Royally Endowed(27)
Now I know to look beneath the surface, to be smarter—to question that what’s on the outside, the words people say and the things they do, might be totally and completely different from what’s really going on, on the inside.
I talked to Logan about it too, a few days later. About people who lie, misrepresent for all kinds of reasons.
He held up two fingers on his right hand and told me in that strong, steady voice: “Two guaranteed signs of lying—they fidget or freeze. They either move too much or work too hard to not move at all. You’ll sense it if you pay attention; something about their look will seem unnatural . . . off. Anytime someone has to put effort into their words, you can bet what they’re saying is a steaming crock of shit.”
“Fade Into You” by Mazzy Star plays from my phone as I dip my brush into the bucket of paint and drag it up the wall. It’s a good song to paint to. Slow and rhythmic.
I’m at the newest Amelia’s location. Olivia and Nicholas have grown the coffee shop into a chain of “pay what you can” restaurants across the city. This’ll be the third one, and the grand opening is in a few weeks, so I’m helping out. Nicholas and Livvy are in the kitchen setting things up—and making goo-goo eyes at each other like they so often do.
Logan leans against the wall behind me, his arms folded, his eyes alert—watching me. When the wall is covered in its first coat of paint, I lay the brush on a cloth on the floor and turn around to face him.
“What?”
He shifts his eyes from the front window, where he wasn’t looking a second ago, to me.
“What ‘what’?”
“Do I have paint in my hair?” I twist my body and look at my butt. “Did I sit in something?”
Logan scoffs. “No.”
“Then what’s with the deep-thoughted glares? I can hear you thinking from here.”
He tilts his head and rubs his chin. “You should learn how to fight.”
“Like Ronda Rousey? If God wanted me to be an MMA fighter, don’t you think he would’ve made me bigger?”
“Not like Ronda Rousey.” Logan shakes his head. “Like self-defense. You should know how to protect yourself.”
“I thought it was your job to protect me.”
“It is. And this is part of how I’ll do that.”
Logan crosses his arms, his biceps bulging against the sleeves of his dress shirt, and waits for me to answer.
“Okay.”
“Good.” He walks up to me, close enough that I can smell him. Logan always smells so good . . . like crisp, cold air, fresh wood and fall leaves.
He holds up his palm. “Punch my hand. Let’s see what we’re working with.”
I step back, brace my feet and raise my fists—bouncing like a boxer. Then I give all I’ve got—landing my fist as hard as I can in Logan’s open palm with a smack.
It was pretty badass, if I do say so myself.
“That was pathetic,” Logan says.
Everyone’s a critic.
I make a face at him.
“Have you ever gotten into it with someone before?”
“I pulled Liv’s hair when I was seven. She was going to rat me out for breaking our mom’s decorative cake plate and when she tried to retaliate, I locked myself in the bathroom until our dad came home.”
“Wow.” Logan lifts an eyebrow. “Okay.” He claps his big hands together and rubs. Then he takes a step back, spreading his feet, and looks me in the face.
“Eyes and balls.”
“Excuse me?”
“The most vulnerable spots on a man are his eyeballs and his cock.”
By the power of suggestion, my eyes immediately drop to Logan’s . . . latter.
And in his perfectly snug dress pants, the latter is . . . fucking amazing. Significant. I’ve covertly checked it out before and though I’ve never seen a bull in person, I can safely say that Logan could give one an inferiority complex.
He catches where I’m looking and a quick, deep chuckle rumbles in his chest.
“Let’s stick with eyes for now,” Logan says—almost teasingly. “We’ll work on the cock in a bit.”
Work on the cock . . . is it getting hot in here?
Over the next half hour, Logan shows me how to turn my thumbs into dangerous, eye-gouging weapons. How to duck and block and use my body weight to propel me away from an attacker. How to use my legs—the strongest part of my body—to stun and escape. He demonstrates how to squeeze my fists into rocks—thumbs on the outside, people—and punch a guy’s nads up into his throat.
When we’re finished, his shoulders are looser, less tense, his face is less scowly and there’s the sound of pride in his voice.