by Piper Lawson
“Lee,” Sam repeated. “Lee, Lee, Lee.”
Her experiments with my name set something bouncing around in my stomach.
“I’m not saying I can’t enjoy life,” she went on, shutting her barely touched textbook. “I’m just going to enjoy it in moderation. It's easier that way.” Challenge filled her gaze. “You got a problem with that?”
I rose, offering a hand. Sam stared at it a second before taking it.
Every part of my body woke up at the feel of her touch as I pulled her up. I started to respond but the words died on my lips.
“For once you have nothing to say,” she teased. “I’ve silenced you with my profound logic.”
I stretched my tingling hand as I followed her down the stairs.
7
Nelson Mandela
“Uncle Lee! Uncle Lee!”
“Hey, Em.”
I scooped up Emily in my arms and spun her around. Her four-year-old giggles sounded shrill in the living room of my parents’ house.
“Call me Lightning!”
“Lightning?”
“Yes. Lightning McQueen. From Cars.”
“Didn’t that come out awhile ago?”
“Cars 3.” Grace emerged, along with my mom, from the kitchen. “We saw it in theaters and now we have it digitally. So we can stream it. Every day.”
“A good franchise never dies.”
“Play cars with me, Uncle Lee.”
Grace shot me a look. “It’s nearly bedtime. You need to get ready.”
Emily pouted.
“Tell you what, Em. If you go get ready for bed, I’ll come up and read you a book.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Emily disappeared up the stairs, scrambling in her OshKosh overalls, my sister trailing her.
“You guys have a sleepover?” I asked my mom.
“Grace has to leave early tomorrow to visit a client and won’t be back all day. So we thought it would be fun.” She dried her hands on a towel, her brown eyes warm on mine. “I don’t want to be ‘that mom’, but do you ever think about settling down? You’re not getting any younger.”
“Wait a second. I turn thirty and suddenly I’m undatable? That’s crap. I’m going to be a silver fox like Clooney.” I bent to retrieve one of Emily’s toys she’d left on the carpet and tucked it into a basket sitting on the coffee table. “Besides, I’ve introduced you to what, three women over the years?”
“None of them were right for you.”
Maria’s words from months ago abraded the back of my mind as I crossed the carpet to nab a long-forgotten Barbie.
“I ran into Sam Martinez last week.” I dropped the doll into the basket and straightened.
My mom’s brows rose and she made that little assessing sound only moms can make. “I always liked her. I’ve never seen you work for something the way you worked for her.”
She turned and started back into the kitchen. I followed.
“For her friendship,” I corrected as she put water in a kettle to boil for tea.
She shifted a hip against the countertop. “Too bad.”
I pounced on it. “So Sam’s good enough for me.”
“Maybe too good for you.”
I winced. “Ouch. You ruined this moment. And to think I came over to put up the Christmas lights.”
“Your father and I appreciate it. He called yesterday and says hi.”
“When’s he back again?”
“February.” I knew my mom missed him, so I tried to stay around more over the holidays. He was at the age where he could’ve retired but his job was part of him. Despite his gray hair, they’d have to drag him off the ship, which would be its own special challenge given he was six-five and built like a linebacker.
“You want tea?” she asked as the kettle boiled.
“Nah, I’m good. But thanks.” I dropped a kiss on the top of her head then found my way up to the guest bedroom. Grace was letting herself out, leaving the door ajar.
I knocked lightly on it.
“You ready, Lightning?”
“Ready Lee!”
“She doesn’t sound ready to sleep,” I commented to Grace under my breath.
Grace gave me a one-armed squeeze before passing me and starting downstairs.
I pressed inside. The room had a makeover for tonight. Piles of toys and books everywhere, which Grace had made an admirable effort to contain.
Emily was cute as hell, bundled up in her red Cars pajamas.
“You came!”
“I promised. And when you promise something…”
“You have to do it!” she squealed.
“So what’re we reading?”
“This one.” Her stubby hands clutched a board book, waving in the air like a checkered flag at the end of a NASCAR race.
“Okay.” I shifted onto the bed next to her and she scooted close, opening the book in between our laps so one half was on her leg and the other was on mine.
“You don’t read it. You read a page then I read a page,” she declared.
Damn, she was growing up fast. The thought hit me in the gut, but I shook off the wave of emotion, clearing my throat. “Got it. Show me how it’s done.”
She started reading the book, which was about a rabbit that wanted to be fast but had a broken leg.
Some shrink would probably say that my craving for family came from a place of feeling destabilized. The family I had was precious to me, and I’d do anything for them.
My home—this one, the only one that mattered—had been everything I could’ve wanted. Filled with support and encouragement and love.
I didn’t remember much of my time before being adopted. The most salient memories were of pain. But I'd learned to keep those at bay. The older I got, the more they seemed part of someone else’s life anyway.
Whatever edge I carried, I got better at hiding. It, like the faded scars that still marked my skin, would never be truly gone, but school and then Titan had focused me on goals like graduating top of my class, or making my first million.
