Chapter 13
thirteen
Showing up on a girl’s doorstep with flowers was probably easier in Mac’s day. For me, when I realize I don’t have Cynnie’s address, it takes an hour of hacking and then calls to three different stores to buy everything I need to show up at her door.
Well, not everything. I can’t find courage either online or over the phone.
While I wait for everything to arrive, I stalk Cynnie’s social media.
She works from home, and she’s told me she’s usually there during the day, but she does go out with friends occasionally.
Not today, though. There’s a handful of those staged pictures: her outfit for the day which, now that I know her, screams little, a book she’s reading, the oatmeal and fruit she had for breakfast, some makeup arranged on a pink pillow.
There haven’t been any pictures of her face since she left my apartment.
The daily picture of her outfit is in a mirror, her face hidden by her phone.
In the one shot of her hand holding the book, her nails are bitten down to the quick.
I look back at the picture of her outfit.
Looking closely, I see the strain in her posture.
My little’s suffering.
I close out her social media account and make the mistake of checking my email.
I haven’t read the email from Logan from this morning. He didn’t mark it urgent and he’s good about doing that when it is. The message itself is blank, so I open the attachment.
It’s a letter from Starla Labs. I only have to read down a few lines to realize what it is.
Alleged father: James Madison Logan.
Probability of paternity: 97%.
I sink back in my chair. Holy fuck. I knew it was a possibility but seeing it in print, suddenly, it’s so real.
I pick up my main phone and hit his contact. It rings five times before he picks up.
“Maxie,” he slurs.
“Where are you, buddy?”
“Club.”
“Is Emily with you?”
“No . . . can’t face her.”
Fuck. “Give me the address and I’ll come get you.”
“’M okay.”
No, he’s not. “Give me the address or I’ll call Emmy and get it.”
“Said I’m okay.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t. But what kind of fucking friend would I be if I let you drink alone in the middle of the afternoon?”
A strained chuckle comes over the phone. “You can’t come here. Gotta book guests.”
“Then I’m sending a cab and you’re coming to mine.”
“Fuck, Maxie.”
“Yeah, fuck, man. Get your ass over here.”
“’M coming.”
Someone in the background says, “I’ll help you downstairs, Master Logan.”
Satisfied he’s being handled and that he’s sufficiently compos mentis to give a driver my address, I flip over to my messages and text first Manny, then Emily, confirming I’m taking care of Logan.
Manny responds to say he’s on a job but can get someone to switch out if it’s an emergency. I reassure him it’s not as I watch a string of messages come in.
Brenna: Logan’s on the way to your place. Do you need help?
The club’s grapevine is impressive.
Emily: Is everything okay?
I went out and when I came back, Daddy wasn’t home.
I thought he might have gone to meet his friend, Mac. Is he there, too?
I thumb my phone’s screen as I consider how to answer. I call Brenna first.
“How much do you know?” I ask.
“Austin called me to say that Logan’s been at the club drinking since noon. Bartender’s been watering his drinks for the last two hours but he’s three fucking sheets to the wind. He’s not talking to anyone, so no one knows what’s wrong. But this isn’t like him.”
No, it’s not.
“Can someone there get him a cab to my place?” I ask.
“Sure. Do you need any of us? Cappa’s with him now and I can be free in an hour. Austin had a shoot at one, but he should be finished by eight.”
Austin’s the EMT, as I remember. Logan and I used to drink off injuries when we were in the service, but none of us are twenty anymore.
“If Austin could swing by when he’s done, that would be great. I don’t know much about head injuries and alcohol, but I don’t think they’re a great combination.”
Brenna snorts. “No, they’re not. If he starts puking, get him to urgent care.”
“Will do. And Brenna? Thank you.”
She’s silent for a second.
“It’s what we do,” she says, before hanging up.
I appreciate she didn’t say goodbye or expect me to say it.
My phone pings again.
Logan: On my way.
I blow out a relieved breath, then scrub my hand through my hair before I make the harder call. Unlike Logan, Emily answers on the first ring.
“Hi, Max. Is everything okay?”
I grit my teeth. “Yeah, girlie-girl. Logan’s hanging out with me. Mac just left. Sorry you didn’t get to see him. Maybe tomorrow? I think he’s in town for a couple of days.”
“Um . . . Daddy and I are taking some time off from everything. He said he told you. I had an appointment to look at a nursing home for my mother already set up for today, otherwise I wouldn’t have gone out.
” I hear her fast, light steps. I think she’s pacing.
I mirror her, rising and pacing from my office into my living room and back. “Is everything really okay?”
