King Size

by Lexi Whitlow

  “Shut the fuck up, Chandler!” he shouts, pressing the barrel of the gun tight to Bryn’s temple.

  I smile at him, taking a step forward.

  His hand starts to shake.

  “You’re that guy on the news everybody wants to kick the shit out of. A weak man, who hurts women, and won’t take on somebody his own size. C’mon. Show me how tough you are. Or are you scared?”

  I take another step forward. I’m going to separate him from Bryn and our baby if I have to make him shoot me.

  He levels the gun on me, shoving Bryn to the left. She falls, scrambling backwards.

  In the distance, I hear police sirens.

  “I’m not scared of you,” Charles shouts, his voice cracking. He grips the gun with both hands now. It’s pointed directly at my head.

  “You probably should be,” I say, my tone low, seething, taunting.

  The thing that separates a good quarterback from a great one, isn’t strength, or even speed. It’s the ability to read what’s going to happen before it happens, and act accordingly. I see him twitch. I read it and I act, launching myself at him, toward his left, vaulting between his gun and Bryn as he shifts it in her direction, his finger pulling hard on the trigger.

  I hear the deafening bang, feeling the slide move like a jackhammer in my hand. I seize the gun and the hands gripping it, rolling both down to the floor. The whole dance happens in slow-motion, like a sidelines instant replay.

  I have him underneath me, tackled, but the gun is still in play.

  My knee comes down on his arm. I feel the snap of bones, hear the crunching in my ears. His hand flies open, the gun flings free, spinning away.

  Then it’s game-on. I punch him in the head again and again, until the sound of thumping boots and voices order me to cease.

  “Police! Police! Lay down! Down on the ground.”

  For a moment the police are unsure if I’m the bad guy or not. Bryn, through frantic tears, explains.

  Something’s not right.

  I look down at my belly; there’s an itchy sting—and blood. A lot of blood. More flowing.

  “We need an EMT unit,” one of the cops says, shoving me roughly down onto the floor, pulling my knees up. He says something into his radio. “…GSW… white male, mid-20’s, abdomen…”

  He and another officer hover over me, looking down. One of them presses a towel to my belly. “Are you hit anywhere else?”

  My head spins. I’m disoriented.

  Bryn is beside me, her hands enclosing mine, tears dripping on my face.

  She’s as beautiful today as she was the first time I laid eyes on her in eighth grade. I love her more now than I loved her yesterday or last month, or ten years ago. She’s the only girl I ever loved.

  “Stay awake,” she insists in her bossy way. “Don’t you leave me. God, Logan. Please don’t you leave me. Stay with me.”

  I reach up with my free hand, clumsily touching her beautiful face.

  “I love you,” I say, feeling the air slip from my lungs. “That’s all I wanted to say. And to tell you I’d do my best to be a proper father, if you’ll have me. I love you, and our kid… I love you two more than anything…”

  Darkness. Droning noise wrapped in silence. Sirens off in the distance. Then black nothingness.

  Chapter 29

  Bryn

  “He put himself between the bullet and me. He put his life down for me.”

  I’m still in shock. My clothes are smeared with Logan’s blood, blood he shed to protect me and our baby.

  Logan’s mother holds me, rocking me in her arms as we huddle together under the harsh, green-tinted lights of the Emergency Room waiting area. Her touch is soothing.

  “He’ll be okay,” she tries to reassure, I know as much for herself as for me. “He’s a tough boy. He’s taken more hits than you or I can count, and he always come up swinging.”

  She’s so calm. She’s a pillar of strength. When I called her, I was crying, trying to explain. She listened, parsing my words, finding the substance between the lines of frantic hysteria.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

  She lifts me up, turning me to face her. Her expression is serious.

  “This is not your fault,” she states. “You understand me? You didn’t cause this. Don’t you dare think that. This was his fault. A man with a gun came to your home and he would have killed you. You didn’t do that. You didn’t do anything to cause this.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Logan did what he had to do to protect you, and your child.”

  She knows.

