MAISY

I sit on one end of Logan's brown sofa, nervously bouncing my knee as he sits at the other end, as far away from me as possible. We've been sitting in silence for the last ten minutes and it's just about killing me. The last exchange of words we had was when I finally broke and asked him for a beer. Since then, it's been nothing but dead air.

Logan looks more relaxed than I feel and it's making me edgy. Unable to sit still, I pick up my beer and take a sip, thankful that I worked up the courage to ask for it. Logan might be on to something here, because there's no way I'm surviving the next few hours without some alcohol in my system. I've talked myself out of walking out the door at least two times already. The problem is, without a car, I have nowhere to go.

"So do you have a job?" he asks, his question slicing through both the silence and me.

"Logan," I warn with an agitated sigh.

"What?" He leans back against the sofa and casually crosses his legs, looking totally unaffected. I hate him for it. I hate how easy it all seems for him; it's a complete 180 from last night. "Is that too personal of a question? Is asking what you do for a living crossing some sort of line?"

Ignoring the sarcasm in his voice, I stare down at his bare foot, studying his long toes and smooth skin.  Logan's still angry, and he's going to stay that way until I finally give him some answers. For the sake of the next few hours, I decide to tell him what I can. I take another sip of my beer and stare up at his bitter brown eyes as I swallow it down, searching for some strength.

"I'm a cocktail waitress," I whisper, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Logan doesn't say anything but I can tell from his expression he's surprised to hear this. He even looks like he might feel a little sorry for me. I roll my eyes and turn away from him; I don't need his pity.

"So... college then?"

"I never went," I state with little emotion, picking at the label on my bottle and hoping the animosity isn't as clear in my voice as it is in my heart. "I've taken some classes online though." I don't know why I tell him this; I shouldn't care what Logan thinks of me.

But I do.

"And you live in Austin?"

"I did."

His thick eyebrows furrow. "Where do you live now?"

Jeeze. I answer a few questions and suddenly Logan is on a roll. "I was in Charleston before this."

"Was?"

I look up at Logan, the exasperation apparent on my face. "I don't want to answer any more questions."

"You never want to answer questions Maisy."

"You'd think you'd get the hint," I grumble under my breath.

The unbearable stretch of silence that follows lets me know Logan heard me. Finally he stands up and I watch as he walks across the room. The tension between us is blatant and I hope the mechanic calls soon so I can get the hell out of here. Logan puts his empty bottle on the counter that separates the living room from the kitchen, and then turns towards me. He's stoic, not an emotion to be seen on his otherwise handsome face.

"I've got some work to do. You can watch TV, hang out, whatever. Let me know if you need anything." And then, without waiting for a response, he leaves me there.

My mouth stays closed as I watch him go. I don't blame Logan for how he's treating me. I deserve every ounce of it and probably even worse. I take another sip of my beer, stand up, and head into the kitchen. The battery icon on my phone is thankfully now green instead of red. I pick it up and stare down at my cell for a moment, wavering. Finally I begin to scroll through the names, finding a number that I haven't had to use forever. I quickly type out a text. Just one word.

                                                                                                                                                                          "TROUBLE."

My thumb hovers above the send button. If I push it I'm pulling the rip cord. I'm opening a door that's been closed for a very long time. The tires could be a coincidence. But all four like that? In the rain? It seemed too orchestrated. It was a message; I knew it. I'd been found.

I hit the button. I don't have a choice. The text swooshes away and the second it does I immediately start to regret it. Feeling like a paranoid idiot, I sulk back into the living room. I'm prepared to wait for either the mechanic, or a reply to my text, whichever comes first, but I need to figure out my next move.

Dropping down on the sofa, exhaustion hits as the events of the day catch up with me. I slip off my sneakers and pull my legs up to my chest. The remote is in a small basket on the coffee table in front of me, so I grab it and turn on the TV. Some talk show comes on and I have no interest in it, but I don't bother changing the channel either.

I know I should be freaking out right now, but for some reason I'm not. I'm safe here at Logan's. Unless someone saw me get into his car, no one would think to look for me with him. It's a false sense of security, I realize that, but I'm taking comfort in it for the few hours I can.

The talk show ends and the news comes on. The anchorman's monotone voice pulls me in. I sit there in a daze, not digesting anything that's being said, and soon my eyes start to feel heavy. I rest my head back against one of the pillows, struggling to stay awake. And that's the last thing I remember, fighting off sleep and then losing the battle.