2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Logan

M ark keeps wishing death on me. He doesn't necessarily say that, but every time I look at him, his blue eyes narrow and he shoots daggers in my direction. The dark bangs falling into his eyes somehow make him even more intimidating; I have to try hard not to laugh.

I've never seen him legitimately angry, and Mark has the face of a man who helps little old ladies cross the street, super threatening. I'm really shaking, not.

A massive, tangled ball of orange and purple lights sits in his lap. He's been working to get the mess untangled for about half an hour, to no avail. Of course, he doesn't have to help me at all, but I don't bother pointing that out. If I do, he's likely to call my bluff and stop helping.

I haul a box full of different colored pumpkins onto the sofa beside him. "Do you think we should go red and black this year?" I ask. "Or orange and black? Silver maybe?"

"Orange makes my eyeballs bleed," Mark replies.

"Orange it is!" I declare.

Mark rolls his eyes.

"I think we should get an organ, so I can play scary music all night."

"So the neighbors can file noise complaints?" Mark asks.

"The monsters," I reply. "Wouldn't you want a Halloween theme blaring into your room?"

"Not if I'm trying to sleep."

"No one sleeps on Halloween!" I scoff, putting my hand over my heart. "What's wrong with you, anyway?"

Mark rolls his eyes. "I hate you so much," he says, trying and failing to untangle the lights.

" I wanted to just throw them away, but you're the one who insisted I couldn't. Just couldn't throw them away. It's wasteful. It's bad for the environment," I say. "Hashtag: Think of the sea turtles!"

"And here I was under the impression you never listened to me," Mark deadpans.

I grin and begin setting out the pumpkins on the coffee table. They're black and purple, not the orange I promised, but I suspect Mark doesn't really care. He's never understood my love for Halloween, but he tolerates it without complaint; well, much complaint, anyway. He puts up with me, though, and never acts like an ass when I bring friends around. He even tolerates my yearly Halloween outing where I drag him to haunted houses and Halloween-themed parties at bars around Bluehaven.

He's the perfect roommate. I glance at him and catch him not looking my way, so I take a few seconds and just watch him. His head is lowered and his brow furrowed as he tries to untangle the lights, his slender fingers like a spider's legs un -weaving a web. Unfortunately, my poor roommate has far less grace than a spider.

Even the clumsiest of his motions makes my heart race.

"I want a cat," I say, mostly for a reaction.

Although if Mark agreed to a cat, I'd be over the moon. I had a cat once, but she died my sophomore year of college, and I like the idea of getting another. A soft, fluffy black cat curling up on my lap and purring while I watch scary movies.

"We're not getting a cat," Mark says.

"But why ?"

"Because cats are evil demons, put on this earth with the sole purpose of tormenting good people," he replies.

"Rude! You just don't understand cats," I say. "They love you. They just don't tolerate anyone's crap."

"I'm amazed you like anyone or anything that doesn't tolerate your crap," Mark replies. "Besides, didn't you complain your old cat used to pull keys out of your keyboard?"

I sit back smiling fondly. "Well, yeah, but it wasn't because she hated me. She didn't know my laptop wasn't a toy, and I managed to replace them all, so no harm, no foul."

"Then there's the litterbox, the hair, the smell, the climbing all over me when I'm trying to work. And scratching everything, and I mean everything."

I sigh and sprawl out on the sofa, putting my head down beside Mark. "You never let me have any fun. Stop it," I say, reaching up and patting his cheek. "It's mean."

My impassioned plea is rewarded with a pile of tangled lights in my face. Ow.

"There. Have fun, knock yourself out," Mark says, getting up from the sofa.

"Heathen!"

He walks into the kitchen. "Heathen, shmeathen."

"Bring me a cider!" I shout.

No answer.

I sit upright and, after giving the lights a sour look, attempt anew to untangle them. It really would be easier to just throw them away, but, admittedly, Mark does have a point. These are perfectly functional Halloween lights, and I did spend a significant amount of money on them. Still, sometimes, you just have to cut your losses, and these lights are a loss I can easily take. Then, I'll donate money to some sea turtle sanctuary or something to make things right; you know, balance out the karma.

