Muscle

by Lexi Whitlow

  Okay.

  Tim lifts one of the files, opening it. “Tell me about a woman named Samantha Benjamin from Columbus, Ohio.”

  Jesus. That’s going way back.

  “College,” I say. “She was a Buckeye Booster; the team fan club. We dated briefly my junior year, ‘til it got weird.”

  Tim nods. “Define weird.”

  “I don’t know. Fans… they get clingy, possessive. She started talking about getting married. I was a junior in college. I think we went out for maybe two weeks during the spring semester.”

  “Did you sleep with her?”

  Where is this going?

  “Yeah, a couple times. Tim what is this?”

  He lifts the case file up, looking for something. Finding it, he shows it to me. It’s a photo of a little boy.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “That is not possible.”

  “She’s asking for a paternity test to compare to the DNA sample she got on the kid. They don’t do that unless they’re sure.”

  No way. I inspect the photograph of the boy. He looks nothing like me.

  “When was he born?” I ask Tim.

  “February 17, five years ago,” he replies.

  I count it down, then shake my head again. “No. We broke up before Spring Break—in April. She was pissed about it. She wanted me to bring her home to meet my Mom and I wouldn’t. It’s one of the things that brought on the split in the first place. The timing doesn’t work.”

  “You better hope you’re right.” Tim says, sliding the case file to the far end of the counter. He lifts another, inspecting the cover page. “Amanda Taylor, Dayton, Ohio.”

  I shake my head. “Never heard of her.”

  “She claims she was a stripper at a club you and the team used to frequent in Cincinnati,” Tim says, and he doesn’t sound particularly pleased about it. “She claims she did extracurricular activities for a few favorites. She says you got her pregnant, and when she told you about it, you threatened her. Two weeks later you got sidelined at the Cotton Bowl, and she figured she’d leave you alone. She felt sorry for you.”

  “Except that can’t possibly be true,” I say. “On a couple of verifiable points. First, I’ve never been to a strip club in Cincinnati. The only strip club I’ve ever been in is one in Louisville, Kentucky that a recruiter took me and a couple other guys to when I was still in high school. That pretty much sealed my opinion of the recruiter and the school he represented. The second is that it was common knowledge that I did not date—at all, with zero exceptions—during regular season, playoffs, or bowls. It’s distracting enough being the guy carrying the team without girlfriend drama. It was a rule I never broke. Every guy on every team, every season, will back me up on it, along with every coach and trainer. I caught some serious shit for it from time-to-time.”

  Tim softens his expression. He takes a breath, sliding that file to the side. He lifts another, finding the name.

  “Jessica Turner, Raleigh, North Carolina?”

  Ouch. Starfish girl from the back of my Camaro. I used protection.

  “Details?” I ask.

  “She works at a poolhall called Pantana Bob’s…”

  “I know where she works,” I say. “Details on the kid. I’m assuming she’s claiming the same shit?”

  “Oh… ummm… Jason. Two years old, born…”

  “Yeah, not mine. I screwed her in the back seat of my Camaro once, about eight months ago, wrapped. Unless little Jason is a rapidly aging time traveler, she’s full of shit.”

  We go through three more just like these; all bullshit.

  “What’s the play here?” I ask. “The kids are not mine. I can prove it. Why would they even do this?”

  Tim points to the remaining stack of files. “All of this is the work of one diligent attorney who’s apparently scouring the globe looking for people to come after you. I’ve got people saying you borrowed money from them. I have a guy claiming to be your gay lover, threatening to out you if you don’t give him a million dollars.”

  What?

  “And this guy, this Charles Pearson, it looks like he’s just getting warmed up. There’s an endless supply…”

  “Charles Pearson?!” I exclaim. “You’re fucking joking?”

  “You know him?” Tim asks, his face blanching.

  “Oh yeah, I know him,” I say, sitting down before my titanium knees fail me. “Fucking hell. This is personal.”

  “Explain,” Tim insists. “How?”

  I lay it all out for him, from high school through fuck-off at the garage with Bryn before the lottery, as well as the fact that he practices at the firm where Bryn works.

  “Bryn doesn’t say much about him, but I know they don’t get along. He had a crush on her all through high school. She never gave him the time of day.”

  “And now you’re dating her?”

  I nod.

  Tim considers everything I’ve said. He brightens a bit.

  “Okay. Well, I’m going to start making some calls to get rid of these paternity suits first.”

  What an incredible pain in my ass.

  “I’ll answer all of these if we have to. It’ll take months and an army of staff to take them all apart. I need you to keep your head down. Stay out of the way of the crazies, get your groceries delivered in, and if this guy Charles Pearson contacts you or your girlfriend directly, I want to know about it, yesterday.”

