Smart, Sexy and Secretive (38 page)

He shakes his head. “No, son,” he
begins.

“
I’m not your son,” I bite
out.

“
Logan,” he chides, “my
daughter will live exactly where I tell her to live.”

“
How did that work out for
you last year, sir?” I ask. I force myself to relax. “I’m not
asking for your permission. I’m telling you how it’s going to be.
If you get Trip out of her apartment, she’ll go back there. If you
don’t, she’ll live with me. Because I won’t let her go back there
again, not while he’s there harassing her.” I narrow my eyes at
him. “Do you understand, Mr. Madison?”

His face is turning red now, and his
pupils narrow. He’s angry, so angry he can barely take in a breath.
“Do you presume to tell me what my daughter will and will not do,
Mr. Reed?”

“
I don’t presume anything,
sir,” I bite out. “I’m just telling you what you need to do if
you’d like to have your daughter back in her own apartment.” I get
up, adjust my jeans. “Always a pleasure, Mr. Madison.”

I walk toward the door. But that’s when
I see my notebook, the one I was carrying at their party yesterday.
It’s by Mr. Madison’s elbow.

“
I believe this is mine,” I
say. I reach for it.

“
I beg your pardon,” Mr.
Madison says. “This belongs to Trip.” He chuckles and taps his
temple. “Smart boy that one. It’s a shame you don’t have any of his
talent.” He flips open my notebook and shows me my own drawings.
“That boy came up with a way to change my ad campaign. And it’s
damn good, if I do say so myself. I’m rather proud of him.” He
smiles at me and flips through my drawings, showing them to me one
by one.

“
When did he give you
these?” I ask.

“
This morning. He worked on
them all night last night.”

Just then, Trip walks in the door. His
smile falters when he sees me looking at my own notebook, at the
drawings I made, at the plan I came up with. “Mr. Madison was just
showing me your drawings,” I say. “I didn’t know you had it in you,
Trip.”

“
It’s funny what you can do
when you have a few hours alone to think, isn’t it?” Trip adjusts
his suit coat, looking nervous as hell. “I did it last night when I
was waiting up for Emily to come home.” He shoots me a glare. He’s
daring me to deny that Emily was with me. I won’t deny anything,
and I won’t claim anything. Not today.

Trip smiles at me when I don’t respond.
He thinks he’s won. But I can’t help it. I have to do it. I rear
back and hit Trip in the fucking face as hard as I can. He falls to
the floor like a stone, and Mr. Madison rushes from behind his
desk. He calls for security, but they don’t need to come. I’m done
here.

“
Mrs. Madison,” I say as I
walk past her. I refuse to run. I’m feeling too damn good right
now. That fucker is stretched out on the floor not moving, and I
put him there. I’m feeling lighter than I have since he came to
town.

Mrs. Madison smiles at me. “Logan,” she
says, inclining her head. A smile tickles her lips, but she refuses
to let it break. “Thanks for dropping by.” She covers her mouth
when a laugh tries to burst forward.

“
Anytime,” I reply. I let
myself out. I’m done here. So fucking done.

But I stick my head back in at the last
minute. “We’d like to have you for dinner tomorrow night, if you’re
available.”

“
What time?” she
asks.

“
Eight? I’ll have Emily send
you the address.”

“
We’ll see you then.” She
nods at me again as I slip out the door. I shake out my hand. It
hurts like a mother fucker. But it was so worth it.

Emily

It’s late but I can’t leave yet. I
haven’t finished listening to my textbook so I can get my homework
done. I paid attention in class, and I even took some notes, but I
have to listen to my textbooks, unlike most students. I sit in the
library and have my text-to-speech program read to me. I am a good
listener, and I can remember most things. It just takes me twice as
long to listen to someone else read than it does for most people to
read it themselves.

When I have a firm grasp on the
material from today’s classes, I finally take the headphones off. I
look over my notes and smile. I can do this. I am smart. And I have
kept my secret long enough. All of my instructors are aware of my
dyslexia, and while they’re not going to make anything easy for me,
they are willing to work with me. It turns out that many musical
prodigies struggle to learn in the traditional sense—or so says one
of my teachers. He even confessed that he has an “undiagnosed
processing problem” that makes learning hard for him. That’s why he
turned to music in the first place. I like Dr. Ball a lot. He kept
me after class to talk about my limitations. Or lack of
limitations, as he termed it.

I tried to assure him that I can do
anything he puts before me, and I think he got it. I want this. I
want it so badly. I want to excel at something even though I read,
in a traditional sense, at a first-grade level. I’ve kept my secret
long enough. It’s time to let it be known. So that’s what I’m
doing.

Dr. Ball is helping each of us plan our
individual pieces for the showcase. I explained to him what I want
to do, and he seemed intrigued by it. Logan can’t understand music.
He can’t understand the rise and the fall of the notes, and he
can’t understand the tempo or the beat, unless there’s a heavy
bass. I want to translate music into something he can understand.
Dr. Ball hooked me up with one of his other students who does
audio-visual work, and he’s going to help me make a multi-layered
presentation. I already know the song. I have had in my head for
years. I wrote it when I used to watch my dad sleep. I would wonder
why I didn’t measure up in his eyes. I know the song, and I know
the notes. Now I just need to work on the actual
presentation.

I look up when a man sits down across
from me. Logan smiles, his breaths heavy. He props his head on his
chin and blinks his pretty blue eyes at me. “Would your boyfriend
be mad if I sit here with you?” he asks, his grin almost
contagious.

