When One Door Opens (3 page)

Chapter 2

O
N
M
ONDAY
morning, Klass had Foster fetch him a couple of hours into his shift. Logan knew he should tell Klass he wasn’t interested in the job. He should make up an excuse about being too tired or not knowing if his parole officer, John Dabb, would approve the job. Both were true, just not the reason. He’d cleaned the reason off the shower wall on Saturday morning.

Sitting behind his impeccably neat desk, Klass asked, “How did it go?”

“It went fine. I followed your instructions,” Logan said, silently hoping his boss didn’t expect a report on his nephew’s sex life. He really needed to stop thinking about sex and Caleb in the same sentence.

Klass sighed. “I know he’s a grown man and I’ve no right to pry into his life.” He straightened an already straight stapler before continuing. “I loved my sister, Mr. Sellers. And she
loved
that boy. I just want to do right by her. Since she died three years ago, he’s been slipping further and further away.”

Logan swallowed hard.
The guy’s worried and I’m perving over his nephew.
“He looked okay, a bit on the skinny side. I don’t think I would’ve noticed if you hadn’t told me he was phobic.”

Klass nodded. “Let me know if anything changes.”

This was the opportunity to get out of the job and just walk away. Let someone else help Caleb. Logan sighed. Who was he kidding? The money was too good to pass on. His dick would just have to get with the program. “Sure thing, boss.”

Klass hunched forward, dropping his chin to his chest. “Also, please tell Caleb to fill you in on the details about the radiator.”

Logan returned to his work station, wondering what would be up with the radiator in July. It was busy, so the rest of his shift passed quickly. When he saw the clock and realized it was almost time to go, it came as a pleasant surprise. He wiped his forearm over his sweating forehead and wondered if he ought to go home for a quick shower before picking up Caleb’s groceries. In the end, he decided not to. For all he knew, Caleb might not have any food in the apartment and was quietly starving. The guy was skinny enough already.

The end of his shift rolled around, and Logan walked out into the sunshine, temporarily a free man. Oh, except for the fact that he now had to find a place called Meng’s Market and pick up a grocery order for the boss’s nephew. The thought of groceries made him remember how inadequate his hasty breakfast had been several hours earlier. Hopefully this delivery wouldn’t take too long and he would be able to go home and grab a bite.

L
OGAN
stepped through the sliding door at Meng’s Market. The place featured high-quality meats and locally grown produce, making it worlds away from the 7-Eleven convenience store he shopped at. He walked past the aisles, ignoring his grumbling stomach, and made his way to the service counter next to the produce. He stopped when he spotted an advertisement for instant oatmeal. After grabbing a box of maple flavor, he continued to the back.

At the counter, a short, wiry Asian man scowled at a computer screen as if it had insulted his mother. Logan could relate. They had kicked him out of the technology course in prison after his third computer committed suicide. When the old man smacked the side of the monitor, a sweet-faced Asian woman with glossy black hair down to her hips appeared at his side.

“Let me do it, Grandfather.” She adjusted her thick black glasses and set to work, fingers flying over the keys.

The man grumbled and turned his attention to Logan. His bald head gleamed in the fluorescent lighting. “How I help you?”

“I’m here for Caleb Klass’s order.”

The man traded a look with his granddaughter, and they began having a heated conversation in a language Logan couldn’t understand. He thought it might be Korean, but that could be his stomach talking. Korean barbecued pork was on the list of things he’d longed for in prison. That the list mostly consisted of food and liquor was a bit disconcerting.

“Is there a problem?”

The little guy straightened his shoulders. “Mister Klass good customer.” He pointed a finger at Logan. “He… e-mail order.”

Logan looked at the girl, but she just covered her mouth with her hand. Her olive-black eyes held amusement and affection. After a moment she said, “You must be Logan. I’m Min.” Her voice was bright and cheery with no trace of her grandfather’s thick accent.

