by Lexi Whitlow
“On my cloud drive. On Google.” He says. “Thirty-six hours, twenty-two minutes, sixteen seconds of video on August thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Fifteen is the day Logan came home from hospital. I recorded it.”
Yeah.
I see Charles face fall, all ideas of framing the retard and getting a huge settlement, slipping through his fingers.
It takes less than ten minutes for Drake to locate the precise videos he’s claimed are in his storage site on the cloud. They’re date and time-stamped from his smartphone at the time of recording. On August fourteeth, he was on a field trip. He wasn’t stuck at home with Bethany, assaulting her. The day before he was with Mom at the hospital with me. The day after, he and Mom brought me home. A day later, Bethany was let go.
Even better than that, though, he’s got video captured from his laptop cam of Bethany calling him a useless retard, laughing at him, threatening him, even smacking him. She had no idea she was being recorded. If I’d known how he was treated, I’d have done something about it long ago. But as it stands, Pearson and his client’s case has crumbled to dust under the expert testimony and evidence supplied by a man with an IQ only measurable—by our limited standards—in the double digits. He’s smarter than any of us, in his own way.
‘Don’t underestimate Drake,’ Mom said. She was right. Mom knows best.
As Pearson makes his way out, I see he’s a fuming wreck of angst and frustration. I can smell his bottled rage. I walk out behind him.
“Hey, we’re headed to Columbus tomorrow to put the stake in your last hollow effort,” I call out. “I hope you haven’t put a lot of money behind this last play, because there’s no way you’re gonna win this. You’re full of shit, and you know it.”
His jaw flexes. He regards me spitefully, climbing into his car.
“And by the way, I got the girl too. Bryn is mine. She’s all that, and then some.”
“She’s a slut,” Pearson hurls at me. “A slut who will get her due, just like you. One way or another. If it takes every last card in my hand.”
I grin at him triumphantly, watching him pull away, headed down the drive toward the street.
We beat that bastard today. My brother beat him with indisputable facts. My perfectly damaged, broken brother, who can’t quite talk right or put things together. He beat that son of a bitch at his own game.
“Ice cream!” I announce, walking back in, throwing my arms around my brother. “Goodberry’s frozen custard? Or Baskin Robbins? You pick.”
“Goodberry’s!” Drake laughs, rocking fast in his chair, looking at the floor, but smiling. “Goodberry’s! Goodberrys!”
“You got it buddy,” I say. “Anything you want.”
I’d hand-make the ice cream right here in the house, if that’s what Drake wanted. Luckily, he’s easy to please. Tim, Mom, Drake, and I, pile into Tim’s rented SUV for the trip just a few blocks away to Goodberry’s Frozen Custard shop. In truth, Goodberry’s is the best ice cream available on planet Earth. It’s the stuff of legend.
The only thing lacking is Bryn. I wish she was here to enjoy this moment with us. She’s not. Sadly, I won’t have an opportunity to be with her again until I get back from Ohio. Tim and I are on a plane tonight, so we can be in Columbus tomorrow morning at nine sharp for the second round of DNA tests.
Chapter 23
Bryn
I despise the annual pelvic exam. It’s a necessary form of physical insult that I wish could be banished to the pyre. But, if I want contraceptives, I’m required to endure the invasion.
“When was your last period?” Meredith, my OB-GYN asks, despite the fact that the general date is provided in the paperwork lying on the desktop in front of her.
I can’t recall the precise date. “A month or so, give or take.”
She’s done the cervical scrape. She’s got a urine sample. All I need now is a prescription that will end our dependence on latex.
There’s a light knock at the door. A nurse’s assistant enters the room laying a printout in front of Meredith.
“Oh,” she says, looking at the paper. “Okay.”
Meredith looks up at me blinking, a strained smile on her face. “So… I can’t put you on the pill or recommend the Depro shot.”
Why?
“You’re pregnant,” she says. “Are you on pre-natal vitamins? You need to be.”
Holy shit.
“Judging by your hormone levels, it looks like about ten weeks.”
Oh no.
* * *
Logan is in Ohio dealing with whatever drama that entails. I’m here, alone in my solitary apartment considering everything that’s now laid on my plate.
This is all coming at me fast and disorganized. I thought I had a grand plan.
It was always my career, first. I was going to do great things for deserving people, and get myself established. Then, when I had time, maybe settle into a comfortable relationship with the right man. Later—much later—we would consider the idea of kids. A child is way down the line in my list of plans.
Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.
I think John Lennon said that.
What now?
Everything is way out of order. Nothing is happening the way I imagined.
What is Logan going to think?
He says he loves me. He’s so patient with Drake. I know one day, he’ll make a great father.
But we’ve only just begun.
