Logan, page 4
part #2 of Tough London Series
Doesn’t everyone deserve a second chance, though? I mean, he’s done his time in prison. Whatever his crime was in the first place, his dues are paid. I would hate it if people discriminated against me because of my past. Because of my scars.
The truth is, everyone does deserve a second chance. But do I have to be the person to give Logan his second chance? Surely there’s someone else better positioned to give this guy a shot at employment. I mean, I’m a vulnerable person, and I have to think about my shop, too, and my customers. Won’t people be put off by a massive tattooed gangster selling them tubes of burnt umber paint?
Actually, in the art world, a kooky look is kind of the norm. Maybe it would be OK to have him working here. People might just mistake him for a hipster.
I think it over in my mind, back and forth, back and forth, trying to decide.
The thing is, I’m not being honest with myself. No matter what sensible reasons I can think up for not having Logan come to work at the shop, I find a counter argument.
Because the real reason I want him to come work with me has nothing to do with giving an unlucky man a second chance. It’s not because I’m a good person. It’s because finally, after all these years, I’ve seen the man I’ve been obsessing over. And it has lit a fire in me. Deep down inside, in a place I haven’t thought about for a long, long time.
When I think about Logan, I didn’t think of him as a potential worker. I think of him as a potential lover. I think about his eyes, and his soft, smiling lips. I think about his tattoos, and about how strong he must be.
As my mind races in the shower, I feel an unusual, tingling sensation spreading through me. I run my hands down my firm, wet body and wonder whether Logan has ever imagined what it might be like to touch me the way I’m touching myself.
My stomach, my hips, the inside of my thighs. I feel my smooth skin shudder under the stroking touch of my hands. But they aren’t my hands, they’re Logan’s. Rough and strong from years of struggle and punishment.
I pour shower gel into my hand and rub it into my skin, coating myself in a light froth. I rub my scars, thinking about Logan soothing me, taking away the pain of my past, filling me up with something else. And I imagine soothing him back, rubbing suds over his back, his chest, his abs…and a place even lower down. Without realizing what I’m doing, I start to actually pant, like I’m hungry for something, like a dog desperate for a bone.
And as I do, I feel blood rush downwards, and my cock starts to slowly pulse, as it hardens, lengthens, raises up.
I give in. I feel something take control of my body and I slip my soapy fingers over my shaft, shuddering as pleasure takes over me. I’m imaging Logan kneeling in the shower, the water spattering off his face. His wide, red lips envelop me, and as I stroke and shiver, I imagine the heat of my insides.
The speed of my strokes increases, and I feel shoots of pleasure, and then, I do something I never do — I let out a deep groan, and as I finally give in to pleasure, the groan turns into a deep, loud shout of ecstasy.
It’s the first time I’ve done anything like that for a very, very long time.
And I finally make my choice.
I call the agency, and get through to Tom.
‘You know what? I decided that everyone deserves a second chance.’ Is there any way he can tell from my voice what I’ve been doing?
‘Well,’ he says, sounding excited, ‘I’m glad you say that, because Logan is what you might call a special case.’
I already know what he’s about to say, that Logan has a criminal record, that he is a dangerous man, that he is uncontrollable, insatiable.
‘Oh?’ I say.
‘You see Logan is perfect for your shop. He’s smart, and he seems to genuinely care about art.’
‘That’s, good,’ I say. Is he not even going to mention his criminal record? Maybe it’s against the rules or something. I guess maybe it ensures that everyone has a fair chance at employment.
Does that mean Logan isn’t classed as dangerous, though? Surely they’d tell me if there was something potentially worrying in his past.
‘I’m sure he’ll do a great job for you.’
I get ready for a day at work, and I’m about to leave when the phone rings. It’s Tom again.
‘He’s very excited!’ he says.
I try, but can’t really imagine Logan’s face lit up in excitement.
‘I’m glad,’ I reply, halfway out the door.
