The "Out of Candy" sign is on the front door. The half-drunk bottle of wine is on the coffee table. The shirt she wore today is on the floor by the door to the kitchen. Trina is on the couch. And Bryan's hand is on the zipper on her skirt
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"I am so sorry about all this," she says, taking Logan firmly by the arm. "You know how it is, boys will be boys and all. And I cannot tell you, sir, how much my parents appreciate your tact and discretion in dealing with this."
Logan gets a glare, but the smile doesn't waver. "Get in the car, Logan."
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He is not terribly successful at it. It's a teeny, wobbly step that sends him off the curb and into a twisty heap of arms and legs on the sidewalk.
His smile doesn't dim, though.
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"Do you think, sir, that you could help me get Logan into the car. I think it's best that I get him home, before he . . . well, as soon as possible."
She looks down at Logan. "I assure you this will be dealt with. I'm sure our father has rather a lot to say to him."
The twist she puts on the word say is a little cruel.
Possibly more than a little cruel.
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