King Size

by Lexi Whitlow

  “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, calling me back to the present.

  I open my eyes on his gaze, fixed on me. His face is full of wonderment. His mouth half-opened, slack, confounded.

  His thrusts lift me, then draw me back, every effort bathing my body in distracting pleasure.

  Logan blinks and I see a spark of tension ignite behind his eyes. He’s close. He’s holding back. That knowledge makes my sex convulse, then tremble, building again.

  “Cum for me,” Logan urges. He presses in deeper, slowly, fixing a pace that drives the tide of my climax to the brink.

  We cum in a crushing tangle of damp hair, fist gripped sheets, trembling muscles and unintelligible groans, our bodies seared, arching, aching as one thing, bound together in perfect harmony.

  I’ve never wanted to be possessed by any man. I’ve never wanted to belong to anyone. I thought I knew what those words meant, and I didn’t want any part of them.

  Now… Now I’m learning a new language.

  Chapter 16

  Logan

  Despite her hectic job, and the fact that she wants to keep us on the down-low for awhile (which I understand completely, and don’t disagree with,) Bryn and I have managed to spend some quality time together over the last couple weeks, getting to know one another better, in every way.

  She’s as smart as she ever was, but funnier than I realized. Her humor is dry, spitfire fast, and precision-targeted. No one is spared, least of all herself. She’s taken to calling herself my gold digger girlfriend. I don’t exactly like it, but I’ll take girlfriend any way I can get it.

  The truth is that I’m head over ass in love with her, and smitten with her too. She makes me laugh. She brightens every day. These last few weeks have been the best, even with niggling worries and the relentless grind of lawyers and people popping up out of the woodwork looking for a hand-out.

  Yesterday a guy cornered me in the grocery store. I don’t know how he knew who I was, but he locked on me and started pitching this idea his son had for some cancer-curing dietary supplement that he’s sure will make billions, if they can only get it to market. I was in a hurry because I was trying to buy groceries to make dinner for Bryn, but I had to stop and give this guy my time. He was insistent, intense, and slightly unhinged. All the literature says that they’re the ones who become dangerous if dismissed or denied out-right. As he ran out of wind I nodded and said the idea sounded great, that I looked forward to learning more. I gave him one of those business cards from the foundation and told him to call me there.

  I got away from the guy, but it was unsettling to find myself that easily marked, then pinned down. It reminded me why Bryn and I need to keep things quiet. My lottery story still hasn’t died down yet. Some days it feels like it’s just getting ramped up.

  I have more important issues to focus on, however.

  I want Mom to meet Bryn, and I want Bryn to meet Drake.

  There’s an axiom in southern culture (maybe all cultures) that’s as certain as it was one hundred years ago. No matter how much you adore your beloved, it isn’t real until you bring her home to meet the family. I’m making it real today.

  The Buckeyes are playing Rutgers at home, and I’m smoking a pork tenderloin in honor of the anniversary of my first starting college game, and my first college touchdown. Call me sentimental, but these things matter.

  My Mom and Bryn are hanging together under the portico, sipping wine coolers, talking about God-only-know-what, and Drake is peeling potatoes beside me by the grill.

  Shawn, Drake’s occupational therapist, has done wonders along the lines of making him helpful. I’m not sure I would have ever trusted him with a sharp-edged blade, but Shawn turned the simple act of peeling potatoes into a game that his OCD mind has fixated on, perfecting to a high art form. I’ve never seen prettier peeled potatoes than the bowl-full in front of him. They’re perfect.

  “I think that’s plenty, buddy,” I say. “Will you bring me the foil pan from the kitchen, so I can get them on the grill?”

  Drake retrieves the pan without arguing, then stands close, recording me with his cell phone as I work spreading the potatoes flat in the pan, laying strips of bacon over them, then dousing the whole concoction with thin barbecue sauce.

  “Bryn is pretty,” Drake says, rocking gently on the balls of his feet. “Pretty.”