It’s our baby. Tiny and dependent on me to do everything right. Whatever happens, whatever anyone says or does, I have to keep this baby safe. She’s growing slowly inside me. She’s tethered to me. She’s mine; my own flesh and blood. And Logan’s too.
Chapter 24
Logan
The last six years haven’t been kind to Samantha Benjamin. When I knew her, she was a not-very-bright, but flirty girl with a nice ass and big tits, who was an enthusiastic Buckeye Booster. Today, watching her through the two-way glass (it looks like a hung mirror from her side, inside the hotel conference room,) she looks frumpy and haggard. The curly haired kid she’s dragging alongside her just looks scared.
Tim has set this up perfectly. This hotel suite is generally used by advertising agencies to conduct focus group research. They bring in people to ask questions about products or to view ads, then observe their reactions, recording their body language—all without the people knowing they’re being watched.
Samantha Benjamin doesn’t know she’s being observed by anyone except a lab tech.
“Is Logan here?” she asks the women. “I was told Logan was going to be here.”
“I collected Mr. Chandler’s samples earlier this morning,” the tech replies with a sweet smile. She looks down at the little boy. “Bradley?”
He peers up at her with big brown eyes, nodding shyly.
Brown eyes.
“This won’t hurt a bit,” the tech says, producing a plastic wrapped swab on a stick. “I’m just going to—”
“Oh, no!” Samantha says, interrupting. “He’s allergic to something in the swabs. Something they treat the cotton with. I brought his samples.”
She produces a baggie from her purse, pushing it toward the tech.
“What the hell?” Tim asks.
The tech looks at the baggie, then at Samantha. “I’m sorry, that’s not how this is done.” She gives Samantha a sympathetic smile. “I can use a metal scraper. It’s not quite as gentle as the swabs, but just as effective at getting a clean sample, and no risk of allergic reaction.”
“But I brought our samples,” Samantha insists. “I don’t want a stranger poking around in my kid’s mouth. This isn’t what we agreed to.”
The tech pauses. “Excuse me, I understood this regards a paternity case. This is how it’s done.”
“I agreed to give hair and fingernail samples, not this,” she digs in.
“Okay,” the tech replies, turning toward her kit on the table. “If that’s what you prefer, althoug
h the results are not nearly as accurate.”
When she turns back to the boy, she’s got tweezers in hand. “This may sting a little,” she warns.
“No!” Samantha insists again, shoving the baggie toward her. “These samples.”
Tim turns to me, “Did she ever cut your hair?”
What?
Oh shit.
I nod. “She’s a stylist, and manicurist. She did half the offensive line’s hair.”
How did that not occur to me before?
Tim picks up the phone on the desk, dialing the room on the other side of the glass.
The tech begs Samantha’s pardon to answer.
“Take the samples she’s trying to give you,” Tim says. “We think it’s Logan’s hair and nails. Then, you remind her that she signed a release giving us permission to take fresh samples, and if she refuses, her case collapses, and we file countersuit. Make her understand.”
A minute into that conversation, Samantha Benjamin erupts into a full-on, volcanic melt-down. She screams at the tech, hurling insults and obscenities. The kid takes a step back, then three more, his expression flattening to wary alert. I know that look. I know what he’s feeling. I took the same attitude when I was a kid whenever my father came unhinged.
“Fucking Logan!” she shouts at the sky. “You fucking asshole! I know you’re here! Pearson said you needed to see us in person. Come out you fucking coward! Come meet your son!”
Maybe I am a coward, but there’s no way I’m moving a muscle. No way in hell I’m presenting myself before that gold-digging train wreck of a human being.
The tech working on the other side of the wall deserves a medal and a couple gold stars. It takes her awhile, but she manages to calm Samantha down.
“We’ll use both samples,” she assures Samantha. “Whatever is the closest match, that’s what will be used in court.”
That’s true, but not-very-bright Samantha interprets the meaning a little differently than the reality of how things actually work. Samantha allows the tech to swipe the inside of the boy’s cheek with a metal scraper, then pluck a few strands of hair for good measure.
“It’s astonishing to me that Pearson thought he’d get away with this,” Tim says, after the show is over.
“I doubt he did,” I respond. “I think he was banking on the case against Drake. This was just about annoying me.”
* * *
It’s a two day wait for the DNA analysis to be processed and reported. I know, in my head, how it’s going to go. Nevertheless, the suspense puts me on edge. On the flight home all I can think about is how many women Pearson managed to convince to come after me. I screwed a lot of women between freshmen and senior year. I wonder how many more are waiting in the wings for their shot. My mind races to the litany of court cases Tim is fending off, all the people coming at me from every angle, trying to claw off a piece of what I’ve got.