  “He told me everything.” Her face softens. “He loves you. He told me what he said and what he thought, after coming back from Columbus when you first told him about the baby. But he knows better now. He was coming to beg you to forgive him. He loves you so much.”

  A frazzled looking resident, her green scrubs stained with fresh blood, approaches us with a questioning expression.

  “Logan Chandler’s family?” she asks.

  We nod, standing, waiting anxiously for whatever it is she can tell us.

  “He’s stable,” she says. “Heading up to surgery now. He’s got a lower bowel perforation and trauma to the left kidney. He’s lost a lot of blood. The good news is that there’s nothing that can’t be repaired. He’s fit and healthy, so we’re optimistic.”

  She tells us to go home and come back in a few hours.

  “He’ll be in surgery at least three hours, in recovery an hour more. As soon as we’re ready to move him to a room, we’ll call you. Go get something to eat, change clothes, come back later.”

  I don’t want to leave. Neither does Marilyn. Before we can even think about what to do, I’m approached by a Raleigh police officer who asks me if I can give a preliminary statement about what occurred.

  I called my father right after calling Logan’s mother. He appears in the ER, looking as frantic as I feel. In a second he has me in a tight bear hug, holding me close, smoothing my hair.

  “Oh, my sweet girl. My daughter. You’re okay, I’m here,” he whispers, not letting me go. “My sweet brave girl.”

  Daddy and Marylin sit with me as I detail for the police everything that happened. One plain clothes detective quizzes me and listens while two others take notes, also recording the conversation. I try to lay it out, blow-by-blow, not leaving anything out, explaining how Logan put himself in the line of fire, how he disarmed Charles, then immobilized him.

  They listen carefully, letting me tell the story at my own pace.

  “And then the police showed up,” I say. “Charles was in custody. It took a minute for anyone to realize Logan was shot.”

  “And what’s your relationship to Logan Chandler?” the detective asks me.

  What is our relationship? It’s too complicated to define.

  “Boyfriend,” I say. “More than that.”

  The cop nods. “And Charles Pearson?”

  “We went to high school together,” I say. “We worked together until recently.”

  “You never dated or had a romantic relationship?”

  I shake my head. “No. Never.”

  After the interview with Raleigh P.D., Daddy goes to my apartment to fetch some clean clothes. By the time Logan is out of surgery, his mom, my father, and I are waiting for him as he’s brought to his room.

  Logan is groggy, buzzed from the drugs, feeling no pain. He grins up at me as I grip his hand firmly in my own.

  “Flesh wound,” he jokes. “I’m good as new in a day or two.”

  If only that was true.

  “Hey Bryn,” he says, his words thick, heavy on his tongue. “I have a shitty role model for how to be a dad, but I wanna try. I love you. I love you and that little bump you’re working on. I may suck at being a dad, but I’ll do my best.”

  “Shut up,” I tell him. “You need to rest. We’ll settle all that after—”

  “No… No… We need to settle i
t now. I wish I had a ring, but I don’t. I’ll get you the biggest damn diamond ring money can buy.”

  Logan squeezes my hand tightly.

  “Marry me,” he says. “Marry me and make me happy. I think you love me even if you won’t say it. I think you do.”

  I do. I love him. I’m terrified of saying it, but I do.

  “I love you,” I admit. “More than anything.”

  Logan grins at me through the haze of painkillers. “Good. Finally. Alright. That’s a yes. I’ll take it.” He laughs, barely able to focus.

  He asked me to marry him. Of course, he’s just out of surgery, loaded on drugs. His proposal won’t hold up in a court of law, but I’m not interested in legal bindings. My interest lies in what Logan Chandler genuinely feels, and that’s plain enough.

  “I don’t need a diamond ring,” I say. “I just need you to get better. Our kid needs a father—a father like you. We can do without the bling, but you have to be around for Pee-Wee football, sixth-grade school dances, and proms.”

  “There’s no fucking way any son of mine is playing football,” Logan insists. “No. My kid is gonna be a heavy hitter in the chess club.”

