It was an unspectacular summer day. Logan walked out to the garden to pick fresh lilies for Jean’s grave. But Marie was there, sitting on the soft ground in front of the flowerbed. She hadn’t straightened her hair like usual. It tumbled in messy waves over her shoulders and back, but somehow that seemed to fit with the simple white sundress she wore, the sandals she had carelessly kicked off to the side.

He approached silently and saw that she was drawing pictures in the dirt with her finger. Happy faces, sad faces, stars and hearts.

It seemed such a girlish thing to do, so young, so innocent. His burgeoning perception of her as an adult was shattered. He felt vaguely sick for the way he had thought of her last night, and many other nights. But he told himself it wasn’t hurting anyone, as long as he didn’t act on it. His life was such a mess. Didn’t he deserve that release, those few seconds of peace, alone in the middle of the night?

Even if he didn’t deserve it, what did it matter? Jean had read his thoughts, had told him quite bluntly: he wasn’t the good guy. He might pretend, might try his damn hardest, but at the end of the day, putting flowers in front of her headstone didn’t make him a better man. He wasn’t good enough to resist temptation.

And now, eyes scouring the hem of Marie’s dress, begging it to ride up her toned thighs a little further, he knew it was only a matter of time before he did act on his desire for her.

He turned, walked away before he could make a mistake, but he was so distracted his foot landed on a twig. He felt her eyes on his back. “Oh,” she said. “Hey, where ya goin’? Don’t let me run you off.” He was on a knife’s edge, frozen between the opposing desires to turn or to just keep walking. “Logan?”

He turned. Couldn’t resist. “You’re gonna get that pretty dress all dirty if you’re not careful.” That came out with way more meanings than he intended. Or maybe he did intend them all. Maybe some part of him that wasn’t a complete bastard wanted to warn her.

But she didn’t get the warning in his tone, seemed to take his words at face value. She sighed. “Oh, I know. But I don’t mind. Won’t be able to wear it much longer anyway. I got Storm today, brushed ‘er in the hall by accident. Think I hurt her a little bit. S’gettin’ stronger.”

And that was just the opening he needed to give into temptation. “Yeah, about that . . . if you’re still serious about learning control, you could practice on me. Practice touching me.” Bastard bastard bastard.

She blushed, and he loved and hated that look. Loved the sweet pink stain on her cheeks, the way it brought out the pinkness of her mouth. Hated that the thought of touching him made her embarrassed. Like she knew. Knew exactly how he thought of her in the dark of night, messy hair and swollen lips, writhing under him, making sounds that were burned into his memory from the times he heard them slip out under Icedick’s door.

But even the ever-present twinge of jealousy at the edge of his awareness couldn’t ruin his fantasy: Marie accepting him inside her, telling him that all the others had been wrong, that he was good.



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