by Lexi Whitlow
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.
Daddy says he’s retiring next year and taking Marilyn on a Grand Tour of Europe. They’re already planning it. I’m hoping they invite Logan and me to come along.
Marilyn has found her vocation. With a modest grant from the Chandler Foundation, she established a small group home for adults with autism at Tatton Hall. The staff-to-client ratio is three to one, with just twelve residents. They’ve partnered with the University of North Carolina to develop a slightly experimental, occupational program for moderately high functioning adults on the spectrum; most of the residents come from families who would never be able to afford the kind of care, supervision, and hands-on training that the Tatton Hall group provides.
Drake is resident there, and he seems to be flourishing. For the first time in his entire life, he’s made friends. Between the staff and his fellow residents, he’s busy, challenged, and engaged with people outside his immediate family. He still makes his videos, but now they feature a much broader cast of characters and events.
I’d say we’ve all escaped the curse.
In fact, I’d say we’re all generously blessed.
I turn to Logan, who’s stroking sleeping Elliot’s bare head.
“You know I love you more than anything, right?” I ask, fixing his gaze.
He grins, not blinking. “Baby, you know I love you all, even more?
Yeah. We’ve made it. We’ve got it all, and then some to spare.
Check out more of Lexi’s Books Below!
Bad Boy’s Fake Wedding
Liam
The dream starts off like this.
It’s a Saturday morning, or at least I think it is.
I’m in bed, which is where I usually am on a weekend. But today is different. It’s earlier than usual. It’s not afternoon. It’s seven, maybe eight. I can tell by the quality of the light coming in through the window.
But I’m not annoyed when I wake up. I usually am if I wake up any time before eleven, even on a weekday.
There’s no one next to me in bed, but there’s someone in the house. That’s the thing too—it’s a house. Like one of those brownstone houses out in Brooklyn, even though I fucking hate Brooklyn and the hipster restaurants there that only serve sushi and roasted Brussel sprouts and nothing else. It’s not my shitty apartment above the bar, the one I’ve lived in for years.
And the woman here—I know it’s a woman—I can hear her out in the family room. There’s soft music playing, like a lullaby. And there are squeals and soft coos and the occasional sound of a little girl singing. It’s my little girl, Brie—I know that without a doubt. But she’s older. And she’s not alone.
I don’t feel panicked or angry or any of the things I ordinarily feel when a chick overstays her welcome at my place. I’m not reaching for my phone in the dream to get her a Lyft home. And I’m not thinking of some excuse to make. A trip to the DMV. A wedding. A meeting with the accountant for the bar. There’s none of that. I’m just happy.
I hear footsteps in the hall, heavier than Brie’s six-year-old feet, even though she’s already so big, and where did the fucking time go and all that shit that parents think. I’m not a normal parent, but in this dream, I am.
“Daddy,” she says, peeking in the doorway, deep green eyes staring at me. That dark brown hair her mother had, falling in curls around her face, longer than it is now. “It’s time to get up. We want the pancakes with the blueberries in them. And then we’re going to walk down to the market. They have music there today.”
“Oh, are we? Who says?” I say that and lift onto my elbow, yawning. Feeling that thing I used to feel a long time ago. Parent style tired, like I could sleep for another four hours, but those four hours are long gone.
Call me crazy, but I miss that feeling all the fucking time.
Anyway.
“I says,” she replies.
There’s a shadow in the hallway, and a voice I can’t make out.
There’s always that shadow, and then I wake up.
I’ve been having that dream on and off for two years.
Since Tabitha died.
Since I hunted down the man that sold her that shitty smack and beat him within an inch of his life. It was within an inch only because my brother pulled me off him.
Since six months of prison, and getting out, and everything after.
When I wake up, I’m usually next to some woman, but every time, I’m always in the same shitty apartment. A million steps away from getting Brie back in my custody. And even further from building a good life for her, like this one. I don’t even consider the woman because that’s not who I am anymore.