But as I hit thirty, it seemed like the more I had, the more I wanted. The dissatisfaction in my gut seemed to be growing, spreading, without any obvious cause.
“What’s the morrow, Lee,” Emily demanded when we folded the book shut.
“The morrow.”
“What are we supposed to learn?”
“Oh.” I scrunched up my face. “The moral is that all rabbits are fast enough to run races?”
“No. It’s that you have to keep trying. You always keep trying, right Lee? No matter what?”
I opened my mouth to say yes but thought better of lying to my niece. “Most of the time.”
It’d been two days since I’d seen Sam for lunch. After she’d confirmed receiving the email I sent with some background on the game and images, I’d heard nothing.
Nada.
I’d texted her this morning to see how it was going. Called and got her voicemail this afternoon.
Finally, I got a message saying she’d declined my bank transfer, with a note saying “I can’t do this. Thank you for thinking of me.”
Something was wrong. Something had changed since I’d met with her.
She could definitely use the money. And I’d agreed with her crazy demand not to credit her with the work.
So what was the issue?
Emily pouted, but its effect was lessened when it turned into a yawn. “Keep trying, Lee…” Her head fell back against the pillow.
I ruffled the hair on her head. “All right, Lightning. Thanks for the pep talk.”
It’s insane how clearly kids see the world. They’re not bogged down in our adult bullshit.
Which was why the next day after spending the morning keeping Titan running, I drove back to my parents’ neighborhood, to the Victorian six lots down.
I parked the Bentley, sliding out and crossing the street to the front porch.
I held my breath as I knocked. Th
e door opened before I'd had a chance to properly prepare.
“Mr. Martinez.”
Sharp brown eyes narrowed behind thin-rimmed glasses.
He stood stiffly but didn’t look like a man weakened by illness.
“Riley. McKay. You might remember me.” No response. “Or not.” I took a breath. “I’m looking for Sam.” His frown deepened. “Samantha. Your daughter.”
The door shut in my face.
In fairness, he probably remembered me from such timeless hits like ‘that time Sam came home drunk’, or ‘the sprained wrist from diving off Max Donovan’s uncle’s boat’.
But I’d come this far, so giving up wasn’t an option.
My feet slipped on the grass, the moisture from last night’s frost still present as I rounded the house and crossed the backyard. I glanced toward the upstairs windows, squinting against the sun.
The house was huge, too big for just the two of them. Sam and I’d joked about it in high school. Still, Sam secretly liked it because she had the back of the house.
Her bedroom—suite really—was up the stairs off the kitchen. It was the renovated servants quarters, but it was perfect for a high school girl to paint, play loud music, and generally do whatever she wanted.
We’d snuck in and out of the house a million times.
Now, I looked around the back stairs, I half-hoped I wouldn’t find what I was looking for.
My gaze landed on the brown mound. I blew out a breath.
Bad idea, McKay.
I lifted the plastic joke shop dog turd and flipped it over, peeling the key free from the tape on the back.
Nelson Mandela said that the brave man isn’t the man who doesn’t feel afraid, but the one who conquers his fear.
I’m pretty sure he wasn’t referring to B&E when he said it.
The key turned in the lock and I stepped inside.
8
A pit bull. With a scalpel collection
Time had stood still. The same pictures on the back staircase graced the walls. Ones of Sam, her dad, her grandparents.
At the top were two doors. The open one led to a bathroom. The closed one led to Sam’s room.
I reached for the door, easing it in.
I wasn’t sure what to expect on the other side. Sam could’ve been doing anything.
Talking on the phone.
Rearranging her furniture.
She could’ve been in bed, rubbing one out for all I knew.
I hadn’t expected to find her standing at her easel in one corner of the massive room, headphones on her ears as her brush moved over the canvas.
She was wearing shorts and a tank top, even though it was freezing thanks to an open window across the room. Her curvy hips swayed a little to the music, drawing my gaze down her body.
She looked lost in her own world, an alternate dimension save for the fact that her feet were firmly planted in the carpet. One leg stretched out, her foot tapping to whatever beat filled her headphones. Her toenails were the color of cherries.
She’d always had a figure. I knew it in high school and it was painfully evident now. Small, high boobs I’d never gotten truly acquainted with. Slim shoulders that were stronger than they looked. A narrow waist, flaring into round hips.
My gaze landed on the curve of her ass under the shorts.
This is really fucking bad.
I was standing in the bedroom of someone I hadn’t been friends with since high school. After letting myself in to plead my case on the advice of a four-year-old.
“Sam.” My voice was low, hoarse.
Nothing.
I cleared my throat. “Sam.” A little louder.
I approached her, reaching for the headphones on her ears.
She whirled before I could blink.
Shock registered before the pain.
But when it did, my eyes watered as I bent over, grasping for my nose.
“Lee? What the hell are you doing here?” she gasped from somewhere above me.
I couldn’t appreciate the fact that she’d used my nickname. I could barely open my eyes as I straightened. “Tried the front door,” I managed, sounding like I had a sinus infection. “Your bouncer wouldn’t let me in.”
