“Is that the reason why you destroyed the studio at the Conservatory?” she asked then.
At her words, my lungs felt as if a huge fist was squeezing them. It took a moment before I could respond. “It was the anniversary of her death. I was practicing…hoping to lose myself in my music. Mitchell—the dickhead from the coffee shop—walked into the music room, said the place reeked of crap. Then he ripped my notes, said it was better for toilet paper. All because some girl he liked came after me. I wanted to smash his face, but told him to leave me the fuck alone, and find a chick that actually wanted him. A low blow, I didn’t care. Then one of his pals said something about money and killers getting off scot-free, and I lost my shit…” Anger strangled me at the memory.
“I’m so sorry, they’re idiots.” Then she wrapped her arms around me, flooring me with her actions. Most didn’t give a fuck about me. Girls just wanted my body, or to say they’d screwed the black sheep of the Meade-Sinclair dynasty. Others, money.
I buried my face in her hair and just held on. “Now I’m summoned to the mansion for a damn barbeque.”
She pulled back, her eyes searching my face. “You’re not going?”
“No. All it does is—”
At a whirring sound, I looked up and swore.
“Come on, Max, give us a name,” the reporter piped out. “Who’s the girl beneath all the paint?”
Damn fuckers! Rising to my feet, I pulled Logan up and shoved past the photographer.
“You’ve been gone for several months—where were you? Rehab again?” she asked, following us like a bloodhound.
My fingers fisted, and my teeth ground down hard. I had never been in rehab, but, of course, that was a more interesting story. The urge to punch something grew, had from the moment Logan’s ex made an appearance. That cheating scumbag appeared like someone Logan would care about—suave, charming. When he’d looked at me like he knew he’d win her back, I wanted to break his jaw. And now, these damn fucking reporters were on my ass again.
More photos were snapped. The whirring sound cracked through my fraying facade of calm. Anger surged. Christ, I was just so sick of their shit. I spun around. “Don’t you fucking—”
“Max, no!” Logan yanked me back, her hand tightened around mine, and in a fast trot, she took off, losing the harassing reporter and her equipment-toting sidekick in the crowds. She made for the thicket of trees edging the grounds, dragging me with her.
Several minutes later, as we navigated our way through the woods, I said, “I’m sorry.”
“That you wanted to punch the photographer?” she panted, jumping over a fallen branch. “I wanted to hit them myself for those damn invasive questions and their dogged persistence. Is it always like that? They pop up everywhere?”
“Yeah. Unlike my cousin, I sell more papers,” I said, tone flat. Then I glanced around at the thickly wooded area, the sounds and shrieks from the fair muted. “Where are we going?”
“To the parking lot, and home, so those asshats won’t come after you.”
At her anger, mine faded. I stopped, forcing her to halt. I tucked a few paint-splattered green strands behind her ear. “I’m fine. I’ve been handling the media for a while. But we aren’t leaving because of them. Don’t you want to pack up your stuff?”
She looked behind me to the fair. “You’re right. You go home. Mom should be there. I’ll get a lift back.”
Instantly, that set me off. Blood pounded in my head. The douche ex would see another opportunity to try and worm his way back again. “No.”
Whatever she saw in my expression, which right then was my need to punch her ex in the face, she sighed and nodded. “Okay, fine. Let’s go get my things.”
***
Much later, shower over, I dried off, still reeling over how Logan had managed to stop me from breaking the cameraman’s face and avoiding another huge scandal that would have inevitably followed me.
In my experience, most girls in that situation made use of the exposure for their five minutes of fame, but not Logan. This prickly girl, who’d captured my attention from the moment I’d laid eyes on her in the laundromat, was slowly claiming pieces of me.
After changing into clean clothes, I walked into the brightly lit kitchen. Logan wasn’t down yet. But Maya Logan and the brown-haired woman, Mary, Mr. L.’s sister, whom I had met earlier at the fair, were there, filling two huge thermoses with coffee.
Mrs. L, seated at the table, glanced up and smiled. Despite her dusky-gold coloring, she appeared wan. Tired.
“Are you okay?” I asked her.
She waved it aside. “I’m fine. Would you like something to eat? I’m making sandwiches for Ray and her friends. Most go back to watch the fireworks later in the n…night and have picnics there. I’ve ham and cheese, and roast beef with mustard, cheese, and tomato. Or would you prefer something else?”
“Roast beef is great. Thanks.”
She set two sandwiches on a plate and slid it to me. As I ate, I glanced at the door and wondered how long Logan would be.
