Core Drive: A Westworld Story

Reverie 2015-J: Logan

Walking out of the club was like breaching out of a haze. The cold air stung at his cheeks and sobriety smacked him at the back of his head. Logan regretted every little word that came out of his mouth. He had made an ass of himself, and for what? The end result was still the same. He was still alone.

Joy had blown through his life like a relentless hurricane, with her large eyes and soft skin and constant swearing. And just like that, she wasn't going to be in it any longer. He'd lost her and, O how he solemnly disliked the taste of rejection. It was bitter. And the uncomfortable tension in his balls from the cold made his spine curl. The drunk patrons waiting in line to get into the bar, all handsy and laughing loudly, isolated him. Made him feel alone. And he wasn't nearly drunk enough to not feel sorry for himself.

As he waited for the self-driving cab to pull up, Logan reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a tin of nicotine strips. He preferred a cigarette in the cold weather, but they were officially banned for consumers. He still had a packet stashed in his bedroom somewhere, but he didn't have the patience to last the entire cab ride nursing his feelings.

Suddenly, a pair of warm hands grabbed hold of his before he could finish unscrewing the cap off the tin. Just like that, he was smiling.

It's not long now, he thought to himself, Joy's hand gripped firmly in his own as he counted the floors with the elevator.

They hadn't talked much the whole cab ride. There was a feeling in the air, one neither of them wanted to chase away by saying the wrong thing. It lingered like the afterimage of lightning against a dark sky. Bright, fading, but sudden and thrilling. If he could go one night without fucking up before the spark faded, he'd have done it, he'd have gotten Joy back.

The elevator doors slid open. The honeyed colour of the hallway lights was warming. He squeezed Joy's hand, a question, a wish. Would she stay with him or had she changed her mind?

Joy looked up at him, drawing Logan into the greens and browns and amber hues of her eyes. Smiling, she pulled him towards the door. From there, they were all heat and desire.

Hunger, that sexual primal thing, diffused through each kiss. The alcohol had diluted to a calm buzz in their systems, and that yearning that knotted itself in Logan's gut as arousal untangled into something far more powerful and alien. When their lips met, it was amorous, sensual and slow. Soft lips and seeking tongues. His hands roamed Joy's body, unable to get enough, to feel enough. It was like he was affirming her presence.

"What did you mean?" Joy broke the kiss to whisper in his ear. "In the club."

His mind was spinning, reeling from the fact that, somehow, they'd found their way to his rug in front of the faux-fireplace.

"You said we were both in the flesh," she finished, tangling her fingers in his hair. He leaned into the touch, tilting back and closing his eyes.

"You know," was all he managed to croak out.

"Tell me."

"I dreamed of you. I rarely dream, but I dreamed of you," he positioned himself above her, deft hands unbuttoning her blouse, lips leaving their mark on her exposed flesh as he went lower. "They would be so vivid, so lifelike. Sometimes I would know I was dreaming and I'd hope to never wake up. You were here, where you belong, with me, in my arms. I was haunted and you aren't even a ghost." Then, without meaning too, and much sadder than he'd hoped, he revealed something darker about himself. Something he kept hidden. "I've only been haunted by one other woman in my life. Now it's different. Now there's you."

Her fingers found his jaw, leveraged him up so she could look at him as she spoke, "Who was she?" For all Logan could gather, there wasn't jealousy or curiosity behind her eyes. There was something more opaque, harder to grasp. Such a simple question, yet without a simple answer. No, that wasn't right. The answer was simple. But it was also painful, a lump in his throat that persisted from adolescence to adulthood, making it difficult for him to speak on this matter. It wasn't until Joy that he realised hauntings could come in different forms. Before, it had been in the form of something lacking. Now, it was a more tender form, almost like an ache that felt good to have even when it didn't.