I held up the key in one hand.
“So you sneak up on someone whose mom died in a home invasion?”
I swore. This was getting worse by the second.
She jerked her headphones from around her neck and dropped them on the table next to her art supplies. She reached for my wrist and pulled me across the hall to the bathroom.
“Samantha?” her father called up the stairs. “Did you say something?”
We exchanged a look. “Nothing, Dad!”
His footsteps receded, and I bent over the sink, pinching the bridge of my nose gingerly.
“Did I break it?” she murmured. Her voice was lower. Contrite.
“Maybe. You hit hard, Martinez. I’m impressed.”
A tissue appeared in front of my face and I grabbed it, pressing it against my nostrils.
I held out a hand and Sam passed me more. “Your dad still hates me.”
“He’s protective.”
I managed to tilt my head to the side enough to throw her a look. “He’s a pit bull. With a scalpel collection.”
When it seemed like the bleeding let up, I straightened.
I shifted a hip against the sink. The bathroom was small, and it had traces of her everywhere. Soft-looking gray towels. A bath poof dangling from the shower. Girly products corralled on the vanity.
I lifted a sparkly bottle from the tray. “White grapefruit and Mosa mint. What’s Mosa mint? Why isn’t regular mint good enough?”
Sam reached over me, her body brushing mine as she grabbed the container from my hand.
“Enough of raiding my bathroom.” She went back to her room, and I followed.
Inside, Sam stopped in front of her bed, turning to face me. “If you’re here about the concept art,” she said under her breath, “I can’t do it. I’m sorry if I held up your process, but you’ll need to go to someone else.”
“That’s not going to work.”
She blinked, playing with the sleeve of her shirt. “Why not?”
“Because no one’s fucking good enough.” I turned to pace the length of her room, spinning on my heel when I got to the wall. “I’ve gotten other samples. Recommendations from the artist who did the work on Phoenix.” I came back to her, pulling up just out of arms’ reach.
“I want you, Sam. I need you.”
Her gaze worked over mine, frustrated and confused. “I can’t do it.”
My attention landed on the painting on the easel, a scene of flowers in a field. “Looks like you haven’t even tried.”
She stalked in front of me, crossing to her desk and jerking open the drawer.
Sam pulled out a stack of papers, holding them up in front of me.
“I tried,” she muttered, holding up one and then the next and letting them float to the ground. I bent to pick one up.
It was good. Better than Epic’s by a mile.
But she was right. It wasn’t enough.
I crossed to the bed, taking a seat on it.
Sam picked up the other sheets and followed me, dropping onto the duvet at my side.
“Something’s missing,” I agreed. “But I know it’s something you can find. I’ve seen it.” I turned it over in my mind. “How much do you know about the game?”
“Not much. I’ve never played it.”
I nodded, thinking. “It’s about this post-apocalyptic world and a woman who’d escaped after years of genetic testing at the hands of an evil regime. She came home unharmed, except for one important difference… she had wings. She’d just found her family when the regime found her and burned her entire city to the ground.” My gaze fell to the carpet as I pictured it. “Nearly everyone died, except for the guy she loved. He was forced to leave, to take the survivors and lead them to safety somewhere unknown. She
had to decide between going with them or starting a rising against the regime.”
I looked up to find Sam’s eyes unblinking, her lips parted in anticipation.
“She chooses the regime,” she murmured.
“She does.” I shook off the feelings threatening to take me over, the way a compelling story always did. “The gameplay’s insane. Max outdid himself.”
“What about the story?” Sam asked.
“What do you mean.”
“I mean who wrote it.”
I rubbed a hand over the back of my neck. “I did.”
Her stare made my body prickle with awareness.
It’d always felt like she could look into me, through me, when most people only saw what was on the surface.
“I read your article,” she said abruptly. “The one in GQ last month.” The single-page feature was what you got unless your first name was Ryan or your last name was Hemsworth. “It didn't say anything about you writing the stories for your games.”
I shrugged a shoulder. “Just that one. I hadn’t even planned to write it. But it was this idea that’d been in me for awhile. Tugging at the corners of my brain, never letting me go.”
I glanced past her at the canvases stacked by the walls. “You ever get like that with your art?”
“I used to,” she said softly. “Not since…”
“Since what?”
She shook her head. “Not in a long time.”
But she looked back down at the sketches, lost in thought.
Sam folded her arms across her body. “Okay. I’ll try again,” she said, her voice steady.
I wrapped my arms around her, feeling her surprised intake of breath. “You won't regret it, Sam.”
A noise downstairs reached my ears.
“Your dad still keep that Mo Vaughn baseball bat in the display case in the living room?” I murmured against her hair.
“Yeah.” She pulled back, her face inches from mine. Her eyes glinted up at me, wary and with a hint of humor. “He added a David Ortiz one a few years ago.”
I nodded. “I should go now.”
“That’s probably best.”
9
It’s Always About Tits