  “All of this is bullshit,” I remind Tim. “None of this will hold up. Why is he doing this? It’ll cost him a fortune.”

  Tim shakes his head. “Filing a lawsuit costs very little,” he says. “Defending it, taking it to trial costs. Opposing it costs you. He’s counting on courthouse fatigue. He’s counting on us getting sick of it, and coming to him with an offer to stop.”

  Shit.

  “Usually guys like this are looking for a couple million,” Tim says. “In his case, I suspect he’s got more ambition than that.”

  Holy shit.

  “What do we do?”

  Tim smiles. “I’m going to start with his employer and go from there. He’s not doing any of this under the title of a law firm, but their reputation is impugned, none-the-less. After that—assuming you don’t want to give this creep money—I’m going to prepare a legal misconduct brief. We’ll go to the bar association after his license to practice, and then a judge to have all these dismissed en masse.”

  “You can do that?”

  He nods. “It’s a process. It’ll take a long time. But yes, we can do that. As your attorney, that’s what I’d advise. Otherwise, more like him will come crawling out the cracks with the same ploy.”

  Jesus, it never ends.

  * * *

  I’m sitting in the dark with a glass of whiskey, contemplating the problems having money causes, when my phone rings. I look down. It’s Bryn.

  Two days. She’s been avoiding me for two days. I sip my whiskey, then answer, expecting her to tell me that she’s been thinking and we should just be friends.

  “Are you home?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Can I come over?”

  She doesn’t want to do it over the phone. That’s very upstanding of her.

  “Just say it, Bryn,” I tell her. “You can even text it. I don’t care. Just put me out of my misery.”

  “Have you been drinking?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I state soberly. “I have been drinking. And I plan on continuing in that endeavor until I reach the bottom of the bottle, or fall asleep, whichever comes first.”

  “I’m coming over,” Bryn says.

  “Just don’t. If you’re going to dump me, just do it and be done with it.”

  There’s a long, uncomfortable pause before I hear the tinkle of Bryn’s laughter on the other end of the line.

  “Is that what this is?” she asks. “You think I’m breaking up with you?”

  She’s laughing at me. Bryn Beckett is always laughing at me. Whether I’m sl
eeping or awake, she laughs at me.

  “Isn’t it?” I say. “You’ve been dodging me for two days. Your admin feels sorry for me. She’s a shitty liar, by the way.”

  “Oh, Logan, you’re so pitiful when you’re drunk and sad. But don’t be sad,” she says. “I’m not breaking up with you. I was covering my ass until we resolved a conflict of interest issue between you and a case that came in yesterday. Plus, it’s been a zoo here at work. Charles resigned—got fired actually—and we’re upside down dealing with the mess he made.”

  Wait. What?

  “Charles got fired?” I ask, sitting up, trying to clear my swimming head. “Say that again.”

  “Technically, he resigned,” she says. “But that was to avoid getting drop-kicked out the door.”

  “Why?”

  “Poaching clients,” Bryn replies. “And for being an unchecked asshole.”

  I should call Tim.

  “Your lawyer, Tim Dunigan, had a long meeting with my father and a couple of his senior partners today.” Bryn says. “Very cloak and dagger. Very hush-hush.”

  No need to call Tim.

  “Yeah, he said he was going to do that,” I recall. This morning is a bit hazy to me now.

  “So, can I come over?”

  I look at my watch. I can barely focus on it. It’s only 9:30 and I’m thoroughly drunk.

  “I’m not going to be much fun,” I say. “One more drink, and I’m done.”

  “Why don’t you skip the last drink?” Bryn asks. Her tone is sweet, which I find hilarious.

  “Where’s the nihilistic fun in that?” I ask. “Don’t you know that wallowing, self-destructive, alcohol inspired, downward spirals run in my family? I gotta live up to all the high expectations everyone has for me. I mean seriously, if you knew how many people thought ill of me, you might just get on the bandwagon of lawsuits too. You could probably make a legit case. I mean, at least when we screwed the condom really broke. I might…”

  “What did you say?” Bryn sings, interrupting my meandering, drunken, ramble.

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? Yeah. The condom broke. Sorry. So… sue me. Lots of people are already. The attorneys are all over it.”

  Another long silence.

  “You know, I was thinking about taking another trip to get the hell away from all this crazy shit. You want to go with me to the Bahamas or something?”

  “I’m on my way over,” Bryn says. “Stay awake long enough to open the gate.”

  “Not necessary…”

  “Shut up, Logan. Get up. Put on a pot of coffee. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “You’re so bossy,” I say. “I like it, but sometimes…”

  “Logan, go put on some coffee, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  When the gate buzzes, I’m leaning on the counter, glassy-eyed, weaving, nursing a cup of coffee, trying to focus. I hit the button to let her in, then walk down to open the door, trying hard not to get lost in the maze of my own house.

