Angels Who Prefer To Walk 3

He popped the last ice cube of his drink into his mouth and went to put his glass in the dishwasher. Despite knowing that was where Logan was headed, I felt the urge to say something clever like ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ I felt like picking up the magazine, opening it to a random page, and asking him ‘Hey, hot shit, which stewardess did you go this with?’

To which he’d probably say that they were called flight attendants now, and if you think it didn’t piss me off that the Logan in my head couldn’t be shut up either…

Logan poked his head back out of the kitchen. “Oh, can I get you anything? I have a charcuterie board from the other day that’s nowhere near finished.”

I knew he wasn’t mocking me. At most, he was lightly teasing me, the same way I always did him. But while I knew that, the Max who hadn’t fucked in seven months was very much losing sight of it. And it tingled when she barked at him. A low-calorie treat because, hey, this was just our usual banter. It wasn’t like I was

[Here, the thought of what we weren’t doing made me feel all heady. I’m not proud.]

“God, what a fucking put-on.”

I heard the ring of him slotting his dirty glass down and then the click of his footsteps—clack, clack, clack—all the way back to the door. Logan didn’t get mad. He got cold. And as carefully composed as his face was, I could recognize the chill in the air. We’d been discussing Logan’s gooning routine for the past five minutes and the man was finally feeling uncomfortable about it.

“Beg pardon?” Logan asked, and even someone who’d met him yesterday would’ve been able to tell that this was the opening to say ‘Nothing’ and pretend there had been no aspirations cast about anyone in the vicinity.

I had not met Logan yesterday. “Yeah, I’m sure you have all kinds of girls locked up in your dungeon of doom, begging for mercy. You and your charcuterie board.”

A faint, small voice was telling me something was off. This wasn’t Logan going into a cold rage; I should know, having seen him deal with child pornographers, serial killers, any and all variety of scum I brought him like a cat dropping mice off at the doorstep.

But I wanted him to be angry. I wanted to be drawing blood when I tore into him and as long as I was tearing into something, I couldn’t be making googoo eyes at them.

Sue me: I’d rather Logan think I was a bitch than a cheap lay.

“You want proof,” Logan said, dully, like he was learning English and just repeating a practice phrase from the lesson plan.

I quirked an eyebrow. What’d that entail? Logan dragging me to the bed, hogtying me, laying into me with a bullwhip. I’d like to see him try.

That heady sensation was back, but I didn’t interrogate it. I knew I wasn’t into bondage. Or I knew that I didn’t like being handcuffed, didn’t like being tortured, didn’t like cops or anyone else lording over me, so why should I like all of the above from Logan, of all people?

“I’ve got proof,” Logan continued, and it should’ve told me something that he stepped on my line, didn’t patiently wait for me to respond so he could riposte as per usual. But I was in no condition to tell something was off.

He led me into the bedroom. I followed him, not finding anything suspicious about the fact that he was leading me around, that I was trailing after him, that the muscles were cording along my thighs and up into my stomach and the tension felt natural, even a relief. Better than the all-encompassing emptiness of heat with no mate…

Logan reached into a little pocket in his trousers—boys always had so many pockets—and took out a single key, which he used to unlock a cabinet. Inside (he spread the doors open with an ostentatious double gesture) were three shelves of DVDs, neatly held inside featureless cases. On the spines were written dates. They did stretch back several years before I’d met Logan.

“What are these supposed to be?” I asked him. “Video dating applications? You sending off a little reel to Spankdate?”

“If you’re curious,” he said, and gestured with his eyes from the cabinet to the TV, set up on top of a stand facing the bed. It was smaller than the one in the entertainment room, which meant you could measure the size of the screen in double digits instead of triple.

I didn’t like being led around by the nose, but I didn’t like not knowing even more. I picked one of the DVD cases at random. The DVD inside was the read-write kind you could get in a big barrel at Best Buy. It was blank except for three letters written under the hole, the same blue-black marker that had written on the case.

RAB. I wondered what that was. Acronym for a sex act? Initials? I opened the case, but teased Logan—or tried to—working the hinge back and forth instead of taking out the DVD.

“This isn’t four hours of you locking yourself in a dog cage, is it?”

“Not my idea of must-see TV,” he replied.

“Don’t tell me you made a friend.” I tried sounding out the initials. “Rita… Anita… Debita?”

“I don’t think she’d like you looking her up in the phone book.”

I snorted: like I would. Apparently if I wanted to get jealous with Logan, it’d be a full-time job. If I bought what he was selling. “But she wouldn’t mind you playing her sex tape.”

“You’re projecting.”

“Fuck you,” I said, suddenly feeling like burying the cheap plastic case in his skull.

“Your guarded nature. You’re projecting it on to her. It’s natural to feel protective of your privacy.” He was lecturing me; I hated that, but I was almost enjoying how angry I was. Better than googoo eyes, remember? “But she,” he indicated the DVD, “doesn’t feel any shame about her joy. She’d trust me to only share her experience with someone… discerning.”

Discerning. What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

“You’re bullshitting me,” I said. “There’s nothing on here except maybe some nerd anime that never got released in the States. You think I won’t call your bluff, so you’re saying all these discs are a different girl you screwed.”

“No, some of the girls made more than one tape with me.”

