7. Logan

CHAPTER 7

LOGAN

The engine hums a low, restless growl as I steer the Navigator through the sunlit streets. The city's heartbeat seems to quicken with every block we leave behind. Alexander sits beside me again, his profile etched sharply against the passing light. He's quiet in a way that's got my nerves on edge. Silence never bodes well with him; it's like the calm before a storm, and I can almost feel the crackle of his mind weaving webs I'll later get tangled in.

"Could've just gotten takeout," I mutter to myself, the words barely cresting over the sound of the tires on dry asphalt.

Alexander turns his head to me and from the corner of my eye I can see that condescending look on his face.

"This is a proper sushi restaurant, Logan," he says. "They don't do takeout. It compromises the integrity of the dish."

"Right." I scoff under my breath. "Rich people whims."

"Perhaps," he retorts, unfazed, "but you wouldn't know a good sushi restaurant if it hit you in the ass."

"Never had the pleasure," I reply dryly. "I don’t eat sushi in the desert."

"Come again?"

"Getting it to Vegas from the coast compromises the integrity of the fish, don’t you think?"

"Arsehole," he mumbles as if I can’t hear him and gazes out the window.

The car continues to speed past buildings and lights, and I have this odd feeling I’m chasing something I can't ever catch.

My phone buzzes insistently against my chest inside the pocket of my jacket. I snatch it up—the name flashing across the screen sends a jolt of anxiety through me. It's Magda, Ma’s friend and neighbor who checks on her every now and then when the caregiver I hired isn't there and while I’m babysitting this little piece of shit.

I know I’m technically on the clock and not supposed to be taking personal calls, but with Ma recently out of the surgery and now doing chemo, it’s all really for her. If she’s not around, there’s no point in stooping to this level.

"Logan?" Magda’s voice trembles on the line when I answer, and my gut clenches tight. "I've been knocking on her door since morning, but Cecilia won't answer."

"Did you try calling her?"

"Of course I did. First thing after she didn’t come to the door right away. Phone just rings and then goes to voicemail. And I accidentally left my set of keys inside her place, so I can’t get in."

"Thanks, Magda. I’ll be right there." My voice is calm because I’ve been trained not to show my feelings, but inside, it's like someone's ratcheting up the pressure in my chest.

Vlad will kill me if he finds out I’m doing this—pretty much putting his asshole brother’s life in jeopardy, but Ma is Ma.

"We’re making a detour," I tell Alexander while we approach the light where I make possibly an illegal U-turn. The former cop in me shakes his head but the son in me tells him to fuck off.

"Where are we going?" Alexander's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.

"Have to check on something," I say tersely, the syllables clipped short. I’m not about to share my life story with this unfeeling kid, who wanted to go across town to eat goddamned sushi because of some Yelp reviews.

"I'm not sure if my brother will be alright with this."

For a while I say nothing. I’m very well aware he’s not wrong.

"Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do," I reply eventually, my foot heavy on the gas pedal.

Alexander huffs some kind of sound in his typical snobby manner and gets back to his phone.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling up to the front of Ma's building, parking with a precision that comes from too many late-night visits.

"Wait here," I tell Alexander, urgency sharpening my words. "Lock the doors. Don't move until I get back. Call me if you see something suspicious."

"You're supposed to be protecting me, remember?" There's an edge to his voice—a crack in his usual bravado.

"So now you need my protection," I shoot back, my frustration raw. "If my memory serves me right you were trying to run away multiple times over the course of the past few weeks."

He opens his mouth to retort, but I'm already out of the car.

The driver's door crashes closed, shutting out Alexander's protests.

I don't look back. Can't afford to.

I stride toward the elevator and go up to the third floor where my mother’s apartment is. My heart is beating too fast, my pulse frantic.

"Ma!" I call when I knock on her door. My voice is a hammer against the silence, too loud in the empty space of the hallway. Nothing. No shuffle of slippers on the other side, no cough to signal her presence. I try the handle. It doesn't budge.

We don’t invade each other’s privacy or homes—it’s the rule we always had in my family but this isn’t the typical situation.

Keys jangle between my fingers as I fumble with the key ring, my hands unsteady. I keep a copy to her place for emergencies and this is one of those emergencies.

The key slides in, turns with an audible click, and I'm through the door.

"Ma?" I call, rushing through the apartment. "Ma…" It's a whisper now, a plea that hangs in the still, medicated air of the apartment. The living room is dim, the blinds are closed, and the shadows are thick enough to drown in them. And there she is—my Ma, a crumpled heap on the carpet.

My knees hit the floor beside her, hands hovering, trembling. She's there but not there, somewhere lost in the space between shallow breaths.

I check the pulse. It’s fast and erratic. She’s sweating and cold.

In panic, I cradle her face and try to get her to look at me, but she seems stuck in this strange condition. She’s alive—thank God, but she’s not responding.

"Stay with me, Ma." The words are like shards of glass on my tongue.

Fuck this. I’m taking her to the hospital.

I slide one arm under her shoulders, the other beneath her knees. She's light, too light, like she's been hollowed out by all the pain and chemo. Her head lolls against my chest, a marionette with strings cut.

The elevator is an age away, a lifetime measured in ragged breaths and whispered reassurances that feel like lies. "It's gonna be okay, Ma. You hear me?" I murmur on the way down.

Downstairs, I burst through the lobby doors like I’m being pursued by the actual cops. The warm air is devoid of the apartment’s sanitizer scent but still a slap to my face—a wake-up call to how much I can't afford to lose. Every muscle in me is tight as I carry her across the threshold of safety and into the unknown.

The Navigator is a couple of parking spots away from the entrance, and as I emerge from the building with Ma limp in my arms, Alexander's blond mop of hair is the first thing I register the moment my eyes land on the car.