“
My boyfriend would kick
your ass,” I say as seriously as I can. But a laugh escapes me. I
look around when the librarian raps her desk with a ruler. I sign
to Logan instead.

My boyfriend will kick your
ass
, I say again.
You might want to get out of here. He’s a mean SOB when he’s
provoked.

He laughs with no sound. God, he’s so
handsome when he smiles. And when he’s not smiling. And when he’s
sleeping. And when he’s awake. And when he’s breathing.

He takes my hand and swipes his thumb
across the back of it. Heat shoots straight to the center of me. I
pull my hand back so I can avoid melting into a big puddle on the
floor.

What are you doing
here
? I ask.

He shrugs.
I thought you might want a ride home.

Really?

He nods.

I smile.
That’s so sweet.

Completely
self-serving
, he corrects.

I narrow my eyes at
him.
How so?

Maybe I just wanted your
legs spread around me on my bike.
He
waggles his eyebrows at me.

I lean forward as if I need
to tell him a secret.
Maybe I want my legs
spread around you, too.

He groans and grabs my hand. He tosses
my book bag over his shoulder and pulls me toward the door. This
time, he has two helmets, and he helps me fasten mine. I love that
he tries to take such care of me.

My apartment or
yours
? I ask.

He brushes the hair back
that’s hanging around my face, pushing it under the helmet.
I don’t want you going back to your apartment
while Trip’s there.
He looks closely
watching my face.
That okay with
you?

Fine
, I say.
I kind of like it when you
go all Neanderthal.
I grin, and he
straddles the bike. I climb on behind him and wrap my hands around
his waist. He hisses playfully when I lift his shirt and lay my
hands against the tender skin of his belly. We zoom through the
streets and into the parking deck beneath his building. He bends at
the waist and tosses me over his shoulder.

“
You haven’t seen
Neanderthal yet,” he warns as he carries me up the
steps.

Logan

I’m more nervous than I should be. My
brothers have been cleaning all day, and Sam has been cooking like
a Top Chef. He’s wearing an apron spattered with tomato sauce, and
Emily cleans up behind him as he moves from task to task. Sam loves
to cook. He’s never happier than he is when he’s making something
for someone to eat.

I should have done a better job
planning this dinner. None of our dishes match, but we set the
table with them anyway. Hell, our chairs don’t even match at our
tiny, scratched-up table. It was our mom and dad’s, and I love it.
It has years of abuse and love etched into its rough surface. There
are tracks from Matchbox cars and scuffs from science-project
disasters.

Stop
worrying
, Emily says.
It’s just dinner.

It’s not just dinner. It’s so much
more.

I’m not worried. Your mom
will love the food. And your dad won’t be able to complain about
anything Sam has made.
Of that, I am one
hundred percent certain. He might not like the company or the
accommodations or the jelly jars that we use as glasses, but he
will love the food.

Emily rushes to the door and opens it
when the bell rings. Her parents come in, and her dad looks around
our apartment, his nose in the air. Her mom exclaims over the smell
of the food.

“
Mom, Dad,” she says. “This
is Paul, and Sam, and you’ve heard all about Matt.”

Matt steps forward and shakes hands. “I
believe I owe you a debt of gratitude,” he says.

“
You don’t owe us a thing,”
her mom gushes. She pulls Matt to the side so she can fuss over
him.

Sam takes his apron off and declares,
“The chef is done. It’s time for the serving committee to take
over.”

“
You’re not staying?” I
ask.
What the fuck?

I have to go and find
Pete
, he says.
He
should have been home hours ago.

Is something
wrong?

He shrugs. I don’t like it—he won’t
look me in the face.

I’ll be back as soon as I
find him. Save me some lasagna.
He nods
toward Mr. Madison.
That one looks like he
can put away some food.
He grins and sneaks
out the door before Paul can catch him.

“
Mr. Madison,” I say,
extending my hand. He takes it and shakes, his grip
tight.

“
Logan,” he says. “Thanks
for having us.”

“
Thanks for
coming.”

“
Shall we eat?” Paul
asks.

###

Conversation is stilted, our plates
are now empty, desert has been consumed, and I’m just about
convinced that Mr. Madison doesn’t have a soul at all when Sam runs
in the door. He’s filthy, his shirt is torn, and he smells like
he’s been in a Dumpster.

I’m so
sorry
, he signs to Emily. He shoots an
apologetic glance at her.
But we have a
problem. Pete has been arrested.

For what
?
Paul asks, but he’s already crossing
the room to get his coat. I’m right behind him.

We were with
Bone
, Sam admits. He avoids Paul’s
gaze.
And the cops showed up.

Where is he now?

At the police
station.

They put him in
cuffs
? Paul asks.

Sam nods.

Emily saw the entire
conversation.
I’m going with
you
, she says.

I nod.
What about your parents?

Emily asks her parents if they can give
us a ride to the station. I think we’re done with them, but their
driver parks the car and they get out with us.

“
I’ll know what my daughter
is involved in,” Mr. Madison says when I tell them that they don’t
have to go in with us. I nod. If she was my daughter, I would go
too.

Paul rings the bell on the desk and
waits for the officer to help us. I can’t follow what they say, but
I know Paul will tell me when they’re done.

Paul hangs his head in his hands and
turns back to us. “They’re not going to let him go home. He needs
an attorney.”

Emily goes to her dad and tugs on his
jacket. “Dad, can you call someone?”

He shakes his head. “It’s time to go
home, Emily.” He takes her elbow, but she jerks out of his
grip.

“
I’m not going
anywhere.”