first bite is an epiphany, smoky and tender and slathered in tangy marinade. Immediately, I groan appreciatively. "Bloody hell," I mumble around a mouthful. "This is brilliant."

Logan smirks, triumphant. "Told ya. Pay up, Your Highness."

Rolling my eyes, I dig in my pocket and slap a hundred-dollar bill into his waiting palm. "Worth it," I declare, going in for another mouthful.

We eat in companionable silence for a while, just enjoying the food and the atmosphere. But as the noise of the crowd fades into the background, my thoughts drift to Logan's mum. After the ER incident, he's mentioned her a few times, but always with a touch of sadness in his voice.

"How's your mum doing, by the way?" I venture, keeping my tone casual. "You said she was on a new round of chemo?"

Logan's face falls, his shoulders sagging. "Yeah. It's... it's been rough. She was doing better for a while, but this time..." He trails off, poking at his brisket.

"This time?" I prompt gently.

He sighs, dragging a clean hand over his buzzed hair. "She had cancer before. A few years back. But she was younger then, stronger. Now..." He shakes his head. "It's just harder on her. On all of us."

My heart clenches at the pain in his voice. I want to reach out, to offer some sort of comfort. But I hesitate, unsure if it would be welcome. We are after all an employer and an employee.

"I'm sorry, mate," I say instead, injecting as much sincerity as I can into the words. "That's rubbish luck. I hope things turn around for her soon."

Logan nods, his jaw tight. "Thanks. Me too." He takes a deep breath, then forces a smile. "Anyway. How's the grub?"

I recognize the deflection for what it is, but I let it slide. "Top notch." I hold up my near-empty plate. "You've converted me. I'm a barbecue man now."

That earns me a genuine chuckle. "Guess there's hope for you yet, London boy."

A few days later, it's my turn to pick a place for an outing. Of course, as an artsy nut, I choose a gallery. Logan and I are wandering through the space, looking at paintings. It's another excuse to get out of the house and clear my head. Forget about Alfie and about the nightmares that have been haunting me lately.

But looking at Logan now, I'm starting to regret it.

He seems about as comfortable as a vegan at a steakhouse, his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. I sidle up to him, bumping his arm with mine.

"We can leave if you want," I offer quietly. "Go see a…UFC fight or something instead. No need to suffer on my account."

Logan's brow furrows, his gaze flicking to me. "What? Nah, it's fine." He straightens, squaring his shoulders. "Just because I'm a muscle for hire doesn't mean I can't appreciate some art. I've got layers, you know."

I hide a smile at his bravado. "Of course. My mistake."

We continue our circuit of the gallery, pausing every now and then to study a piece. Logan maintains his air of nonchalance, but I catch him squinting at the canvases, his head tilted in concentration.

It's oddly endearing.

As we round a corner, we come face to face with a massive abstract painting. It's a riot of colors, haphazard splatters and swirls that make my head spin. I stop short, blinking.

"Well, then," I say, fighting back a laugh. "This is certainly... something."

Logan steps closer, his eyes narrowed. "It's, uh... it's very..." He gestures vaguely at the canvas, clearly grasping for something profound to say. "Very conceptual," he finally blurts out.

I can't help it. I have to cover my mouth with my fist and pretend that I’m coughing. "Logan, give it up," I whisper. "This looks like a baby threw up a crayon box."

His serious facade cracks, a grin spreading across his face. "Yeah, okay. It's pretty bad." He snickers, shaking his head. "I mean I’m no art critic but I can tell a good one from a bad one and this, I think, shouldn’t be in this gallery."

"You and me both." I bump his shoulder conspiratorially. "How about this? Next time, we skip the gallery and just grab a pint. Save us both the embarrassment."

Logan's still smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners as if reminding me about his age, reminding me to be careful. "Deal. But you're buying."

"Only because you treated last time," I fire back, a warmth blooming in my chest.

We move on to the next painting, and the next, and the next. When we finally pause in front of the last piece on this wall, Logan quiets. This one is a swirl of dark blues and clean whites, with angry slashes of crimson cutting through the center.

"I like this one," he says quietly.

I tilt my head, considering. "Why's that? I thought abstract stuff wasn’t your thing."

He's silent for a moment, his eyes distant. "Reminds me of when I was a cop. The colors. Blood and uniform." His voice is rough, weighted with memories.

Sometimes I forget the darkness in Logan's past. I don't know the details but I heard Ivan a couple of times talking to other guys back at the house. Logan probably has his own ghosts that haunt him. "What was it like?" I ask softly, curiosity overriding my hesitation. "Being a copper, I mean."

Logan's jaw tightens, and for a second, I think he won't answer. But then he sighs, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. "It was... intense. Always chasing the bad guys, trying to put them away." A wry smile twists his lips. "Guess I never thought I'd end up working for them instead."

I wince, guilt pricking at my conscience. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"It's alright," he interrupts, waving off my apology. "It is what it is. I made my choices."

We lapse into silence. I wish I knew how to bridge the gap, how to offer comfort without overstepping and without being found out. But I'm out of my depth here, fumbling in the dark, trying to persuade myself this is just a phase. Hormones. Repressed emotions. Years of pushing it down in order to keep a secret, but the truth is I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing or how to stop feeling the way I feel with Logan around.

Finally, I clear my throat, desperate to break the tension. "So, what made you want to join the force in the first place? Like when did you know you wanted to be a copper…a cop?"

Logan's expression clouds for a second. "My dad," he says roughly. "He was a cop too. Damn good one."

"Is he retired now?" I ask, trying to imagine an older version of Logan, grizzled and gray.

But Logan shakes his head, his gaze locked on the painting. "No. He, uh... he was shot. In the line of duty. When I was twenty-one."

My breath catches, horror and sympathy twisting in my gut. "I'm so sorry."

He shrugs, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clench at his sides. "He never even got to see me become a cop. I was still in the Academy when it happened. He'd always wanted me to have options, you know? Pushed me to do a couple years of community college first, see if anything else caught my interest."

I nod slowly, trying to process the revelation. It's like a piece of the puzzle has clicked into place, illuminating a part of Logan I've never seen before. The pain, the loss, the desperate need to make his father proud. Now I get why he hates this. He doesn’t say it but it’s written all over his face.

"He would have been proud of you," I say softly, the words feeling woefully inadequate. "No matter what. You’re taking care of your mum the best way you can. I bet coppers don’t make as much as you make working for my brother."

"That’s true." Logan's eyes meet mine, stormy gray and filled with a grief that makes my heart ache. "I hope you’re right about my dad being proud," he whispers, his voice cracking. "I really fucking hope so."

I swallow hard, a sudden realization hitting me like a punch to the gut. "Hey, I... I'm so sorry for what I said before. About you not understanding how it feels to lose a father like that. I had no idea..."

He shakes his head, a sad smile tugging at his lips. "It's alright, Sasha. You didn't know."

"Still, I feel like a right tosser for saying that. I was just... angry and lashing out. It wasn't fair to you."

"You were hurting. I get it. Believe me, I do."

I nod, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. "Does it ever go away? The pain, the anger?"

"No. Not really. But it gets easier to carry, over time. You learn to live with it, to find moments of happiness in spite of it. It dulls down."

"My turn to say I hope you're right. Because right now, it feels like it's going to swallow me whole."

"You're going to be okay, Sasha," Logan’s voice is gentle but reassuring. "I know it doesn't feel like it, but you will be. You're stronger than you think."

A shaky laugh escapes me. "I don't feel very strong."

"You are," he insists. "And you're not alone. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."