The little shit is inconveniently there, a pale ghost against the dark leather of the passenger seat, his eyes wide and green as sea glass.

When our gazes meet, he immediately scrambles out of the vehicle.

"Get the back door!" I yell out.

There’s a part of me that almost expects him to say something mean, something along the lines of "do it yourself" or "that’s not what my brother pays you to do." But Alexander does as I say, yanking open the back door.

I try to lay Ma down across the seats but I’m terrified she’ll fall down. My hands shake as I check her pulse again, a faltering rhythm under my fingertips. Her breaths are superficial murmurs of life.

"I can ride with her," Alexander offers out of the blue.

I turn to glance at him standing behind me, watching all this with those big green eyes of his.

I battle with myself for a fraction of a second because trusting my mother to this snobby, immature spoiled man-child is against my every belief. But I can’t trust him to drive this car through Vegas either with Ma and me in it. Asshole’s been driving on the opposite side of the road probably most of his life. He’ll kill us.

So, the choice is obvious.

I nod. "Okay. Just be careful with her."

He slips into the back without a sound and his presence there suddenly gives me relief as I watch him cradle her with care I didn't think he'd have.

I round the Navigator, get behind the wheel and slam the driver’s door shut, perhaps a little too hard. The engine roars like a wild beast hungry for the chase. We cut through the streets, the blur of traffic lights, LED signs, and buildings that can't keep pace.

Alexander's silence is a tangible thing in the rearview mirror, a quiet understanding that fills the car more than any words could. I drive like the Devil himself is on our tail, each turn and stop sign an obstacle we barrel through with barely a glance.

Finally, the hospital appears ahead. No prayers leave my lips—what use are they to a man whose faith has been beaten black and blue a long time ago?

Tires screech against the asphalt as I pull up to the ER entrance, the car halting so abruptly it nearly rocks on its axis. The outside distorts into streaks of colors and shapes as I bolt from the driver's seat, my mother’s fragile form cradled in my arms like a child saved from a burning house. Her face is slack, the pallor of her skin reflecting the white glow of hospital lights.

"Help!" My voice carries past the sliding doors, ahead of me like a desperate call that ricochets down the antiseptic-smelling corridors. "Somebody help!"

"Mr. McKenna?" A young ER doctor approaches me later while I’m in the waiting room with Alexander, counting seconds. She takes me aside before discussing results.

The doctor’s words are clinical yet not unkind. She speaks of dehydration, the need for vigilance, better home care. There’s more but some of it just doesn’t register from all the stress and I hope the discharge papers have the same information she’s giving me at the moment.

I nod. The doctor’s instructions—the ones I catch—is a litany I engrave behind my eyelids. I won't let this happen again.

"Thank you," I say, my throat sandpaper rough, as I head to the billing desk with the heaviness of a toll yet to be paid. Another unexpected expense.

"I'd like to pay for whatever I can for today’s visit. Cecilia McKenna’s account," I tell the tired-eyed girl behind the counter, my hand already fishing for the worn leather wallet that's seen better days.

"Sure thing," the girl turns to her computer. A few keyboard clicks later, she says, "Actually, sir," she continues looking at her screen, "it's been taken care of."

"What are you talking about? My mother’s still here… I just want to pay for the ambulance and the tests they ran. Are you sure you’re checking the right medical record? It’s Cecilia McKenna."

"Yes, I’m sure." She reads me Ma’s medical record number, which I remember by heart and she’s correct.

"And you said it’s been paid for?" I ask, confused, scared, and somehow relieved at the same time.

"A young man settled the bill. Green eyes, blond hair. Literally less than five minutes ago."

My pulse skips, stutters, then races. Alexander? Could that really be him? Why? My mind spins in tight circles, chasing the tail of his reasoning. Gratitude wars with confusion in the hollows of my chest, a strange alchemy that turns breath into lead.

I thank the girl in billing and return to the waiting room that seems like a wasteland of empty chairs and flickering fluorescent lights.

Alexander is lounging in one of those chairs in the very corner, away from the prying eyes. And I can’t remember if he was there when I left him to speak to the doctor. I hardly remember his presence at all after we arrived at the ER.

"Time to go," I say as I approach him.

"Is your mum going to stay?" he asks hesitantly, rising from his chair.

"Yeah. Just overnight." I nod, more to myself than to him. "Magda's coming. She'll stay with her."

"Magda is the one who called you?"

"Yes. She’s Ma’s friend. She lives in the same building."

The air between us thickens with unspoken words as we move through the sliding doors, stepping back into the world that carries on oblivious to the chaos it leaves in its wake.

We sink into the car, the leather seats cold and unwelcoming. As I push the button to start the Navigator, the engine coughs to life.

"You still want sushi?" I ask Alexander as we crawl through the parking lot. I know I need to be saying other things but I'm still processing.

"Maybe next time," he says quietly.

"Okay."

The drive back to Vlad’s mansion is a funeral march, the night pressing against the windows with the weight of an ocean. The silence is coiling around my throat, tightening it with each mile that falls away beneath us.

"Thank you," I finally choke out, the words scraping against my vocal cords like gravel. It's a thank you that costs me more than I'd care to admit, a currency minted in pride and paid in full.

At first, there’s nothing. No response. It’s like he didn’t hear me but I know he did.

Finally, Alexander shifts in his seat and as we roll up to the red light, I dare a glance at him sitting beside me.

His silhouette is etched against the neon glow of the passing streetlights and signs. "It's not a big deal," he says. His voice is like a flat line on a heart monitor, betraying nothing of the tremors that must surely run beneath the surface of his calm exterior.

"It is a big deal for me."

He turns his head and his gaze catches mine for a moment. "I hope she gets better."