Free Last Summer by Rebecca A. Rogers Page B

him, smelling a mixture of
both mold and laundry detergent on his clothes.
    “I like this,” Logan says, rubbing his hand
up and down my arm. His touch spreads tingling warmth under my skin
and into my abdomen. “It reminds me of home.”
    “Why?”
    “Because it’s clean and safe.”
    Okay, there’s really nothing to say to that.
He’s been bouncing from abandoned houses to empty alleyways for
months now and this is bringing back memories. Good memories. Maybe
I underestimated myself when I took him on as a project. I mean, if
I’m being honest, the guy isn’t some drone from an alien planet;
he’s a human being, with feelings. So all of this homeliness may be
exactly what he needs for his rehabilitation process.
    Crossing my fingers.
     
    ~~~
     
    “Don’t touch her!”
    The words pull me out of my sleep. My first
thought: Oh, God, my dad’s back . I jump out of bed and turn
on my light. Glancing around my room, I don’t see anything. Logan
repeats himself, and that’s when I realize he’s having a
nightmare.
    “Don’t touch her! Don’t fucking touch her, I
said!”
    “Logan, sweetie,” I murmur, gently tugging
on his upper arm. “Logan, it’s me . . . Chloe. You’re
dreaming.”
    He breathes rapidly in and out of his nose,
like he’s hyperventilating, and he’s not waking up. If my mom hears
him, she won’t hesitate to throw him out, and then we’ll be back at
square one. So, I do the only thing that pops into my mind: I kiss
him.
    He struggles at first, but then his body
relaxes. I pull back when his eyelids open.
    “Chloe,” he whispers.
    “You were having a nightmare.”
    He wraps one arm around my waist and drags
me on top of him. I bury my face in his neck, sighing contentedly.
Slowly, he runs his hands underneath my shirt, across my ribs, and
back down. A moderate fire swells where his fingers stroke; it
filters deep into my stomach, settling at the bottom.
    “I’m sorry I woke you up,” he says.
    “What were you dreaming about?”
    His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.
“You.”

 
     
     
    Ten • Chloe
     
     
    I can’t believe we
slept together last night. Okay, not slept together , slept
together. We kept it clean. The fact that my mom didn’t check on me
was a relief, too. When we woke this morning, Mom was nowhere to be
found. I washed the rest of Logan’s clothes, and then we ate
breakfast, deciding we’ll take a jog, maybe do a little swimming.
Later, we’ll come back here, shower, and crash.
    “Can I be honest with you?” Logan asks
between breaths. We’ve been jogging next to the lake for the past
ten minutes.
    “I would hope so,” I respond, squinting at
the early-morning sun intensifying on the horizon.
    “Okay,” he begins, taking a deep breath. “I
don’t know if this is going to work.”
    I stop running. “Don’t tell me you’re
backing out, especially after your episode yesterday. Logan, you
know what drugs have done to you. You’ve lost your family, friends,
potential football career . . . the list goes on and on. Yet you
still want more , as if you haven’t hurt yourself and those
you love enough already.”
    He glances away, resting his hands atop his
head, jaw flexing and relaxing. “Have you ever wanted something so
badly, but you just know it’s not good for you?”
    “Yes,” I mumble, thinking about how many
boys I’ve had crushes on, only to have them break my heart by
rejection. In the end, something inside told me they weren’t the
person I thought they were.
    “Well, that’s how I feel about heroin.” So that’s his drug of choice. Until now, he had only
mentioned an addiction to morphine, but I remember hearing that
heroin is derived from morphine. Makes sense, because of his
football injuries. “And I know this is probably over your head,” he
continues, “but this is what matters to me, because for over six
months now, I haven’t known anything else.”
    “I’m listening,” I say, urging him to get
this off