Madame X - Wilder Jasinda (книги бесплатно без .TXT) 📗

A couple more taps, and the screen resolves into something like graph paper, lines marking off the screen into tiny squares. A bright yellow square appears, dropping slowly from the top of the screen to the bottom.

By the time the elevator reaches the lobby, I understand the basic object of the game, and I’m engrossed. I intentionally allow myself to become absorbed into forcing the various shapes to fit with others so the line vanishes. Otherwise, I’d be terrified. I am terrified; I’m just pretending, even to myself, that I’m not. A video game can’t erase my panic at leaving the condo, my fear of being discovered and returned, and punished.

I’m leaving.

With Logan.

I’m leaving everything I know, with a man I’ve met twice.

And I’m playing a video game.

I could laugh from the absurdity of it all.

Logan’s arm slides more tightly around my waist, and I lean into him, let him guide me. I keep my focus on the cell phone in my hands, tapping at the squares with both thumbs as I’ve seen my clients and Caleb do on numerous occasions. Pretending like I’m doing something more important on the device than playing a game.

I am tensed, barely breathing, heart hammering; I expect a hue and cry at every step. I hear voices, faint music, the ding of the elevators reaching the lobby and opening. I hear the doors ahead open, letting in a brief slice of the noise from outside, and then they close, returning stifling quiet to the lobby.

I have never seen the lobby of this building before, the few times I’ve left having entered and exited via the garage, and then always under heavy guard, hustled from the car to the elevator and vice versa as quickly as possible. I want to look around, but I don’t. I see the floor underfoot, shiny black squares of marble veined with streaks of gold.

I feel Logan’s torso twist and shift as he leads me through the doors, heavy slabs of glass with silver handles. Road noise, blaring horns, engines, squealing brakes. The old panic surfaces, and now my heart rate increases to a dangerous speed, thumping so hard in my chest that it’s physically painful. My breath leaves me, my lungs frozen. I can’t blink, and my legs won’t move.

These panic attacks are why I stayed in Caleb’s tower for so long.

Logan drags me, essentially, his cell phone dangling from my fingers.

“You okay, honey?” His voice in my ear, buzzing, warm.

I try to force oxygen in, and sort of succeed, enough to rasp out an answer. “Panic . . . attack.”

A man in a suit sweeps past me, accidentally slamming his shoulder against mine, not slowing to even glance at me. I shrink away, my shoulder slamming against the building, and I feel like I’m trying to huddle into the stone, collapsing to my knees. Someone else passes, a woman scantily clad in shorts that barely cover her buttocks and a tank top that leaves little of her cleavage to the imagination; she glares at me, disgust and contempt in her gaze, as if I’ve personally wronged her somehow. I watch her, stare at her, unable to look away. Has she never witnessed a panic attack before? Why would someone I’ve never met look at me with such hate?

“X, you gotta pull it together, sweetie. I’ve got you. No one’s gonna hurt you. You’re safe with me. You just need to walk two blocks with me, okay?” He’s kneeling in front of me, hands on my face. I blink, and his deep, deep blue eyes fix on mine. “That’s it. Look at me. You’re fine. You’re okay. Breathe for me, all right? Deep breath in, ready?”

I nod, grip his forearms with desperate fingers, focus on his blueblueblue eyes, drag in a lungful of hot Manhattan summer air.

He smiles, his face kind and patient, his eyes not wavering from mine. “Good, honey. Good. Another. With me, okay? Deep breath in through the nose, out through the mouth. Keep it going. Good. Just keep your eyes on mine.”

I’m breathing, staring up at him, and my heart rate slows a little. Another moment or two of deep breathing, and then he’s tugging me to my feet, hand tangling in mine. I’ve got his cell phone in a death grip in the other hand, squeezing so hard now my fingers hurt. I lean into him, his hard bulk at my side reassuring, his scent on his T-shirt filling my nostrils, fabric softener and the faint whiff of a cigarette. His stride is loose and easy and unhurried, although I notice him glancing in the windows as we pass them, and then when we stop at a red light, he angles to face me, adjusting his hat on my head, but his gaze is down the sidewalk behind us, watching for pursuit.

“I think we’re clear,” he murmurs to me, feathering fingers through my loose, damp hair, tossing it back over my shoulders. “My truck is close. Half a block, not even that. Feeling any better?”

I’m still terrified beyond all reason, but I’m not in the grip of the panic attack anymore. I jerk my chin in a brief nod. “I’m fine.”

He grins at me, squeezes my waist with his arm. “That’s my girl. You’re doing great.”

He’s so calm. Doesn’t he understand what Caleb is capable of?

His girl? I’m his girl? Or is that just an expression? With Logan, it’s hard to tell.

He pulls me around a corner, down a narrow cross street jammed with parked delivery trucks, half the width of the street blocked off by orange and white construction barriers. There’s a boxy silver SUV parked between a white produce delivery truck and a tall black van. Logan pulls me to the SUV, helps me up and into the passenger seat. I get a whiff of his scent again, and I inhale, find some strange calm in it as he reaches across me to click the seat belt into place.

We’re in motion within seconds, reversing out of the parking spot, accelerating and turning back onto the main road. The car smells like leather and vanilla. He turns at random, I think, left here, right there, three lefts, straight for several blocks, and then another right, his eyes watching his mirrors as much as the traffic ahead.

“I don’t see any signs we’re being followed,” he says to me, a triumphant grin on his face. “We did it, X! You were awesome!”

“Awesome? I had a panic attack as soon as we walked out, Logan. I’m still feeling sick. Nothing feels right. I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what’s happening. Half of me feels like I just made the biggest mistake of my life, and the other half is so relieved I could cry.”

“You’re allowed to feel however you feel. We’ll take everything slow, all right? What do you want to do first?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything, Logan.”

He nods. “That’s fine, too. Just let me take care of everything, then, okay? You think of anything you want, just say it.”

He presses a circular knob on the console between us, and loud music fills the air, cacophonous, angry-sounding, a man’s voice screaming in rage. I cringe against the door, immediately tensed and confused by the volume and the raw hatred in the singer’s voice. Singer . . . a word I’m not sure applies to what I’m hearing, exactly. Logan twists the knob, and the volume lowers to a tolerable level, and then he taps another button, twists, presses the knob, and the music changes, now all drums and keyboard and a more palatable female voice singing.

“Sorry,” Logan says. “I suppose Slipknot is probably not your thing.”

“Slipknot?”

“Yeah. Heavy metal.” He glances at me. “Let me take a wild guess here and say that you don’t know what kind of music you like, either?”

“You would be guessing correctly,” I admit.

“What do you know you like?”

I sigh. “Very little. I like books, I guess I can say that with confidence. Old books, signed first editions, rare versions. Fiction of all kinds.”

Logan is quiet for a moment. The song changes, something about uptown funk, although what that is I couldn’t say. It’s catchy, though, and I find myself bobbing my head to the rhythm.