For Hating Me You Sure Are Possessive

54: Sleeping Beauty

The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was Logan. He’d moved to the recliner directly across from the couch at some time in the night. As I sat slowly I stretched, looking to the blanket that covered me. He must have moved when I’d fallen asleep, because the space where he’d originally sat was now taken up by my legs. An odd feeling followed it as I looked over towards him. This time I hadn’t woken alone, but instead he’d been the first thing I’d seen.

And you know what? It really wasn’t such a bad feeling.

A little smile lit up my face and I looked over to where he sat. Or rather, where he was sprawled. With one leg over the arm of the chair, facing me he’d passed out. His head lolled to the side, his black hair falling in front of his sleeping eyes. Up and down his chest moved slowly, and I watched the tank-top raise and fall. He seemed so peaceful when he was relaxed.

I pulled my legs off the couch and sat up, straightening my shirt as I watched him from the corner of my eye. He looked so perfect in such a vulnerable stage. One arm hanging off the couch, the other resting above his head, Logan’s two greatest threats where limp and as asleep as the rest of him. With those hands he had tormented me so many times. Especially in the beginning.

Thinking back to his forceful ways I found myself leaning forward. Just like the first time I had met him face to face in that hallway a strange confidence buzzed through me. My fingers unfurled and reached outwards, my arm following. They moved on their own, towards his sleeping form. If only the coffee table hadn’t been between us I could touch his knee. My hand hung there in the air, waiting for me to make a decision. What was I going to do now? The reach had just happened but next should come. . .

That was when my eyes locked on what lay on the table before me. The perfectly cleaned coffeetable now displayed a very specific set of items. One wooden cigar box, the wood stained and engraved, small marks where the label had been removed. The box was closed, but what was beside it was more important than seeing what it held.

A line of white powder of the back of a magazine, a rolled bill and a baggy with more where that came from.

It sat out as plain as day. There on that table it was at home, it was comfortable. Just laying out without anything hidden. As casual as a coffee table book. But unlike a book on the birds of Africa, this wasn’t there just to take up space to keep the space from being empty. Instead it took up too much space. It drew attention.

I’d backed up, my hand clutched to my chest as though in recoil. I’d known what Logan was into. The first day I’d met him it’d all been there for me to see.

My eyes flickered over to him. Though my gaze softened at what a vulnerable sprawl he was in, a lump caught in my throat. Logan had many sides to him. I knew that. And I couldn’t base my attitude towards him on how he was acting at the moment. I had to take it all into perspective.

And drugs were a big part of his life.

I scowled just as a sound came from the front door. The handle turned, but the door didn’t open. My first instinct was to wake Logan up, but before I could do anything the door handle jiggled once more. They weren’t giving up, whoever they were. My eyes slid to Logan. Should I let whoever it was in? Should I wake him up?