He shook hands with Min, her strong grip in contrast with her delicate frame. She said something else to the man before grabbing a partially filled box. “I’ll go get the perishables, Grandfather.”

The man waved her off. “I only give what Mister Klass order.”

Logan looked at the box of oatmeal in his hand, finally understanding. “I can buy my own oatmeal.” Barely, but he hadn’t planned on sticking Caleb with the bill. He pulled a five-dollar bill from his wallet and tossed it on the counter.

The man spent an insulting amount of time examining the money before he rang up the order and placed the box in a plastic bag. Who would use counterfeit money to buy oatmeal?

Min reappeared, carrying the box. “I’m sorry about that.” She placed the now filled box on the counter. “Grandfather’s a bit protective of Caleb.” The glint in her eyes said Mr. Meng wasn’t the only one. “He’s a long time customer and he’s helping us set up a website.”

“Not a problem,” Logan said, thinking there was probably a reason for the caution. The thought pissed him off. Some asshole must have tried to get Caleb to pay for his booze or cigarettes. It was no wonder if Klass was hiring ex-cons to help his nephew.

Looking at the grocery bag, an idea occurred. “Can I borrow a marker?” He pried open the box of oatmeal and pulled out one of the brown packets.
Maple, the preferred flavor for giants.
After accepting the marker, he scribbled “in case of emergencies” on the packet and dropped it into the box. Min’s lips quirked as she took back the marker but she didn’t comment.

When an uncomfortably familiar female voice called out his name, Logan stifled a groan, not wanting to turn and face the hundred and ten pounds of hairspray and cheap perfume heading for him.
This day just keeps gettin’ better and better.
As he turned, he schooled his expression, thinking neutral preferable to irritated when dealing with his supervisor, if he wanted to keep getting a paycheck. “What’s up?”

“I had no idea you shopped here,” Ms. Foster said. “After the shift, I had a
craving
I just had to fulfill.” She tilted the plastic handbasket, drawing Logan’s eyes to the contents: a bag of limes, a jumbo-sized box of condoms, and a bottle of tequila so cheap even the college kids wouldn’t touch it. She tossed her too-red-to-be-natural hair over her shoulder and he felt a pang of sympathy for her boyfriend. He’d heard the man used to work at the warehouse. Logan hoped never to meet the guy, but not because he feared his reaction to his girlfriend’s obvious interest in another man. The guy
had
to know Foster slept with every man she could sink her claws into even if he wasn’t around to see her blatant flirting.

Ms. Foster’s hand on his chest drew his thoughts back to her. “It must be fate us meeting here. I normally never settle for shopping at a place like this,” she said, her nose wrinkling in disgust.

Logan heard Min mutter something that he guessed meant bitch in possibly Korean. He looked over his shoulder and mouthed the word “sorry,” feeling responsible for subjecting them to his supervisor. Min gave him a brief, sympathetic smile.

A manicured hand on his chin had Logan turning back toward Ms. Foster. She gave an annoyed huff. “As I was saying, it must be fate that I stopped here today. How about we get out of here and toss back a few?” By the sour smell of her breath, she’d already started with beer.

Logan had always been a working drunk, putting in his hours at the construction site before heading out to get plastered. He’d placed five different alarm clocks around his apartment that were loud enough to drag his ass out of a drunken stupor. He’d always made it to work on time, even if it meant hacking his guts into a garbage bag before getting out of his truck. Just a few beers to relax after work, a shot or three to forget about the asshole foreman. Rinse and repeat until he stumbled home. He saved the weekends for the real hard stuff, waking on Sunday morning smelling of booze and sex with no memory of how he’d gotten home or who he’d fucked. He was damn lucky not to have gotten seriously hurt, or caught a disease from one of the nameless people he’d slept with while trashed. With all those turbulent memories tumbling through his brain at the first whiff of alcohol, a quiet voice in the back of his head still whispered to him. Tequila was rough stuff, but a couple of beers wouldn’t be so bad. A six-pack of Corona would go great with the limes. He’d worked hard. Didn’t he deserve to kick back and relax? He could just take the night off and then get back on the program tomorrow. He shook his head, stepping back until his body jammed against the counter. “I can’t do that.”