‘And you’ll be pleased to know that he can start tomorrow, first thing.’
Tomorrow? I hadn’t expected it to be that soon. My heart starts racing. That naughty devil on my shoulder is getting excited, I can tell.
I walk to work with a spring in my step. But something feels strange. I have the creepy, horrible feeling that I’m being watched. I look over my shoulder a few times. No one’s there. But I can’t shake the feeling.
It stays with me all day, and on my way home I stick to the well-lit streets, crossing away from the dark, making sure that the eyes I feel on me don’t affect me worse than they already are.
6
LOGAN
* * *
When the phone call from Tom at the agency comes, I can’t believe it. I’m on the verge of giving up, on the fucking precipice. I did manage to not get stoned with Dizzy, but that’s only a minor victory.
The truth is, that hopeless feeling I’ve always struggled with is still here.
The phone actually wakes me up.
‘What the fuck,’ I say groggily, groping around my untidy bed for the source of that annoying siren. This better not be some bullshit call, I think to myself. I don’t recognise the number at first, and I consider just hanging up before I’ve answered.
But luckily I click accept.
‘Who’s this?’ I say. I guess maybe I sound threatening. I don’t want to be too gruff, but I can’t help it.
‘It’s Tom! From Empowerment to Employment!’ I can hear the capital letters on the words as he speaks. Damn, this guy is as self-important as they come.
‘Yo,’ I say, dry as a bone. I’m surprised to hear from him. I’m even a little worried. Maybe Clark has taken out a restraining order on me or something. Maybe I’m being let go from the agency.
‘I’ve got some good news for you, young man, very good news!’
Young man? I swear, this guy has a serious communication problem.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Clark, the manager at Kahlo’s Crafts, he’s said that he’d love to take you on at the shop. Give you some work experience!’
‘He did?’
I can’t believe it. It seems almost impossible that this is actually happening.
‘When do I start,’ I say, still in a state of shock.
‘Well he said that he absolutely needs you to start tomorrow. He was very clear on that. He said that he wants you to prove that you’re serious by showing up tomorrow, at nine am on the dot.’
‘OK,’ I say, mistrust in my voice.
He wants me to prove I’m serious, huh? A bit weird, but, whatever. I’m willing to work, and I’m desperate to see him.
‘Just one thing,’ he adds, that thin, reedy voice sounding a note of caution. ‘You have to do a good job, Logan. There’s a lot riding on this for me. A lot.’ I’ve been in a lot of dangerous situations in my life, but amazingly, the pathetic guy on the phone is managing to freak me out.
‘I’ve got a lot riding on this, too, Tom.’
‘Not as much as me, Logan. You better treat this opportunity seriously. I want you to work hard — sure, that’s a given. But I want you to be respectful of Clark, your boss, too. Don’t do anything weird. And make sure you’re presentable, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Fine,’ I say, ‘no problem.’
And before I can even say goodbye, he’s hung up on me.
I look around the bedroom. It’s a mess. I’m finding it hard to look after myself, and it’s even harder to keep the house in order. What’s the point?
I’m a walking cliché. I just can’t be fucked to make things look nice when it feels like my life has no purpose.
Dizzy stayed over last night. I didn’t want him loping off into the city, has as a kite. Now, I can hear him moving around in the kitchen.
I hear a crash of pans and an expletive or two, then Dizzy calls through.
‘Everything’s fine!’
‘Sounds it,’ I call back, rubbing the back of my neck.
He appears at the door. When I see him, I have to do a double take. He’s got a white apron round his waist, and he’s brandishing a spatula like he’s gonna do some damage with it.
‘Show some appreciation. I’m cooking pancakes, motherfucker!’
I can help but smile. It’s not exactly the alarm call I’d been expecting, but it’s a happy surprise. And as we head into the kitchen together, I see he’s telling the truth. Dizzy is making fucking pancakes.
A short sizzle later, he puts a plate down in front of me.