After a few seconds, Mark returns with two bottles of hard cider. I throw the lights onto the floor and grab one. "Why, thank you!" I say in a sing-song voice.

Mark looks decidedly uncharmed.

"So, you're still thinking about the hot, naked model, eh?" I ask.

Mark plops on the sofa beside me picking up the tangled lights for another go at them. "I wasn't until you brought him up."

"No idea where you know him from, though?" I ask.

"No."

I hum and take a swig of cider. Is it that Mark really thinks he knows the guy? Or does he want to date the guy? It shouldn't matter; I know that. Mark can like whoever he wants, as can I. But something about the thought of Mark hooking up with that model makes my stomach lurch.

Yeah. "Something".

Like I don't know what that "something" is. It's jealousy, plain and simple. I glance sideways at Mark again, and consider telling him that I'm jealous. It'd be easy. Just four words: "I'm jealous of him."

Four words and a lot of explaining.

I'd have to explain why the model makes me jealous. And that's not a can of worms I want to open. The thing with Mark is that he's oblivious to love. I'm fairly convinced that I could stage the most obvious love confession ever, and he'd think it was some kind of joke. Maybe that's my fault. I've gone pretty far to play pranks on him, after all; multiple times.

Maybe that's why he hasn't picked up on all my not-so-subtle hints. Or maybe he just doesn't like me and is trying to let me down gently. It's hard to tell with him.

I'm sure it's just that Mark wouldn't know love or romance…or even attraction if it hit him in the face with a sledgehammer.

"I can't help but wonder, though," Mark muses, looking at his hard cider as if it might hold the answer he seeks.

I mentally shove aside my own conflicting feelings. Either Mark really doesn't know I like him, or he does know and just doesn't share my romantic feelings. Neither one is his fault, and the gentlemanly thing to do is to smother my jealousy and do what makes Mark happy, like finding this model he thinks he knows.

"I can see why you'd remember someone like that," I say. "He wasn't bad-looking."

"Drop-dead gorgeous, actually ."

I might've been checking him out a bit myself. Not because I'm necessarily interested in him, but he's obviously an attractive man. And I like attractive men. I can only imagine how much work it takes to get that much definition in his pectorals. Definition? My, oh, my! An understatement.

Mark sighs and leans back against the sofa. "I'm beginning to rethink telling you not to buy new lights," he says.

I laugh. "When are you going to learn that I'm always right?" I tease.

"When you are , for the first time," Mark replies, taking a sip of his cider.

"You are something else," I say, smiling and shaking my head.

Something else, indeed. Warmth floods my face. He's always been something else.

"I don't know, though," I say, nudging the lights with my foot. "After that long lecture you gave me about the waste created by consumerism... Karl Marx got nothin' on you."

I don't have a clue whether Karl Marx would care about what I just said, but he's the only communist I know, except for Putin, I guess.

Mark rolls his eyes. "This wouldn't be a problem if you hadn't just thrown the lights into a box and called it a day."

But I didn't just throw them in a box and call it a day. I'd very carefully rolled them up and packed them away. There's only one logical explanation for these lights being so tangled, and it's clearly that some sort of evil elf, or fairy or poltergeist or something anyway, sneaked into the container of lights and messed them up. Naturally.

I smirk and drop the lights back onto Mark's lap. "Maybe I just thought we'd untangle them together. Call it a bonding opportunity."

"Bonding? If I spend any more time with you, I'm going to become you," Mark replies, "and let's be real. The world only has room for one Logan Smith."

"Considering how common my name is, I'm sure there are many more of me," I joke.

Mark rolls his eyes and rather forcefully shoves the tangled lights back toward me. "I swear," he says. "I think I died long ago, and you're some harpy poking me in the ass."

I grin and set my drink aside, to ineffectually try to force the strands of lights into submission. If this was Hell, I'm fine with it.