I remember back when I first won this windfall and I marveled that there was no way I could possibly spend it all. Now I see why lottery winners go broke. I’ve spent at least a cool million in legal fees just this month. If this keeps up, the money will be gone. My lawyers will have it all.
“How long does this last?” I ask Tim as our plane circles the airport in preparation for landing. “Months, years? Does it ever stop?
He regards me with sympathetic resignation. “It slows down, but it doesn’t stop,” he says. “It’s worse for you, because you had a pretty high-profile life during your football years. If you could change your name and move somewhere else, that might stem the tide, but as it is, you’ll always attract a nutcase here and there. Pearson just happens to be a nutcase with a grudge and a law license, so it’s been especially bad.”
He’s never going to quit.
As soon as we’re on the ground my phone catches up to the cell network. I hear a couple pings from a missed call and a text. Both are from Bryn.
Bryn: Call me as soon as you can. I hope we can catch up. We should talk. Dinner?
I would love nothing more in the world than to spend the evening unloading, then letting Bryn tell me I’m feeling sorry for myself, and I should buck-up. She’s an excellent listener, and then she tells me the truth. She’s very grounding. She doesn’t pander. It’s one of the things I love most about her.
Today has given me an uncharitable outlook on women, generally speaking. I need some quality time with a quality woman to improve my mood.
I reply to her text.
Logan: On the ground now. On my way. I need a drink and a hug.
* * *
Bryn meets me at the door with a cut crystal rocks glass half-filled with whiskey, and an expression begging for conversation. I take the glass, down a generous swig, then set my bags on the floor.
“I didn’t feel like cooking,” she says, ushering me in. “I ordered Chinese. It’ll be here in ten minutes. Hope that’s okay.”
It’s fine with me. I wrap my arms around her, hugging her tightly, drawing her fragrance into my lungs. It feels good to be home with her again. She feels good pulled close to me.
“I missed you,” I whisper into her hair. “I missed you so much.”
“I missed you too,” she speaks softly into my chest. Her voice sounds frail, as if she’s as anxious as I am.
I pull back, regarding her carefully, pushing an errant strand of hair away from her face. Her eyes are bright, but concealing something. Her face is unreadable.
“What?” I ask. “What’s up, baby?”
Bryn shakes her head. “No. You first,” she says.
Before I can even get the next word out, our dinner delivery arrives. I catch wind of spring rolls, egg drop soup, egg foo young, and lemon chicken, and realize I’m very hungry.
“Tell me everything,” Bryn insists as we dive into our meal.
I give her the blow-by-blow from early this morning until getting on the plane to leave Columbus this afternoon, including some choice words for Samantha Benjamin.
“You joke about being a gold-digger,” I observe coolly. “She’s the walking definition of it. Scheming bitch. Can you believe the woman saved hair and nail clippings all these years, thinking that would work in a paternity test? I knew she wasn’t very smart, but who’s that stupid?”
“She was a fan,” Bryn says, trying to rationalize the bizarre behavior. “A lot of star-struck women—and men—save hair clippings, or used napkins, as keepsakes. I knew a woman who carried a famous rock star’s used bandana for years, because it had his sweat on it.”
“That’s fucked up,” I reply. “But I bet she didn’t try to pass it off as a sample of her snotty nosed kid’s DNA to try to sue for paternity?”
“No,” Bryn admits.
“Jesus, the idea of it, that kid being mine. Of having any woman have that kind of claim over me. It makes my skin crawl.”
Bryn’s expression shifts. “What do you mean?” she asks.
I pour another whiskey, finally feeling relaxed enough to speak freely.
“I mean that the whole idea of being yoked, for life, to a person whose sole ambition is get laid by a football star, then figure out a way to get hooks in permanently because of an accident or bad planning… it turns my stomach. The idea of having a kid turns my stomach. Having a kid with a permanently attached gold-digging mother just scares the shit out of me.”
“Really?”
Bryn smiles, drawing back.
“You don’t like the idea of that kind of commitment?”
“Fuck no, not under those terms,” I reply. “I’d be a shitty parent anyway. I can barely manage myself, as we’ve seen the last few weeks. A kid… a kid’s mother… fuck that. I can’t wait for the paternity results to come back so we can put this thing to bed, once and for all.”
Bryn nods, then biting her lip. “You don’t want kids, do you?”
Odd question. I try to give her an honest answer.
“I think I’d be a miserable father. I had a miserable father.” I haul in a
deep breath, then let it out, reflecting. “I never thought about it because it was never a legitimate thing to think about. And now with all these women coming out of the woodwork with their snotty brats, trying to nail me down, I’m kind of off the whole venture. Maybe in a decade I’ll feel differently, but now… Jesus, too many gold-diggers in my world to keep up with.”
Bryn nods, her expression shifting again to something I’ve seen once before, but—thanks to the alcohol—can’t place.
