The alarm clock hadn't sounded that morning. Logan had barely heard so much as a squeak to the door's hinges—something Joy's bedroom door tended to do. What he did find was a cold breakfast of orange juice, water and painkillers beside him. No note though.
The orange juice tasted strongly of citric acid; it left a faint itch from the preservatives on his uvula.
Most days, Logan wouldn't pay much mind to these simple differences. To the fact his fridge stocked real orange juice and Joy's stocked an ecological facsimile that cost half as much as his and twice as much as the affordable, artificial swill most people drank. But today's hangover was different, and the discomfort of waking up naked and damp, carrying little memory after getting a black eye from Esteban and telling Olivia's cab to drive him to Joy's apartment rested heavily against his stomach. Or maybe that was indigestion. Though, he'd barely eaten anything last night.
He woke up feeling wrong.
Whatever his unease was, Logan was sure of one thing: he couldn't just waste away the hours, waiting to understand why he wasn't himself.
He kept the water in the shower freezing, steam would most likely make him feel lightheaded and sick. The few articles of clothing he'd stored at Joy's apartment were running low, the rest of his clothes were piled in the laundry basket which smelled damp like the sheets did. The clothes he'd worn to the club smelled of other people's sweat and sticky wine, among other things. It was then that he placed his discomfort. His vices had never truly disappeared, he'd never truly rid himself of his indulgent habits. Instead, they'd simply followed him to the place he felt most free of their yoke: Joy's apartment. And now her sheets and her clothes hamper were rank with his regrets.
Was it shame he was feeling then? Had his father been right that evening after his mother's wake when he'd called him weak, a disappointment? Was his need to run after a fight with Joy proof of that? Or was it the fact he'd never deleted Olivia Plemons's number?
Logan shook his head and dug around the bathroom cabinet for anti-swelling cream for his black eye. He could barely remember what he'd said to Esteban before the burly man swung his fist. All he recalled was the shrill laughter that followed, and looking up to see Olivia stick her leg out so Estaban would trip into the ice bucket behind him.
After coffee, and a quick skim of all the tabloid headlines that declared that Logan Delos was back on a bender, reformed bad-boy no more, he ordered a taxi to drive him to his offices.
"Logan, do you understand what I'm saying?" The Delos Corporate accountant spoke on the other end of the line while Logan sat in the back of a luxury cab, the windows blacked out.
He couldn't remember the accountant's name. He was new, a replacement for Todd (the old corporate accountant) after he'd done his obligatory time with the family. James Delos had a way of cleaning house every few years. Like with Josie. Kept his business secure, he'd say. Logan knew it was because his father was an untrusting son-of-a-bitch first and a sly businessman second. The role of 'father' was decidedly not on that list.
"Yes, I heard you the first four times you brought up the subject... Anthony," Logan rolled with the first name that popped into his head.
The line went quiet for a short while.
"It's Aaron, sir," the accountant said.
"Right. Aaron." Logan stifled a yawn. He grabbed the coffee cup from the holder and was displeased when it held no weight. "Perfect," he whispered to himself sardonically, placing the empty cup back.
YOU ARE READING
Core Drive: A Westworld Story
Fanfiction"Life is all memory, except for the one present moment that goes by you so quickly you hardly catch it going." ~Tennessee Williams The hosts have awakened and Westworld is a free-for-all. A woman with a fragmented memory awakens in the mesa to the...