‘Fuck man, you need to get some maple syrup. What kind of pleb doesn’t have a jar of maple syrup in the store cupboard? I mean, you know that the best way to a guy’s heart is through his stomach, right? You can’t beat pancakes with bacon and syrup.’
‘Alright,’ I say, my fork in the fluffy, light-coloured pancake on my plate, ‘who the fuck are you and what have you done with Dizzy?’
He snorts a laugh out.
‘I’m just a modern man. I’ve grown up. I’m a metrosexual now.’
‘What the fuck is a metrosexual?’
‘This,’ he says, pointing at himself with a whisk.
Of course, he hasn’t grown up that much. He lights a joint straight after finishing breakfast, and is happily chuckling away soon after. Soon, he’s high as a kite again, and when I suggest that he come shopping with me, he’s over the moon to accept.
‘For sure, bruv, there’s nothing I’d like more than to help you pick out a pinafore.’
We walk to Kingsway together, a big road studded with shops on either side. As we walk, I feel almost normal for the first time in months. It’s great to just be with my old friend, chatting shit about not much.
He reacts well when I tell him about my phone call with Tom.
‘No shit?!’ he says. ‘That’s good news.’
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘How much they paying you?’
I roll my eyes. I could have sworn I told him last night.
‘It’s an internship, bruv, it’s unpaid.’
‘What?!’
He stops dead in his tracks, and turns to look at me. ‘That’s slavery man, nothing more, nothing less.’
‘Well,’ I say, ‘considering that literally no-one else will employ me, it’s the best chance I’ve got.’
‘Just remember,’ says Dizzy, giving me a warm smile, ‘if you’re ever in need of a couple of quid, you let me know. I’ve got some real work you can do, work that pays fucking well. None of that intern bullshit.’
‘And what kind of work is that?’ I say, trying not to sound too confrontational.
‘It’s all above board, if that’s what you mean,’ says Dizzy, with a mischievous smile.
‘Sure it is, fam, sure it is.’
I’m struggling to imagine what it might be like to work in an art supply shop. I mean, what do art supply assistants even wear? Nothing too formal, right? But nothing too scruffy. My budget is very limited, so I have to stay at the less expensive end of things.
We walk into a nondescript discount clothing store that feels tired but reliable. It smells like mothballs and old carpets in here.
I decide to go for stuff that Dizzy keeps calling ‘hipster bullshit’. A check shirt, lumberjack style, some dark jeans, and Allstar sneakers.
‘You gonna grow an ironic moustache? Maybe get into micro-brewed beer or some shit?’
‘Dizzy, cut me some slack. I’m just trying to make a good impression.’
‘You just trying to make a good impression,’ he says, ‘so you can make a good impression.’ He mimes something extremely filthy with his hands.
‘I still can’t take you anywhere, can I?’
I try on my new outfit in a poky fitting room, and when I come out, Dizzy lets out a pantomime snicker.
‘Man, prison changed you.’
The sales attendant looks over at us anxiously when Dizzy says the word prison.
‘My friend is just joking,’ I say, trying to calm him down.
I look at myself in a long mirror. It’s true, prison has changed me. But not in the way Dizzy means. I’m older now, and I look tired. I’d been good looking when I was younger. Now, my stubble makes me look like an old man, rather than a dangerous punk. My grim expression males me look world-weary, not cool and edgy. My hair is streaked with grey, and there are laughter lines traced around my eyes.
The only thing prison has improved is my physique. I had a lot of time to do nothing but work out in there.
I do have a certain rugged charm, I suppose, but it’s hard not to feel like I can’t even recognise myself anymore.
Well, I think to myself, the best way to preserve what good looks I have left is to make sure I never, ever do anything stupid enough to land me back in prison, ever again.
‘Seriously,’ says Dizzy, ‘you’re looking sharp. You know, for a total nerd.’
‘Well thanks, brother,’ I grunt.