I can’t lie. Not to her. “No, Emmy. Logan’s been drinking. I’m bringing him to mine so I can take care of him.”
I hear her breath break. “Is he okay? Max, did he get the letter? He thought it might come today.”
“Yes, sweetie.”
Her soft sobs carry over the phone. “Oh, Daddy.”
“Emmy, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if you should come here or if he needs to work this out for himself or what—”
I hear the cat’s purr. Emmy’s probably picked him up and is holding him close to her face for comfort.
“Emmy—”
“It’s okay,” she says, hiccupping. “Daddy probably needs some time away from everything. It’s all been too much. If he can stay with you, at least I know he’s safe. Will you call me if he needs me?”
“Of course. I’ll try to sober him up.”
“He doesn’t usually drink very much.”
“I know.”
“And his poor head.”
“I know,” I repeat. “Austin’s coming to check on him later.”
“Oh.” She sniffles. “That’s good. Maybe I should send some dinner over?”
“That would be great, girlie-girl. Text me when it’s ready and I’ll send a cab for it if Logan’s not ready to come home. Emmy, have you talked to Cynnie this week?”
I hear a honk and a snuffle, like she’s blowing her nose. “No. Do you want me to call her?”
“I was just thinking that maybe it would be good for you to have some company if Logan’s with me?”
“Okay. That’s a good idea. I’ll give her a call. Thank you, Max. I know you’ll take good care of Daddy and that men don’t do hugs and cuddles, but he might need some cuddles.”
A laugh leaks out of me. “I’ll do my best in the cuddling department, but if he needs serious cuddles, I’ll call you.
It’s going to be okay, girlie-girl.” My conscience twinges, because I’m pretty sure it’s not going to be okay, but the need to reassure her is a roaring, tearing pressure in my chest. It drowns that twinge in an instant.
“You call me if Cynnie can’t come over or if you start feeling panicked, okay? ”
“I will. I’m not panicked, I promise. I’m just sad and worried for Daddy. If Cynnie can’t come over, I’ll call Vashi or Gracie and have a FaceTime with them.”
Hearing that she has a support system that she can fall back on eases the pressure. “Sounds good.”
She sighs and mumbles something, probably to the cat. “Could you text me when Daddy gets there?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. I won’t say bye. I’ll just say, gotta run, Rogue’s cookin’ up corn buns.”
I’m speechless for a second. Then I make the connection. “Gambit?”
“Yes. I’ve been saving that one.”
“I’m dis close to being impressed.”
That draws a tiny giggle out of her. “Thank you, Max.”
“Any time, girlie.”
She hangs up and I sink onto my couch to wait for my friend.
Logan and I have seen some bad times together. I’ve seen him shell-shocked. I’ve seen him injured. I’ve seen him angry. But I haven’t seen him wrecked. It’s . . . sobering.
I’ve never been where he is right now. I haven’t been with many women, but I’ve always, always used a condom during penetrative sex.
Maybe that’s why I reacted so strongly to going bare in Cynnie.
It was a shock, and an unimaginable pleasure, and then another fucking lapse of judgment and responsibility.
But at least I didn’t have to worry about getting her pregnant.
I’ve never sat and contemplated having a kid the way Logan is as he sits on my couch with his head in his hands, his phone on the table in front of him, with a picture of the letter from Starla Labs up on the screen.
I’ve tried to get him to turn it off, but he won’t. If I was sure he was using it to remind himself of the reality of it, to help process it, I wouldn’t mind. But I’m not sure that’s how he’s using it.
I think he might be using it as a cudgel to beat himself with.
I’ve taken away his crutch: giving him a non-alcoholic beer when he arrived.
He doesn’t seem to have noticed, but he might have and just not commented on it.
He hasn’t said much. He hugged me back when I hugged him as the thin, black-haired man from the club helped him out of the cab.
He let me steer him up into my apartment with my arm around his shoulders.
He sank down onto the couch when I guided him towards it.
I guess it’s going to be up to me to bridge this awkward silence.
“Talk to me, man.”
“Wha’ can I say? I fucked up.”
“How did you fuck up?”
“Shoulda known she was lyin’ to me.” He swings his head back and forth between his hands like a wounded bear. “Her Dom. I shoulda known.”
I rub my hand up and down his back. His black shirt’s stuck to his back with sweat and I don’t think it’s from the August heat, since I’m betting his club and the cab were air conditioned and my apartment’s the usual ice cube.
He stinks of alcohol and the best place for him is the shower, but I’m sure he’ll put up a fight if I try to stick him in there.
“Did you learn to mind read when you were in Thailand?” I ask.