  We both laugh. A moment later a nurse appears.

  “Mr. Chandler needs his rest now.”

  We leave Logan temporarily. I kiss him goodbye, promising to return as early as they’ll let me in. Marilyn squeezes his hand. “Come home soon,” she says. “Drake needs you. We all need you.”

  Chapter 30

  Logan

  She tastes of strawberries and ice cream; sweet like a tropical day. Her tongue is hot, seeking mine. Her lips, full and soft, are as ripe as summer fruit; perfect for biting, so that’s what I do, stealing gentle nips between deep kisses, breathing her into me while we make love in broad daylight, the windows and doors open, an ocean breeze blowing in from just outside.

  Bryn rises, then moves slow and easy on top of me while I watch her. My hands cup her ass pulling her closer. She rides me at her pace, her hips rocking steady, her full belly resting on mine.

  She’s soft and round, heavy on me. And she’s slick and tight, her pussy sucking my cock in deep as she moves.

  “You’re so beautiful,” I whisper, feeling her beauty in my bones and skin so deep it aches. Her body, full with our baby, round and tender, is intoxicatingly sexy to me. Her scent makes me weak. She owns me, mind, body, and soul.

  When she cums, it’s with shuddering muscles deep inside her and high-pitched cries rising in the air—and then she laughs that tinkling, bell-like laugh, her head thrown back, a wide grin animating flushed cheeks and shining eyes.

  I come soon after, calling her name between gasps, my fingers digging into her ass, feeling every inch of myself wrapped up in the bliss of her sweet, tight heat. She obliterates me—every single time—leaving me mindless, heaving for sense and for oxygen. Being with Bryn is like going to heaven. Each visit seems too brief, and when it’s over I just want to go back.

  She slips down beside me, resting her head on her elbow, watching me attempt to recover myself. She’s smiles, lifting a hand to my chest, fingers tracing my newest ink.

  The tattoo is just letters and numbers. L.E.C. 12/21 E.B.B. Our initials and the month and day we were married.

  As soon as I was released from the hospital, Bryn and I both agreed that it would be an excellent idea for us to get out of town for an extended vacation. The media was all over both of us after what happened with Charles Pearson, and the last thing either of us wanted was more attention, or any more press about my lottery win. Tim suggested we disappear until the trial comes up, which is a few months off yet. We’ll go back to Raleigh before the baby is born, then deal with the trial. After that, we’ll see.

  Whatever happens, whatever we decide to do, one thing is for certain: Charles Pearson is going to jail for a very long time.

  “You’ll need another one soon,” Bryn says, tapping my tattoo with her finger.

  She takes my hand, resting it on her belly. The baby is kicking. He’s going to town. He’s an athletic little fucker. I call the baby he. Bryn says, ‘she’s a girl.’ It doesn’t really matter to me as long as she’s healthy and safe.

  I roll on my side, facing my wife. “I love you,” I whisper, leaving my hand where it rests, employing my fee one to caress her beautiful face, gently pushing loose strands of hair away from her eyes. “I love you so much.”

  Bryn’s sleepy eyes blink, smiling. “We love you more.”

  She’s always gotta one-up me, always having the last word. I let her have it.

  Chapter 31

  Bryn

  Logan puts the phone down, shaking his head, a strange expression coloring his face. He lifts Elliot from my arms, slipping him into the baby carrier, strapped to his chest.

  “Everybody ready to go?” he asks.

  We’re all, almost ready. I heft the diaper bag onto his shoulder.

  “Who was that?” I ask. He was on the phone a long time. We’re about to head out with the kids to fly home for Christmas with the family, and the call made us all wait.

  “A guy doing a book about the lottery curse,” Logan replies, half-smiling. “He’s working on it with Tim.”

  “Did Tim give the guy your number?” I ask, shocked. It’s been years since we had any lottery inquiries. People have—thankfully—moved on.

  “I told him it would be okay,” Logan admits. “Tim’s vetted him. He checked out.”

  Mattie runs into the room, breathless, upset. “I can’t find Googie,” she whines, her little lower lip jutted out in a pout.

