Logan Kade (Fallen Crest #5.5)

“Because you loved us both,” Claire said. “And because we hid it from you.”

“But—” I shook my head. It made sense. The guys Claire dated weren’t the nicest to Jason, and I knew others had been even worse—like the guys who were friends with Eric. Only Eric had been decent to him. “I should’ve paid attention.”

“You were loved by everyone. Even the bullies usually left him alone. No one wanted to piss you off.”

“Why?” I opened my eyes.

“Because…” She shrugged. “People like you, Taylor. I don’t think you notice how much. You’ve been off since last year, but it’s still there. Logan Mr. Sex Machine Kade is interested in you.” She rolled her eyes as she said his name. “He’s let everyone know you two are together.”

I had to laugh at that. “There’s no one else breaking down my door.”

“Stop it. He likes you—like, really likes you. That’s not something to dismiss.”

“I know. I just don’t understand it. I don’t understand why me.”

“Because you’re Taylor,” Claire said. “What more reason do you need?”

I tried to smile, but her words had punched through a wall, and a whole host of emotions streamed through. I reached over and grabbed her hand. “Thank you, Claire.” I had to whisper. My throat wasn’t fully functioning.

Her hand squeezed back and held on. “You have no idea, but you’ve been there more times for me than you think.” A tear slid down her cheek, and her voice turned hoarse, too.

“Look at us.” I lifted our hands. “Holding hands. Both crying.”

She laughed, flicking her tears away.

“And we’re going in there to read some letters from Jason,” I added.

She grew quiet before she asked, “You think he left, don’t you?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I was still hoping it wasn’t true.

Just then a pair of headlights was visible as a car neared the park, pausing at an intersection. It turned right and went the entire way around the park. “Look.” I pointed to it.

“I see.”

We both watched as the car was moving slow, until it passed us. It paused and we saw a guy press his forehead to his window, trying to see us. I relaxed. The guy didn’t look scary or thug-like. I was sure that was Jason’s roommate. I waved and once I did, his face visibly relaxed. He blew out a breath and lifted a shaky hand back. He pulled forward, then turned around so he could park behind us.

I looked at Claire. “You ready?”

She shook her head, but her hand went to her seatbelt. “We have no choice. Let’s go and get these letters.”

We both nodded. We both reached for our doors…

...neither of us moved an inch.





Taylor,

If I know you—and I think I do by now ; )—you probably already know what I’m going to say in this letter. But I have to say it anyway because I have to put in words how much I love you and how much I’ve cared about our friendship.

I’m leaving. Surprise! (bad joke) (sorry)

That’s what this letter is about. I never meant to have my “other” life affect you, but it has. It was bound to happen eventually. Gambling—that whole world—is my addiction. I can’t get enough of it. I think about it the moment I wake up. I miss it when I’m being good, and I am literally counting down the hours, minutes, seconds until I can get back to it.

I thought it would be better if I was the one taking the bets, but it wasn’t. I still gambled, and it got all sorts of fucked up. I can’t tell you anything because if something ever happened to me, I don’t want you to be involved any more than you already are. Just trust me when I say that this life is a toxin, but one I can’t live without. It’s sweet fucking poison <-ha! That’s as poetic as I’m going to get here.

(After reading this over, it sounds like I was laughing as I wrote it. I wasn’t. I was bawling, but damn—I do have to laugh at how sucktastic this whole situation is.)

Anyway, if you’re reading this, you went to my apartment and saw everything. All my stuff is gone. And no, I wasn’t the one to get my shit out of there. I had some friends do it for me. They were told to box everything up and see if they could sell whatever they could to pay Rankin back. I owe him a lot of money, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll want to know who you are and who the others are. I know him. He won’t let it rest. A part of me thinks that even if I do disappear, it won’t matter. He’ll still try to figure out who punched him and who knocked him unconscious. And if he does, I’m so very sorry.

The good thing, though, is that I know those guys can take care of themselves. (I’m not putting their names in here, in case something happens to this letter. I don’t want any more damning evidence, but just in case, burn this when you’re done reading. I know it’s addressed to you.)