Andrew heard himself say, “Get your disgusting hands off me.”
The punch to his gut wasn’t surprising, but the force of it sent him to his knees.
He laughed. “Am I supposed to be scared, you homo?”
Logan buried a hand in his hair and yanked his head up, forcing him to look at him. “You bigoted little dick—” He cut himself off, just looking at him intently. Studying him.
It made Andrew feel uncomfortable. Transparent. As if the other man could see right into his soul.
At last, Logan heaved a sigh, the anger and tension leaving his body. He ran a hand over his face and then looked Andrew in the eyes. “Look,” he said. “I’m really sorry for your loss. But get it together. This… self-destructive behavior is fucking unhealthy. Get a goddamn grip. I’m sure your wife wouldn’t have wanted you to get into fights you can’t win or drink yourself into an early grave. She seemed like a smart woman. Kind. But she’s gone. You’re not.”
Andrew’s vision was suddenly blurry.
She seemed like a smart woman. Kind. But she’s gone.
He didn’t know why those words hit him so hard. It wasn’t like he hadn’t known Vivian was dead—he’d buried her with his own hands—but somehow, those words, uttered by a near stranger, made it real. She was gone. She really was gone. Gone. Dead. He’d never see her again.
A lump formed in Andrew’s throat, his vision getting blurrier. He blinked rapidly, hating himself for showing weakness in front of this man, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t hold back the tears.
He turned his face away, trying to hide them, his breath coming out in ragged gasps.
Logan was mercifully quiet.
But he hadn’t left.
Andrew hoped the sound of the waves crashing against the shore masked his ragged breathing, but knowing his luck, it probably didn’t.
Logan remained silent for a while, allowing him to get a grip on his emotions while both of them pretended that he wasn’t crying. God, how fucking humiliating.
At long last, Logan cleared his throat. “Come on, get up,” he said, his voice gruff. “We need to hydrate you.”
Andrew looked at him, telling himself he wasn’t embarrassed by the tears in his eyes. His wife was dead. He had every right to grieve her, dammit.
“Why do you care?” he whispered.
Logan’s expression was somewhat pinched. “I don’t. But I’ll be damned if I have to dig another grave.”
Despite his harsh words, his dark eyes weren’t unkind as he offered his hand. “Get up, come on.”
Andrew stared at that hand for a moment. Finally, he accepted it and allowed Logan to pull him up to his feet.
His knees were shaky, and the world around him wasn’t quite in focus, but Logan caught him when he stumbled.
It felt symbolic, somehow.
Chapter 4
Days dragged by.
Logan had explored the small island completely, so now he had nothing to do but watch the empty horizon.
It was mind-numbingly boring. Back home, business kept him so busy that Logan had had little time for sleep, and he wasn’t used to doing nothing.
At least the other inhabitant of the island was providing a break from the boredom. After their confrontation on the beach, Andrew had been… better. The guy still mostly kept to himself, but at least he no longer walked around like a ghost. He no longer tried to provoke Logan into beating him up. He started eating with Logan, though he threw tantrums for some inane reason a few times a day before storming off to sulk like an overgrown child. Apparently it wasn’t enough that Andrew was a bigot; he was also a whiner. He whined and bitched about pretty much everything, but Logan didn’t mind. It was almost a relief. Confrontational was better than depressed. Not to mention that Andrew’s hissy fits were somewhat entertaining, and entertainment was sorely lacking on the island. Their laptops’ batteries had died ages ago, as did their phones and powerbanks, so Logan found himself growing increasingly restless, almost looking forward to the inevitable confrontation every day.
“I’m sick of fish,” Andrew said with resentment, looking at the fish on his plate. “It’s barely edible.”
Logan leaned against the palm trunk and picked at his fish. It was a little burned, as it always was. The fish were plentiful around the island but small and bony. And bland. “I’ve never claimed to be a culinary genius. I’m a businessman, not a boy scout. If you don’t like it, feel free to cook yourself. Feed yourself. An alien concept, isn’t it?”
Andrew shot him a baleful look, pouting fiercely. He was the only person of Logan’s acquaintance who managed to pout fiercely. It was bizarre. It also made him want to shove his cock into that pouty mouth, just to shut him up.
Right. Anyway.
“How old even are you?” Logan said. “You’d make a five-year-old proud with your tantrums.”