“She’s fine,” I assured him. “She was worried, so she came to get me.”
“Fuck.” Logan huffed and sagged against his pillow, his fingers curling into his hair. “Fuck.”
“I’ll go get you some water.”
When I returned to his room, he’d propped himself up against his headboard and taken off his sweat-soaked T-shirt. He looked exhausted, and that was almost enough to distract me from his well-defined abs.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the water I handed to him.
There was a small part of me that wanted to embrace our awkwardness of late and just be done with him. Walk out and not look back. However, there was a much larger part of me that was worried sick about him.
That part won.
“Scoot over,” I said.
Our eyes met and I held my breath, and despite everything, I hoped he didn’t reject my offer of friendship.
He didn’t.
Once he’d moved over a bit, I propped myself up against the headboard and stretched my legs out on the bed beside him. “How long have you been having nightmares?”
There was silence from my left, and I was about to press him when he finally replied, “Since I got out.”
I ached for him. “Logan,” I whispered, turning my head to look at him.
Our eyes met again, and I hurt for him even more at the sight of his stubborn expression. “I’m fine, Grace.”
“You’re not fine.”
“Look, they come and go. I hadn’t had one in a while, but lately…”
“What are they about?”
He gave me a wry smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Prison, of course.”
“Specifically?” I insisted.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m not leaving until you do.”
Logan sighed heavily. “Why are you even here?”
I glowered at him. “Because despite everything, I do care about you. I don’t like the idea of you having nightmares, and talking about them might help make them go away.”
His face softened. “I appreciate that, babe, but I don’t think this can be as easily solved as all that.”
“At least try.”
“I’m in a tiny dark room,” he said abruptly. “There’s absolutely no space for me to stretch out. I’m curled up in it just to fit. Yet somehow, magically,” he said with dry disgust, “there’s room for feet to kick at me, knives to stab at me… faces to…” His eyes lowered, the muscle in his jaw clenching.
“Faces, Logan?” I pushed.
When he looked up at me, his eyes were blazing with turmoil. “I let shit happen in there that I shouldn’t have, Grace.”
Hearing so much pain in his voice was unbearable for me. I reached for his hand and threaded my fingers through his. His grip tightened around it. “There’s something in particular,” I deduced softly. “Something haunting you.”
He scowled at the wall.
After what seemed like forever, he finally began to speak. “There was a kid. Nineteen. Stupid, cocky little kid. But he wasn’t a bad kid. I know bad. It seeps out of them. You feel it in the air around them, something heavy and dark that creeps over you and makes you shudder like someone is walking over your grave.
“Not this kid. It was all bravado. Got himself thrown inside for being an accomplice in an armed robbery. He used to swagger around, trying to convince everyone this was where he belonged, but he was scared and you could fucking smell it on him. Like blood in shark-infested waters.”
I felt a little sick just imagining where this was going. “What was his name?”
“Danny,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Danny Little. Tried to get every fucker in the place to call him the wee man. I tried to tell him he was pushing too hard, pissing the guys off…”
“Was he your friend?”
Logan frowned. “I think I was his. He told me everything about himself. About his mum and his wee sister. How he was just trying to take care of them, make life better for them since their old man had passed away. A fucking cliché of tragedy, this kid.
“Just a kid, Grace. I should have protected him.”
The agony in his voice brought tears to my eyes. “Logan…” It almost sounded like a plea.
He turned to me, guilt written all over him. “I knew they were circling. I didn’t do enough. They got to him… kept threatening to rape him. I told him it was just a bullying tactic, but they tormented him with the threat until they attacked him. They didn’t rape him, but they promised him that they would next time. I just told him to keep strong, that they were bluffing, toying with him. I wasn’t… I didn’t do enough.”
I felt sick. My hand tightened in his in reaction.
“He killed himself a few days later. Stole a shank from someone. Slit his wrists at night in his cell.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered around the lump in my throat.
“I could have done something.” His hand was holding mine so tight now it was almost painful. “I…”
“You are not to blame for what happened to him.”
“Those words mean nothing to his family. If it were your son… those words would mean nothing to you.”
I couldn’t say anything because as much as I didn’t believe he was to blame, I knew he was also right. “You take too much upon yourself.” I brushed my thumb over the back of his hand in comfort. “All you see is the bad when there is so much good.”