  “She really is,” I agree, glancing toward her. She’s watching us, her expression unreadable.

  Finishing with the potatoes, I ask Drake if he wants to toss the football. He sucks at all things sports related, has zero coordination, but he likes running around, chasing his fumbles, and it helps burn his limitless energy.

  I throw the ball and he fails to catch it, then it’s a scrum to see who can get to it first. Drake and I have played this game since I was two. I credit him with making me fast. Since he was so much bigger than me, I had to be fast to keep him from catching me and crushing me.

  I’m almost as fast as I used to be, but not nearly so agile since I’m running on titanium knees pinned in place, wired to bone with mesh. A lot of range of motion has escaped me, but I can still outrun Drake, and I can still dodge him well enough to keep him from catching me. That said, I usually let him win the scrum.

  Before it’s all said and done, we’re rolling around in the grass, laughing like a couple of fifth-graders.

  Drake hoots and hollers, spiking the ball, “I win! I win! You lose! You lose again!”

  He cackles like a little girl, arms flailing, hands flapping, his head bouncing like a bobble-head doll on a dashboard. Then he gets his cell phone out and runs around with the ball, making more videos.

  He entertains me to no end. He’s almost enough to cause me to forget my smoker, my tenderloin, and kick-off time. Almost, but not quite.

  We eat in ‘Mom’s house,’ in the back wing, because there’s a wide screen in the den and we can see it from the kitchen.

  Mom made her famous red cole slaw and cornbread to go with the barbecue and potatoes, and there’s banana pudding for dessert. I wouldn’t eat like this every day, but it’s perfect for football season, and it gives me a chance to emphasize to Bryn that my family life is far from the gourmet Whole Foods scene I tend toward when cooking for her. I like both.

  “This reminds me of college tail-gating,” Bryn observes with unveiled amusement.

  I slide her plate in front of her, then pass her a cold beer.

  “Good,” I quip. “One day maybe we’ll tail-gate it up to Columbus and do this anniversary in the stadium lot. I never got to do that, since I was always in the locker room or on the field.”

  She shakes her head, rolling her eyes, teasing me. She’s taking in my family in bits, observing.

  We eat until we’re stuffed, conversing, while trying to keep Drake focused on eating his meal instead of arranging potatoes in patterns on his plate, filming his set stage like Martin Scorsese.

  I stab a potato with a fork, snatching it away, messing up his artistry. He scowls at me, then quickly replaces the missing spud with another. We repeat the process several times until Drake realizes I’ve eaten half his potatoes.

  He rocks in his chair, slurping slaw, chewing big mouthfuls of tenderloin. I make it clear there’s no banana pudding for him until he eats at least half of everything on his plate.

  I catch Bryn eyeing me as I say this. She doesn’t quite know what to make of Drake—new people rarely do—but her expression is at least accepting. She’s not disgusted or put off by his presence inside our circle.

  Later on, after dinner, after the game is over and the Buckeyes lose to Rutgers with an embarrassing performance, Bryn snuggles under my arm while we listen to music, sipping wine from coffee cups.

  “Drake is lucky to have you,” she says out of nowhere. “It’s pretty clear he adores you, and you’re great with him.”

  I shrug off her observation. “I don’t know how lucky he is,” I respond. “No one with autism is lucky. Mom an
d I have done our best to bring him up, and keep him safe.”

  She huffs a small laugh. “He’s your older brother,” she says. “And you talk about bringing him up like you’re his parent, like he’s your responsibility. I wonder how many siblings feel that way?”

  “I don’t know. But he is my responsibility. I’ve always felt like he was mine to look out after. I always will. I would do anything in the world to protect him. He’s my brother.”

  Bryn lays her head against my shoulder, curling against me. She sighs. “If I’d ever had a brother, I’d want him to be just like you.”

  I laugh, nearly inhaling my wine. “That would be one inappropriate sibling relationship,” I say grinning. “Given every impure idea I’ve ever had about you.”

  She shakes her head. “You know what I mean.”

