Satisfied that he’d said everything he wanted to, Logan turned, unlocked the door, and left, wondering where this thing, whatever it was, would inevitably go.

Chapter Eight

The red glare of Tate’s digital readout shined brightly on him as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. It might as well be a fucking spotlight. He placed an arm across his eyes. With a lone sheet across his waist, he tried to relax, but it was no use. He was agitated and restless.

Tonight had not gone according to plan, which was to ignore Logan at all costs.

No, instead, I kissed the bastard until I gave myself a major hard-on.

Gnashing his teeth together, he tried to ignore the fact that the stiff cock in question had reappeared at the memory of it, just like Logan had said it would. There was nothing more infuriating than knowing the cause of his sexual frustration was also the cause of a whole lot of self-doubt.

This was a time in his life when he was single. If he wanted to go and sleep with two-dozen women, he could. But no, his erection was fixated on a guy—an extremely hot guy but a man just the same. With his black hair, and eyes which were insanely blue, Logan was undeniably sexy.

Tate wasn’t sure why, but he also found it…exciting that Logan was taller than him. When they’d argued and he had Logan’s back up against the wall, Tate had felt alive for the first time in months. Not to mention, he’d been extremely aroused. It was as if arguing with Logan and gaining the upper hand had somehow put Tate in control to do whatever he wanted.

Which is what exactly? What do I want?

Tate knew it would be different if he had no reaction to Logan at all and could just brush him off, but ultimately, he kept coming back to his all-around curiosity with Logan Mitchell. He couldn’t deny it. It was there, and even more disquieting was his fascination with the man’s smart-tongued mouth.

Logan’s lips were—go on, admit it—bitable, and he had licked them at every opportunity he got, making Tate hyperaware of them. The bottom was much fuller than the top, and although Tate would have thought a man’s mouth should be hard, Logan’s was soft.

Soft, malleable, and yes, very fucking bitable. Damn!

Tate rolled over to look at the time—three fifteen in the morning. Great, just great. He noticed, sitting by his clock, his cell phone, and he reached out to pick it up.

Switching it on, he scrolled through to the call from Mitchell & Madison and wondered if the number was from the office. Placing the phone on his bare chest, he thought about it for a few minutes, and then—fuck it—he dialed the number.

He was all ready to leave a message on Logan’s office voice mail, preparing to tell him not to come by the bar anymore, when the phone connected.

* * *

Logan’s phone vibrated loudly on the wooden side table by his bed. It wasn’t like it had awoken him. He’d just been lying there, staring at the ceiling and thinking about Tate—

Jesus, this early in the morning?

He really hoped it wasn’t a client that needed him for some urgent matter.

Rolling over to his side, he scooted up from beneath the covers and snagged the cell. Swiping the screen to accept the call, he lifted it to his ear and managed a sleepy, “Logan, here.”

Silence.

Pulling the phone away, he leaned to his side and glanced at the number on his screen seeing a name displayed across the top that he’d programmed in earlier yesterday. It was a name that immediately had him waking all the way up.

“Tate?” Logan’s heart started to pound almost as hard as his now rapidly swelling erection. “I know it’s you. You might as well talk to me,” he pushed, not wanting Tate to hang up without saying what he’d called for.

“I thought you’d be asleep, and I could leave a message.”

Logan shifted back against the mattress and down in between his sheets, enjoying the sound of Tate’s voice when it finally came through the phone.

“Well, this is my office number. Calls get routed for clients.” He was trying to keep things neutral and easy, wanting to do anything to keep Tate talking.

“Oh,” was all he got in response.

Running a hand across his chest, Logan massaged his shoulder and waited, wondering what the hell he should say next. After all, the likelihood of why Tate was calling this early probably wasn’t good, but shit, someone had to say something.

“So, you were going to leave me a message?”

More silence.

“At three in the morning?”

Still, complete silence.

Well, almost—Logan was sure he could hear Tate breathing softly.

“You going to say something? Or do you want me to do all the talking? Because we both know the direction I’ll take this, especially since I’m lying here in—”

“I was calling to tell you not to come back to the bar anymore.”

Logan didn’t know why, but that comment actually—

Hurt?

“I see.”

The silence at the other end was starting to irritate him now, so Logan decided to stop playing neutral, decided to stop playing easy.

“And why’s that, Tate? Because I’ve made you think about things you don’t want to?”

Finally, that seemed to penetrate Tate’s silent self-intervention.

“No. Christ, you’re arrogant,” he announced in an annoyed rush of air. “Because you’re making my fucking head hurt. You never take no for an answer, and you don’t take a fucking hint.”

Logan laughed with disdain as he imagined a frustrated Tate running a hand through his hair. “I might have taken no for an answer—if you ever said it.”

“I did say it!” Tate’s voice boomed through the phone. “And I also told you very clearly that I am straight.”

Anger was definitely riding the man, but it seemed mixed with something more, something that hadn’t made him hang up the phone yet.

 “Yeah, I remember that, too. It must’ve been before you kissed me and changed your fucking mind!”

From the other end of the line, he heard a loud growl.

Then, Tate spat out, “You’re impossible, you know that? Do I need to quit my job? You’d really make me do that?”

“I’m not making you do anything. I’m not even making you talk to me right now,” he pointed out before adding, “but you’re still here.”

The muted seconds following that particular observation were almost tangible. Logan knew whatever happened next, whatever was to be said had to be from Tate.

“I don’t know what you expect from me.”

Logan didn’t even realize he’d been holding his breath until that confession hit his ear, and he let it out in a rush.

“I don’t expect anything.” He thought that was a pretty basic response. He didn’t have any expectations. He never did since a certain person had crushed all of his.

Tate didn’t give him time to dwell on that though as he interrupted his thoughts.

“And that’s just another part of this whole mess, isn’t it?”

“What is?” Logan asked, even though he was positive he didn’t want to hear the answer.

“You can’t even decide what gender you want to screw this month, yet I’m supposed to pick you. What kind of joke is that, Logan? Let’s see. First, there was Jess, whoever the hell that is. Then, apparently, everyone I work with, not to mention Amelia’s invite. Is there anyone you don’t want?”

Okay, so the guy has a point, but—

“Then, why are we still talking?” Logan expected to hear a click and then nothing, but instead, he got—

“Because I can’t seem to get you out of my fucking head.”

And that is all I needed to hear.

* * *