Page 44 of His Good Girl
“You’re not me.”
“I went easy on you, Logan. I won’t next time.”
I want to point out that I would, in fact, die for ‘the girl,’ but right now, that isn’t the best strategy.
“How do you forget about someone who has wormed their way into your soul?”
“Find someone else.”
I snort. “Yeah, I tried that. Do you know where it led me?”
“Let me guess….”
“Straight back to her.”
“Figured. I get it. But unless you want to spend the rest of eternity at the bottom of the Grove City River, I’d forget her and move on.”
“Yeah.”
What else can I say?
Fuck all.
“Take some painkillers when your stomach can keep them down, and get to bed, Logan.”
Removing the ice pack, I see him stand up through my less swollen right eye and wave him off. As soon as I hear the door close, I haul myself to my feet, my head spinning, and the bile rises in my throat. Forcing it back down, I stagger to the wall above the living-flame fireplace. Swinging open the painting to reveal the safe behind it, I curse when I hold my face up to the optical scanner.
“No dice, you fucker.”
Grimacing, I drop the ice pack and spread the swollen skin around my eye, the nausea welling up at the pain, but it works. The safe clicks open, and with a labored breath, as I release my battered eye, I lean heavily on the wall with one hand while the other pulls out a brand-new burner phone. Lifting the stack of papers underneath the gun Shelley tried to off me with, I pull them out carefully and, having over-exerted myself, I turn and lean against the wall as I search through the records for Serena’s cell phone number.
Using my right hand to dial, it’s the only part of my body that doesn’t look like it got run over by a train, which then reversed and did the conga over my body, then jumped up and down a bit before driving off.
After two rings, she picks up.
“Serena’s phone.”
Wincing, I debate whether to hang up or plow forward. My need to know she’s okay wins out over self-preservation.
“Rue,” I rasp. “Is she there?”
“Logan,” she whispers. “She’s sleeping, but you shouldn’t be calling.”
“I know, but I have to know if she’s okay.”
“She’s not okay. I mean, she is, but she’s not.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she’s alive.”
“What?” My heart thunders in my chest painfully, making my lungs work even harder to take my next breath.
“It’s complicated and not my place.”
“She did this because of me?” The terror that spikes my blood so fiercely over causing her so much pain is something that hasn’t occurred to me since I was ten years old.
“Yes and no. Look. It’s complicated.”