I decide that it’s not going to get much better than this, so I change back into my other outfit and take my selections to the counter.
The attendant, who was nervous before, now looks very pleased to be taking my money.
‘Excellent choices, sir,’ he says, folding my check shirt into ever-smaller rectangles. ‘The shoes in particular are a design classic.’
‘Right,’ I say. I can’t wait to get out of this place. I’m so far out of my comfort zone I can barely stand it.
When he tells me the price of my shopping, I think my ears aren’t working right.
‘That’s one hundred and eighty pounds and sixty-nine pence, please.’
‘I thought this is meant to be a discount store,’ I say angrily, under my breath.
I hand over my debit card. There should be enough cash in my account — my welfare benefit should have gone through by now.
Of course, I have a sinking feeling as I hand it over. Even though it should be fine, when the attendant gives me a fake sympathetic smile and says ‘I’m afraid it’s been declined sir,’ it doesn’t surprise me one little bit.
‘It should be working,’ I say, exasperated. I’m trying to decide whether it’s worth me getting him to put it through again. I knew deep down that it’s probably too much for me to spend, anyway. It’s crazy to spend nearly two hundred quid just for a fucking internship, after all. It’s not even like I’ll be earning that money back.
‘Would you like me to try again?’ asks the attendant, a shit-eating grin spreading even wider across his face.
‘Just leave it,’ I reply, trying to keep some tiny sliver of pride, ‘I’ll ring my bank manager or something. There must be something wrong with the card.’
‘Woah woah woah,’ cuts in Dizzy. ‘You can’t just leave these threads mate, what are you gonna wear to work? Fuck no, no way.’ Before I can say a word, Dizzy pulls out a stack of twenties from his pocket and counts them out. He must have thousands in there, all in twenties. What on earth is he doing? How does he have so much money?
‘I got this,’ he says, ‘how much did you say, hundred eighty?’
The attendant gulps, ‘And sixty-nine cents, sir,’ he says.
‘Sixty nine,’ says Dizzy, winking at me, ‘what a stroke of luck. That’s my favourite number.’
So Dizzy pays my bill and looks happy doing it.
‘Dizzy,’ I say, as we walk from the shop together, ‘you didn’t need to do that.’
‘I did,’ he counters. ‘You need those clothes, and I couldn’t let that attendant’s grin get any bigger man. It woulda split his head right open. It was a medical emergency.’
‘Well, thanks buddy,’ I say. I think about giving him a big hug, but I don’t know how he’ll react.
‘Don’t mention it,’ he says. ‘And remember, if you need money, if it’s hurtin’ you, just let me know. I’ve got work for you, work that pays well.’
‘I won’t forget it, man,’ I say. But I know that I don’t want to take him up on the offer. Any type of work that pays that well, in cash, is not the kind of lifestyle I want to be involved with any more. Maybe five years ago, I would have considered it. But not now. I know what is at stake.
Later, at home, alone, I think about what might be in store for me the next day. I try to imagine what the work might be like, what being in the shop might be like, but most of all, of course, I think about Clark.
I thought about the last time I saw him in the prison, and I remember the way I used to think about him. Maybe the reason I’ve fantasised so much about him is just because he’s like forbidden fruit. The one man I could never have. Maybe it’s just because I know I could never have him that I want him so bad.
But deep down, I knew that’s not true. He’s so sexy, so smart, so sensitive, and so absolutely fuckable that I’ve never even close to this about anyone else in my life.
I just have to make sure that I don’t make a fool of myself, don’t do anything dumb or creepy that makes him want to fire me. Because I want him. And I want him bad.
I’d out of my comfort zone in the clothes shop today, but it’s nothing compared to how awkward I’m going to feel at work tomorrow. Nothing could possibly prepare me for that.
7
CLARK
* * *
I wake up, I think of Logan. I check my watch, I think of Logan. I brush my teeth, I think of Logan. It’s like he’s stuck in my brain, pulling on my neurons, refusing to get out.