“Such bullshit,” I repeated, and stalked to the TV.

I pressed open on the DVD player, set the disc in the tray—all the while, watching Logan out of the corner of my eye, but he wasn’t moving one inch to stop me. His hands were in his pockets and he seemed totally at ease, which pissed me off more. I was used to having all the poise while Logan was endlessly frustrated by this sinful earth of ours. Horseshit that some dumb quirk of biology could make me so uncool.

Why had I even started this chain of events, trying to throw Logan getting laid or jerking off in his face, I didn’t even care! But I was a girl built for speed and the more weight you ditched, the faster you could go. Brakes were just more pounds to shave off the total.

The DVD player closed up. I turned on the TV. Waited for the player’s home screen to become whatever video was on the disc.

The screen turned dark. I saw my reflection in it. I was breathing hard. Logan could’ve been a statue; he was watching me instead of the screen. Bastard. I wondered if I was about to see him naked—thank God the screen filled in before I saw what my reflection looked like thinking that.

The video was shot in Logan’s apartment, the camera mounted on a tripod. It was facing a blonde, early twenties, cheerleader type. Bra and panties. I wasn’t into girls, but I won’t pretend I wasn’t impressed. I doubted she had cat DNA to do the heavy lifting—that was all diet and exercise and maybe a little surgery.

Logan’s voice sounded from behind the camera; with the room’s surround sound, it felt like he was speaking behind me. Where the real Logan was, as fate would have it.

“Hello Rachel, how are you doing today?”

Rachel bit her lip just about hard enough to draw blood before answering. “I’m fine, master, thank you for asking.”

My eyes scoured the image of the girl. She was attractive enough, but I was looking for a special something, some x-factor to merit Logan’s interest, make her a worthy challenge. Was it enough that she had big tits, a nice ass, fair skin? Was Logan that shallow?

I felt betrayed by him. If somebody had said all it took to get Logan’s dick hard was a cute girl in some skimpy underwear, I would’ve defended him. But here he was, settling for nothing, an Instagram model, dime a dozen. How embarrassing for him.

Logan’s voice was probing, playful, a little prankish. A lot like he’d been talking to lately. “Well then, mind telling you why you stopped by? Is there something I can help you with?”

Rachel blushed. Her eyes dipped, then raised, looking at the camera with naughtily enjoyed embarrassment. Flustered and at the same time pleased with herself, with the taboos she was flaunting. I again felt a surge of resentment. What was this, her second date ever? Acting like she was being so cheeky, just for taking her clothes off…

“You can give me your cock, master,” she said, with a mortified little giggle, another flush of delight in being bad. “You can fuck my brains out like you did last time.”

“That’s a specific request. But what are you going to do to earn it?”

Logan sounded so damn smug—no, not smug, exactly. In control. Not needing to put any force into his words; putting in the lazy minimum that he still knew Rachel would be enthralled by. I could see her quivering at every syllable, hanging on every word, the bitch.

She pinched her lips together. “I took off my clothes, didn’t I? I’m letting you tape—”

Logan overrode her. It was as simple as cutting off her weak little protestation. “What about if you took seven lashes? I think that would be just about worth a fuck, wouldn’t you say?”

Rachel whinged. She was excited, but scared. Like a little kid on a roller coaster as it went up-up-up the hill. I wished I could smell her. Even seeing a woman in that state was… intriguing. Logan could never break me down like that, but seeing him do it to someone else… someone reasonably pretty too… well, I’d watched worse porn while I was in heat.

“Maybe just five lashes?” she moaned.

Logan reached out from behind the camera and stroked her cheek. Her breath caught. I really wished I could smell what was going on; I think she might’ve come just then.

“Just five lashes,” Logan said agreeably. “Then you can have my cock. Alright?”

“Yes,” Rachel gasped, sounding like he had a finger in her cunt already, what a slut. “Can we do it now, please, five lashes, let’s—”

The image froze.

I suddenly realized how absorbed I was in the show. I whirled on Logan, too late to check my aggression. He must’ve seen it written all over my face, how invested I’d been in—no, it was just the heat, otherwise it was nothing to me. A cute girl and Logan talking dirty. Neither of which I was much interested in.

“I was watching that!” It just slipped out.

“Take your jacket off,” Logan said, casual as you please, not even caring if I could tell that this was the same voice he’d used on her, Rachel, the voice for when he was talking to one of his pets. “Then you can see more.”

I was not letting him play me like he’d played her, played all the others. I took my jacket off immediately, like it was no big deal, I was doing nothing more than letting him have a sip of my soda. Who cared if all I had on under the jacket was a tanktop, no bra, nothing between me and his touch but a thin layer of cotton?

The leather had been thick, tough, like armor. In the tanktop, I could feel him looking at me like the north wind blowing. Not cold. Hot. Burning me up.

But that was on the inside. Outside, I was cool as a cucumber, not giving him an inch. Ever known a cat to sweat?

“See anything you like?” I asked him.

“Watch the TV,” he told me, raising the remote control.

“Sure. I guess it’d be impolite to tell me how hot I am. Even when I’m preeminently fuckable.”

If I wanted Logan’s interest, I got it. His focus went to me. Overwhelming. Crushing. I fled from it. Into the images on the screen.