I fuck women. I make them come. I send them home. I serve drinks at the bar, and every idea I have that might get me closer to that moment—the parent-tired moment when Brie comes in my room and wakes me up—is stupid, shitty, and worthless.
On this
particular morning, I wake up alone.
And everything changes.
I just don’t know it yet.
Liam
I shouldn’t keep doing this.
I thought I’d quit. When I woke up this morning, I reminded myself that I shouldn’t pull this shit anymore.
Girl after girl. Another one every night. Not that I ever had a dissatisfied customer. I had a whole fan base who kept coming back for more. For the experience—screaming, moaning, multiple times until morning. They weren’t the type to ever stay for breakfast. I always kept myself clean—no drugs, always use protection. I used that to justify my behavior to everyone around me. It’s what I say to my brothers, to my mom, to my ex-girlfriend’s family.
I’m no addict. I’m done with that shit.
But Finn pointed out that I was addicted to girls, to the thrill of the chase. Not that I need to chase the tail that comes in here. I watch them all, a parade of women. Some regulars, some who come to an Irish bar in Hell’s Kitchen to get a taste of the local flavor. I estimate I’ve fucked maybe forty percent of them, and that’s just because I stopped two months ago. Because the court told me I had to quit. Not that they can test for that sort of thing. But it’s easy enough for a determined, powerful family to find out what I’m up to at any given time.
I miss it. Warm, soft skin. The way a woman begs for me to take her deeper, so she can feel every inch of me. The way she sighs when I push her to her limits and then push her even further.
I look around the bar. I could have any one of these women. Take one of them—or two—to the apartment upstairs. Fill the time with my favorite hobby. I call it that, anyway. A hobby.
But my brother Finn tells me it’s a way to numb the pain of everything happening around me. All the things I’ve lost in the past two years, all the shit I’ve done that I haven’t gotten over. And it’s prevented me from getting forward, from moving on, from getting back the one thing that means everything to me. He’s right. He always is. I think about the last girl I fucked, and even if you held a gun to my head, I couldn’t remember her name. I remember a few flashes of her—fake tits, shaved bare, rode me until she came three times. But I couldn’t tell you anything else. Just like a junkie thinking about his latest and greatest high.
An addict.
Good pussy makes me forget. I’ve been clean for a good while. Just drinking a beer here and there. Socializing with people in the bar. Being a good host, keeping my damn self out of trouble. And my cock away from the women who come in and parade themselves in front of me.
Two months ago, it was every night. A display of fake blondes, names I can’t recall. Sent them home every morning. Satisfied, but gone. Didn’t bother with anything else.
It hurt my case. It hurt my case real fucking bad.
I polish up the glasses on my side of the bar and set them out, one by one. “Finn, you okay to let me off early tonight?”
He looks at me and rolls his eyes. “Another girl.”
“No, man. Or maybe.”
“No is the right answer, kid.”
“Don’t call me ‘kid,’ dick.” I lean against the bar and pour a beer for myself, while Finn tends to the old guys who sit up front. “One won’t matter.”
“It always matters when you’re dealing with fucking Marta. And her P.I. And the courts.”
I growl. He’s right. But there’s an aching need swirling inside of me, a coil about to tighten to the point of breaking. I need something.
“You’re right,” I say, still scanning the women in the bar. None of them is any different from the girls I had before. The ones who didn’t mean anything.
“I always am. And you’re always an idiot.” Finn looks over his shoulder at me. “Be my guest. Ruin your chances at getting custody of Brie. Have her live with that crazy bitch for the rest of her life.”
My fists tighten. I’d like to punch the superior look off Finn’s face and slam him into the floor for good measure. But he’s the one who came to see me in prison. And he’s the one who came to court. Bought me a suit. Got me a job.
“Shut the fuck up, Finn. One time won’t hurt anything.”
He shrugs and fixes some girly drink for one of the ladies making eyes at him. He winks at her and turns back to me. “The only way you could get away with your stupid shit—well, not get away with it—” He stops mid-sentence. His dark eyes glint in the way they did when he pulled pranks on my parents when he was a kid. “That’s not you. You wouldn’t do that.”