“You better get those groceries home,” Min said, ignoring the scowl on Ms. Foster’s face. “It isn’t good for them to be out in this heat.”

Ms. Foster shoved her basket on top of a pile of oranges and walked away, stepping around the falling produce. When Logan could breathe again, he opened his wallet and pulled out a business card, handing it to Min as he turned around. “You see me buying liquor, I want you to call this guy, John Dabb, and let him know.”

She looked at his parole officer’s business card, her brows puckered. “Won’t you get in trouble?”

“Yeah.” Logan grabbed the box. “But not as much trouble as I’ll cause if you don’t.” He left before she could comment.

A
S
HE
lumbered up the stairs with the groceries, Logan wished Caleb’s building had an elevator. He’d worked his own shift and half of another guy’s today. He shook his head and gave himself a mental note to start using the stairs at his third-floor apartment to avoid sounding like such a pussy in his own head.

Caleb looked surprised when he opened the door, wearing another pair of obscenely tight sweatpants and a different Chicago Cubs T-shirt. The chilly air was enough to make his nipples as perky as a cheerleader during homecoming. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be back.” Caleb took the box from Logan and walked into the kitchen, setting it on the counter. “I went through half a dozen guys before Marco.”

Logan did not need that image in his head as he avoided looking at Caleb’s ass. “The money’s good and the job’s not hard.”

“Oh,” Caleb said, throwing up his hands. “I forgot last time.” Opening a breadbox, he pulled a twenty from a stack of bills in a bank envelope. Logan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Caleb obviously had no common sense.
Why don’t you hand over your wallet while you’re at it?

Handing the money to Logan, he said, “This is for travel expenses for today and last time.”

On Friday, Logan had been kicking himself for not remembering to get a receipt from the cab driver. He’d assumed Klass would make him track everything if he wanted to get reimbursed. “It didn’t cost me this much to get here,” he felt compelled to point out.

Caleb flapped a hand as if this were an insignificant detail. “Consider it hazard pay.” Before Logan could ask him what he meant by
that
, Caleb handed him a folded note.

After unfolding the paper, Logan said, “I didn’t realize instruction writing was genetic.”

“Ha, ha. What do they do in your family? Devour villagers?”

Logan smirked. “It’s not my fault you come from a family of midgets.” When Caleb scoffed, he added, “Sorry, I meant vertically challenged.” While Caleb grumbled about finding an axe, Logan read the note. In bold print, Caleb had written
Panic Attack
. Below the words was a list of instructions.
1. Don’t Freak Out.
Looking up, Logan said, “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

“Nope.” Caleb started to unpack the box of groceries. “I’m thinking of putting it on a T-shirt.”

Logan read the next instruction rather than stare at Caleb’s chest again.
2. Don’t try to help.
He felt a pang of relief and a stab of guilt seeing the words. He’d seen new fish in the pen melt down when the reality of prison life beat them over the head their first night. Many of them yelled at the injustice, some even cried, and a few just got real quiet, retreating into themselves. The quiet ones rarely lasted long, either taking their own life or by pushing someone else into doing it for them. Shaking off the memory, he read the last instruction.
3. Close the door on your way out.
“That’s it? I’m just supposed to walk out and leave? You don’t need me to call a doctor or nothing?”

“Trust me, it’s better that way. It’ll be over quicker if I don’t have someone around to see it. And there isn’t much a paramedic can do other than drug me up and tell me to stop breathing like a pregnant lady in labor.” His gaze grew distant and his voice sounded distracted. “It won’t kill me. It just feels that way.” He turned toward the fridge, placing a few items inside before returning to the box.