  I do, and it’s sweet, but I am so glad I’m not Bryn’s brother. That would suck.

  Chapter 17

  Bryn

  Monday mornings, I hate them. We’ve got a partners’ meeting at ten to discuss current and prospective caseloads, and I’ve got two packets to get to the clerk’s office by 4:00. It’s that much harder coming to the day job after all the progress we’re making getting the legal aid offices set up, not to mention the lovely weekend I spent with Logan.

  Logan’s Mom, Marilyn, is great. She cut quite a contrast to my own mother, who was always so chilly and distant. She’s warm, and obviously devoted to her sons. She was sweet to me, even bragging about what a hard worker Logan is, and how good he’s always been with Drake; almost as if she’s trying to sell me on the idea of him.

  She doesn’t need to.

  Watching Logan with Drake was amazing. Logan is attentive and patient, but he’s also kind. I don’t know why that surprises me, but I didn’t expect to see the deep, affectionate connection between them. I expected impatience and frustration, because sometimes that’s how Logan describes his experience with Drake, but it’s not what I witnessed. I saw Logan being playful and loving.

  One day he’s going to be an incredible father to a laughing brood of kids. With any luck at all they’ll never even know their good-fortune at being his. They’ll just assume that’s how all dads are, and go about their lives in blissful ignorance of the fact that not all fathers are kind and patient, and some aren’t even present.

  My mother and I had our issues, but I always knew my father was my best friend and my biggest cheerleader. I never questioned his motivations, or bothered to consider how advantaged I was to have him. It was only later when I was older, when I began to encounter families with very different realities than those I grew up with, did I begin to recognize the benefits of my upbringing.

  * * *

  The first odd thing I notice after arriving at work is that the admins are huddling, whispering among themselves. One of them gives me an odd look as I pass by on my way through the breakroom getting coffee, then the whole gaggle bursts out in giggles when they think I’m out of earshot.

  This does not bode well. Something’s up.

  I put it all together once the partners assemble at 10:00 A.M. for our weekly round-up.

  My father appears, taking his customary seat at the head of the table after everyone else has arrived. I note that Charles isn’t in attendance. His place is empty; highly unusual.

  “Before we get started on the review,” Daddy says. “I need to update everyone on a personnel change that’s just happened.”

  What?

  Everyone stops their usual fidgeting and phone checks, focusing intently on my father. This never happens. This is huge.

  “Charles Pearson is no longer with the firm,” Daddy continues. “As of nine this morning. He resigned. I accepted his resignation without reservation…”

  That’s code for, ‘he was going to be fired if he didn’t walk away’.

  “And now we have some scrambling to do to cover his cases, reach out to every client who has had contact with him in the last two years, and let them know what’s happening and who will be taking on their work. We should start with active, retainer clients first, working down the list until we’ve spoken with each one personally. I want partners on the phones. No juniors, and certainly no paralegals or admins. This is sensitive. I’ll be handling our top five billing clients myself. This needs to be done by the close of business today. It is our top priority.”

  The tension is so thick, the air so still, when my father ceases speaking, you could hear a pin drop in the room.

  I wonder what Charles did to get his sorry ass canned? I know it wasn’t my harassment complaint. I would have heard of it before it happened.

  We spend a good part of the rest of the meeting with the partners reassigning cases and strategizing how to redistribute the work load. When that’s done, it’s time to discuss new business. My mind is still reeling, trying to figure out what happened, and what it all means. I’m barely paying attention to the new business discussion, until I hear the name Logan Chandler tossed out. The next thing I hear is paternity suit.

  “That’s sordid,” my father replies to the brief description of the case he’s just been told of.

  I’m still trying to catch up.

  “We should probably take it just on its PR potential alone,” one of the senior partners observes. “It’s bound to make some news.”

  “Only if there’s anything to it,” my father replies. It’s clear he doesn’t like it, and I’m at least happy for that.

  He turns to Dan Brown, the attorney who’s handling the inquiry.