  “Oh, look at you,” Bryn whines, turning me around at the threshold. “You had a worse day than I did.”

  “Two days,” I remind her. “Yesterday was a day too. Today was just more, plus some.”

  Bryn laughs. “You don’t do drunk well. You’re not suave. You’re so pitiful. Come sit down. I’ll get you more coffee.”

  She puts me down on the couch, returning a moment later, pressing a hot cup into my hands.

  “Drink this. I need you to sober up. I have some stuff you need to hear.”

  A half hour later she has me upstairs in my bedroom, guzzling water from a bottle between swigs of coffee. Somehow, she’s gotten me here, undressed down to my shorts, in bed, all without my conscious consent. I’m still drunk, now drunk and wired on caffeine.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, still hazy, barely recollecting our earlier conversation. “I need to pee.”

  When I stumble out of the bathroom Bryn is down to a t-shirt and panties, in my bed, looking for all the world like she belongs there. We haven’t had sex in my bed yet. Mom and Drake are just a short walk away and I didn’t think it was in anyone’s best interest to bring us here just yet.

  In my current frame of mind and degree of intoxication, I don’t think I can do anything to change that.

  “Come get in bed and hear me out,” she insists. “Then you can sleep it off and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

  I climb in, pulling the sheets up high to my waist.

  “What?” I whine, my head spinning, my blood running cold. I pull the comforter over me.

  “It’s about what you said on the phone,” Bryn says. “About your family tradition? wallowing, downward spiral. I need you to know, that’s not true. Your father was railroaded. He wasn’t guilty.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “He was guilty as sin,” I tell her, not even wondering why she’s bringing this up.

  I don’t know why I brought it up, except my father tends to figure prominently in any bad mood I let linger in my head.

  “My dad told me everything,” Bryn says.

  What does her dad have to do with any of it?

  “He was the prosecuting attorney on your dad’s DUI and manslaughter case. I went and looked everything up. I pulled the whole transcript. Your father’s attorney was lazy and incompetent, and my father let two witnesses give false testimony without challenge. Your father was innocent.”

  No. He really wasn’t.

  “Bryn, do you know what my chores included when I was a kid?” I ask her, my eyelids drooping, by tongue thick in my mouth.

  She shakes her head.

  “My dad used to park his cab in the field beside our house. He’d be gone five or six days on end doing long-haul runs. When he came home, it was my job to clean out the cab.”

  I feel my jaw clench, the muscles in my neck flex as I recount this childhood detail I’ve never revealed.

  “On any given week, I’d fill two big trash bags full of empty beer cans from the floor of his cab. I made pretty good pocket change recycling them. By my best count, it was a twelve-pack a day for every day on the road, intermixed with fast food wrappers and empty coffee cups.”

  I let my bleary eyes settle on Bryn.

  “My father was a drunk, on the road and off.”

  She shakes her head. “But Daddy admitted to…”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Your father might have fudged a detail here or there. But he was right. If my father kept up, it might have been an entire family he killed. Your dad did the world a favor.”

  Bryn considers me with questioning concern. She can’t believe what she’s hearing.

  “Look,” I say. “My father was rarely present. He hated all of us. He was ashamed of Drake. When he was on the road he stayed mostly lit, and when he was home he was obliterated. Your father did the right thing by getting him out from behind the wheel. He was a menace.”

  “Wow,” Bryn says, her expression confounded. “Not what I expected.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know what you expected. But that’s the truth. Tell your father to let go of it. I swear, I’m not holding a grudge.”

  My head hurts. I’m tired. It’s been a miserable day.

  “I’m going to sleep,” I say. “I can’t stay awake.”

  I slip under the covers, pulling them high up under my chin.

  Vaguely, I sense the lights dim. Bryn’s body sidles up alongside mine, her arms slipping around me, snuggling me close. In another minute I’m out, off into the dreamscape, sliding deep into the fog of an alcohol fed sleep.

  Chapter 19

  Bryn

  When I wake, it’s in a tangle of sheets and the sweaty, enveloping embrace of a snoring, still slumbering Logan. He reeks of too much booze consumed way too fast. I’m drenched in the same noxious scent. Ordinarily, I’d be disgusted, but as I peel myself out of his arms and have a look, he’s absolutely pitiful. Even in sleep he has dark circles under his eyes with a deep furrow cut between his brows; evidence of
a headache.

  He’s going to be hungover and miserable whenever he wakes, and I’m not going to be here to nurse him. I have an early appointment this morning.

  Before I go I write Logan a note, leaving it with a fresh bottle of water and a couple Advil by the nightstand.