Prologue
The Good Boy
Logan
W
hen I was a kid, I would run around with a cardboard sword. I’d drawn skulls at the center of its brown papery blade and used red marker to represent the blood of my enemies.
Growing up with five little sisters would do that to a boy.
“Mom, I’m going out to play.” I bounced my ball, excited to hit some baskets.
“Take your sisters with you.”
I turned to her and pleaded. “Aww, come on, Mom!”
“You’re the oldest.” And then she gave me that look, the one that said I better shut it.
So, I always dragged myself back into the house, put my ball under the bed, grabbed my cardboard sword, and took my time gathering each one of my sisters. Celia always needed help finding her damn left sneaker. It was
always the left one, never the right. Once, I’d tried to glue it to her foot while she was sleeping, and Mom went ballistic.
Celia and I looked the most alike, both dark haired with green eyes and tanned skin.
Reece and Rina, the twins, always held each other’s hands and waited for me outside—always the dutiful princesses, happy to make their big brother’s life easier. They were the only blondes in the family.
Meanwhile, my other sister, Patricia whined about having to go outside. She was always stuck between the pages of a thick book and despised things like fresh air, human beings, and the sun.
Then, there was my baby sis, Monica who always jumped her tiny self on my back and made horsy sounds.
“Charge, horsy, charge!” Monica always roared.
“Yeah. Yeah.” I would roll my eyes. “Hold on so you don’t fall off.”
“You would never let me fall, horsy!”
And then I would leave the house pouting and surrounded by pig tails and pink bows, headless dolls and stinky little fingers holding my hands.
Happy, Mom would always stand in front of the door, watching us and giving me that special smile—the one that made me feel like my sacrifices were all worth it. “There’s my little man. You’re such a great prince. Don’t forget to watch out for them.”
“Yes, Mommy.”
“Always stay around them.”
“Yes, Mommy.”
When I turned twenty, Mom passed from cancer.
I still had that cardboard sword, although it was crumpled, and the red skulls appeared faded and rusty brown. Presently, it was nailed to the main wall in my man cave.
“Don’t forget to watch out for them.”
And sometimes when I looked at that sword, I wished Mom had told me to protect her .
She’d worked too much.
We had lived in a house that looked like a mansion, but it was nothing of the sort. Eight bedrooms, five baths, and a small pool house. There had been no staff, just my mother cleaning and cooking, mopping and dusting, constantly with something in her hands, tired and stressed.
My dad was a good man who worked night and day—no sleeping around, no skirting his duties. He just had so many mouths to feed and remained full of anxiety each day, always talking about bills, the stock market, and how life would be peaceful when he retired.
But, when Mom died so young, he lost it, staring at a blank TV most of the day with a glass of vodka in his hand.
Dad died a month after mom from a broken heart.
Hope and hurt. Both started with h and were four letters. Yet, one strengthened and the other crippled. And every year—every month, week, and day—I battled with finding hope through the hurt of losing the two most important people in my life.
At twenty, I dropped out of college, returned home, and took care of my sisters. At the time, Celia was eighteen. The twins were seventeen, Patricia fifteen, and Monica twelve.
For the next ten years, they gave me gray hairs and unnecessary anxiety.
At least, Mom and Dad left us with more money than the six of us would ever need. They’d both had small inheritances, before their marriage—properties and stocks. Plus, Dad had made smart investments.
In his will, he ordered us to never choose money over our passion—never work the day away.
We did our best to comply. I’d taken ahold of the funds, sold our old property, and bought a new one. It was a six-level building where I lived on the third floor, and all my younger sisters stayed on the floors above. The rest of the condos were rented.
For me, Mom’s rules hadn’t died with her.
“Always take care of your sisters.”
1
T.G.I.F
Logan
Thank God it’s Friday.
Tonight, I could take off my Big Brother hat and explore the playground of life.
In some ways, I was still that little boy—protective of his sisters and loving all things dealing with swords. However, now I no longer raced to the playground. Instead, I ran to the court to play ball. And the childhood games of tag and hide-and-seek had remained. Except, now I enjoyed playing those games with sexy women on a higher level.