“What wouldn’t I do?”
Finn smiles and turns back to the customers. “Nothing.”
I step up next to him and lean against the bar, nodding to one of the regulars who looks like he should have been cut off an hour ago. “Tell me. You got an idea?”
“You’ll fuck it up,” he says. “Shouldn’t bother telling you. Because knowing you, you’ll fuck a girl, screw everything up. And I’m Brie’s uncle. You’re alright.” He looks at me for a second and frowns. “But I love that kid. She needs you. She needs a stable life. And who the fuck knows—maybe she’s got that with Marta, not you. I mean, if you’re going to go back to banging girls every night.”
“I’m not. And I’m not going to.”
“You just need a fix?” he says, all the humor gone out of his voice.
“Fuck you and the boat you came in on.”
“It’s the same fucking boat, Liam. You think I’m the responsible big brother—”
“I don’t think that. I think you’re an asshole,” I say, even though it’s not true.
“Yeah, well. I am. I was. The difference between you and me is that I don’t have anyone to go home to. And if I did, I’d keep my act squeaky clean. If I had a kid to take care of, I’d make sure any girl I got with wasn’t just a one-night stand.”
His words wash over me. I’m barely paying attention. Because there’s a shift in the air. It might be what my brother said—even though that ain’t me. I’m not that guy. Not after Tabitha, Brie’s mom.
All that talk, it makes me want to go back to all the drugs and all the girls, and every ounce of alcohol in this bar.
“That’s not exactly a good idea, and you know it,” I say. At that moment, there’s a girl who walks in, stepping quietly behind her redheaded friend. I spot her immediately. She’s not the type of girl who comes to Dougherty’s. She shouldn’t even be anywhere in the vicinity. Natural dark hair falling just to her shoulders, so deep in color, it’s almost black. Natural tits too, and a small waist, sensual hips and ass parading around in a skirt that her friend probably convinced her to wear.
Her friend waves down drinks for the two of them, and this girl, she takes it awkwardly and drinks two fingers on the straw, pinky finger lifted. When she looks up, she doesn’t see me behind the bar. Her eyes sparkle, and she turns to look at her friend like they’re sharing a secret. Awkward in her own skin, but when she smiles… I see those sensual pink lips. I close my eyes and imagine them wrapped around my cock, her eyes looking up at me, desperate, hungry.
I look over at Finn, who’s tending to a group of girls from Brooklyn. Tourists in this part of town. “Who’s she?” I ask, nodding toward the girl. When I look over at her again, she’s chewing on her lip, and for a moment, I think she looks my way. The coil inside of me, it grows tighter.
“Don’t even think about it,” Finn says without looking.
“You didn’t even look,” I say. I dry one of the glasses, hot from the dishwasher, absently pouring whiskey for one of our regulars. My eyes keep going back to the girl, who looks more and more awkward by the moment. She crosses her arms over her breasts, sighs, tries to get her friend to leave. “I might like to get to know a girl who’s not a regular. Maybe that wouldn’t get back to Marta.”
“You might like to just stay away from any girl right now. Forget what I said before. I know you’re not capable of anything real. And Marta’s itching to get any information she can to keep you away from Brie.”
�
��Fuck Marta,” I say. I keep watching the girl. Not much older than twenty. Nearly ten years younger. Supple, soft skin. Sweet, tight, hot. “Marta doesn’t have the best lawyer in Manhattan in her pocket.”
“Listen to yourself, occasionally,” Finn says. “You sound like an asshole. Do you care about keeping Brie? I mean, really? You say you do—”
I give Finn a look, crush my hands into fists. If he were any other person in this fucking world, he’d be in a world of pain right now. I’d make sure of it. “I get it. I’m an asshole. I say shit out of the side of my mouth. I’m an ex-con, ex-dealer. Remember you come from the same genetic pool.”