  “Is she willing to do DNA?”

  The attorney shrugs. “I had a ten-minute call with her, we didn’t get that far. I got background on the relationship between her and Chandler. The timing seems to fit if she’s telling the truth. She said she never pursued it before because she knew he didn’t have a pot to piss in, but now that he’s rich, she feels like he’s obligated.”

  My father nods. “I’m inclined to agree with her, if she’s telling the truth.” His brow folds. “When did this come in? Who took the call?”

  “She called on Friday and asked for Charles. He’d been expecting the call and told his admin to take the details and he’d get back to her on Monday. His assistant kicked it to me this morning, since all new business is supposed to go through my office for assignment anyway.”

  Oh god. This is awful. This is worse than awful. My house of cards is coming down around my head, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  “Daddy!” I call, following him on heel as soon as the meeting breaks up. “Daddy, I need to talk to you.”

  He barely pauses as I fall in line beside him.

  “It’ll have to wait, Bryn,” he says dismissively. “I’ve got a lot to do and not a lot of time this morning.”

  “This is important too,” I say, hearing the edge in my own tone. “Conflict of interest important, and more.”

  He stops, his expression shifting to something even more grim than the one he had a moment before.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Your office,” I say. “Closed door.”

  My father’s office is large and well-appointed, with plenty of dark hardwoods, and floor-to-ceiling walls lined with glassed-in bookshelves. It’s imposing, as it’s intended to be. When you’re in there, facing him at his giant oak desk, sitting in the small chair while he occupies the big chair, you’re supposed to feel insignificant in contrast to his looming prestige.

  Unusually the place doesn’t have that effect on me, but now I’m feeling it.

  “Speak,” he insists, folding his hands in front of him, giving me every iota of his attention.

  I take a breath, feeling my heart pound in my chest.

  “The new case, the paternity suit,” I say. “Against Logan Chandler. I… um…”

  “Yes?”

  Good lord. Why is this so hard?

  “I… um…” I huff in another breath, attempting to calm myself. “The roses in my office a couple weeks back. They were fro
m him. We’ve been seeing each other for a while now,” I blurt out, hoping to get that part over and done with so I can just go ahead and cop to the rest of it before he blows an artery.

  Daddy blinks. He starts to say something, then thinks on it, turning his head to one side oddly. His shoulders drop, and he sits back in his chair, a question crossing his mind. I see his wheels turning.

  “How long is a while?” he finally asks me.

  “About a month,” I say.

  He nods, flexing his jaw. “Okay,” he replies. “That’s not that big of a problem. We can refer the case…”

  “There’s more Daddy,” I say, my breath catching. “I’ve done something that… well… in light of what happened with Charles, and everything going on, you need to know about it. I’ve kept it to myself for too long.”

  Now his expression shifts to one I’ve never seen on his face before. It’s almost deer-in-the-headlights, what the fuck can happen next?

  “What?” His tone is sharp, edged with dread.

  “I’ve set up a 501(c)(3) with a few other attorneys’ around town. It’s a legal aid group to serve the low-income community...”

  If the furrow in his brow cuts any deeper, it may leave a permanent scar.

  “…and we’ve gotten funding from the Chandler Foundation. Four million to start-up, with more potentially, depending upon need.”

  This intelligence bowls him over. I’ve never done anything to truly shock my father; he’s ill-equipped to process this.

  He’s speechless, contemplating what I’ve said. He’s trying to work out how this has happened right under his nose without him discovering it.

  “I kept it secret. Everyone involved is sworn to secrecy until the press releases are ready to drop.”

  “You did all this, on your own, and you got funded… Were you seeing Chandler before he gave you four million dollars, or…?”

  “We got approved for the grant before Logan and I started seeing each other,” I say, knowing now that’s the truth. At the time I didn’t know it, but Logan came clean with the fact he approved it long before we ever went out, and would have, even if I hadn’t been involved. “We were approved on the merits of the grant application, not anything having to do with Logan and me.”