Page 31 of Chase
But never from a view like this.
The coffee table next to one of the sofas is covered in a few booklets of bound paper, probably something to do with Logan’s job. As I get closer I see that they’re something like scripts, potentially.
They’re all in neat stacks, and there’s an iced coffee on a coaster beside them.
“Do you write scripts or something?” I ask, looking over at the stacks on the table.
“I’m in the industry. But I talked about work for hours at dinner, and I can’t take the idea of talking about it more right now.”
I hold my hands up in the air. “No problem. Stay mysterious.”
His gaze lingers on me for a moment and I can tell he’s even more sauced up than I’ve ever seen him before.
“I’ll tell you what my job is in the morning. Trust me, it’s not exactly something I can shroud in mystery.”
I grin at him. “You’re like a dad saying you’lltell me something when I’m older.”
He puffs out a laugh, his lashes pointed downward for a beat. “I’m not your dad. You were having the silver tequila, right?”
“Always.”
He strides over to the bar behind the dining table that’s nearly half the size of the lounge bar. He reaches for the tequila and nearly pours some in a diamond-patterned short glass.
“Got any lime for that?” I ask.
“I was under the impression that you take it straight from the bottle.”
“Only when I’m being stupid. Which surprisingly isn’t 100% of the time.”
He gets a bottle of sour margarita mix from the end of the bar. “This good enough?”
“Perfect.”
He also goes for the brown bottle of single malt, and I eye it as he pours heavy for himself.
“You can’t actually be drinking that glass of Scotch. If you do, I’m going to be holding your hair back over the toilet like you’re a freshman frat-boy pledge later tonight.”
He furrows his brow, echoing what I said earlier. “You underestimateme.”
He hands me the glass of tequila sour.
There are two fireplaces in here. One in the middle of the living space and one along the far wall. A sleek black grand piano sits in one corner of the room by the windows. A hallway leads down toward multiple bedrooms and bathrooms and probably another fucking privatecity, as far as I can tell.
I sit down on the long, cream-colored sofa in the living room and look up at the TV, which is playing a loop of Bellwood Hotel general information.
I stare at it as it goes through the cycle, showing a map of the hotel, a local map of the city, and entertainment recommendations. I get lost in my thoughts as it goes through the cycle another time, and then another.
Both of us haven’t said a word since we sat down.
It feels surprisingly okay, though, and I’m not going to prod Logan to chat if he just wanted drinking company. Sometimes drinking makes me feel like my brain is slightly less of a wild rabbit, but it’s probably not the healthiest way to cope. I glance over at his dining table, then out the window, then back at the TV screen again. There was something my brother had asked me to do tonight, too, but I can’t remember what it was, and I’m starting to wonder if he’s going to be pissed.
That cigarette would have helped, but only for a few minutes. Being up here with Logan is better anyway.
His expression is drawn tight as he stares at the fireplace. He looks serious and sosadagain that it erases every other nagging thought I had in my head.
I put my legs up on the chaise part of the sofa, which is so wide and cushy it practically feels like a bed.
“Why do you keep saying this week is so bad for you?” I ask. “You look devastated sometimes.”