  I point to her suitcase. “Googie is packed, and will stay packed ‘til we’re at Papa’s house. Understood?” Googie is Mattie’s favorite stuffed bear.

  Mattie nods. She has Logan’s crooked, sweet smile. She’s got his beautiful eyes too, crystal clear blue like arctic ice, and his straight black hair and perfect skin.

  “I think we have everything and everyone now.” Margaret says, coming into the kitchen with Jeffrey on her hip. Margaret is our nanny and I’m certain that without her, I’d have lost my mind years ago. She keeps up with the kids and the house like the expertly trained, professional she is. She’s Swedish, with a Master’s in psychology and a Bachelor’s in early childhood development. She keeps me sane.

  We’re headed to Raleigh for Christmas, to spend two weeks with my dad, Marilyn, and Drake. They usually come to us when we all get together, but Christmas is special. I’ve always felt that it’s better for the kids when it’s done at home. For us, home is Raleigh. The rest of the time we split between Aspen, Jekyll Island, and our place in New York. Our kids are used to the nomadic lifestyle, but soon we’re all going to have to learn to settle. Mattie starts school next fall. We’re finally going home for good.

  And I’m starting my own law firm where I was always meant to do it. I’ll be taking pro-bono cases and orchestrating a staff of people who all want to do the same.

  On the drive to the airport I consider Logan’s phone call, and the curse.

  It’s ironic that an inquiry has come about all that just now. We’re seven years from the lottery win, and married seven years. Our anniversary is in just a few days. Logan and I have both made a lot of changes in our lives to distance ourselves from the curse of that first wretched year.

  I’m still peripherally involved with Wake County Legal Aid, but just as a board member. I’ll be moving on to something bigger, without Logan’s name attached. We’ll be better off that way—without the crazies following us around.

  Logan is still involved in his foundation, but he leaves most of the decisions to the professionals. He steers clear of public events, insisting on keeping his name out of press releases. In Aspen and Georgia, where we have homes, our neighbors think Logan married well, and I’m the daughter of some old-money North Carolina blue-blood. He does nothing to alter anyone’s perceptions on that account. For his sake and my own, neither do I.

  Logan spends his days being a
fantastic father to our kids, and restoring classic cars in his spare time, selling them to rich people at an obscenely high mark-up. Whenever we’re at Jekyll Island where his shop is located, he’s always up to his elbows in motor oil and grime, just like before his lottery win. He’s happy tinkering with the cars and happier when one drives away with a new owner, leaving him with a few thousand dollars of honestly earned cash in his wallet.

  Something about working for himself causes him not to mind the grease under his fingernails. I never minded it. I love him, just as he is.

  Logan slips his hand over my thigh as I drive us to the airport. “I can’t wait to see Drake again,” he says.

  I know he misses his Mom and Drake keenly, just as I miss my father and Claire.

  That’s another thing that’s changed in our absence. At some point, not long after Logan and I left town, Marilyn and my dad got together. You could have knocked Logan and me both over with a feather when they told us they were moving in together. It wasn’t a bad thing—just a weirdly unexpected thing. We never imagined they’d have anything in common, especially considering my dad’s involvement in Drake Sr.’s demise, but as it turned out, they’re a beautiful couple. Marilyn is a perfect foil for his over-bearing authoritativeness. She laughs at him, then lovingly reminds him who’s in charge.

  Daddy was never accustomed to having much warmth or affection in his life. My mother was the perfect wife for a young attorney on the way up. She was from a good family, attractive, socially well-connected, but she was chilly, snobbish, and more interested in her clubs and functions than she ever was in either of us.

  Marilyn is her opposite in most respects. Seeing her with my dad, holding his hand, straightening his collar, reaching out and stroking his shoulder absently when he’s not even paying attention—then seeing that expression of affection pass between them—it makes my heart full of happiness for him. They married about five years ago, and I’ve never seen my father as content as he is now.

  They’ve got what Logan and I have. They had to wait a lot longer for it than we did.