Free The New Elvis by Wyborn Senna

her cigarette still smoldering in the ashtray. Her mouth was open, and her head was back, making her look like she was in the middle of a silent scream. Logan kicked the box, took the wastebasket back to the bathroom, and went out back, navigating the cluttered yard until he found a clear spot measuring roughly five-feet-square. In the failing light, he watched as the stars blinked on like tiny lights. He’d brought some blankets and a pillow outside with him and set about forging a makeshift fort, using surrounding containers as walls. He had no wish to be anywhere near his mother after all he had tried to do, without any appreciation on her part.
    He put his head down and dozed. He dreamt he was in a smoky pit, and his classmates were throwing hot coals at him. It was hard to breathe, and he coughed. Logan awoke with a start and shook off the nightmare. He peered out of his fort and was stunned. His home—his cluttered, awful home—was on fire, and his mother was inside.

Chapter 24
    Ryan refused to go with his father to show properties unless Nana could come along. So, after an argument, they packed the dog into the back of Gene’s highly-polished, blood red E-Class Cabriolet convertible, fastened a seat belt, and looped leashes around her torso to keep her in the car, and then headed northwest on North Rexford Drive toward Santa Monica Boulevard.
    As they hit the coastline, offshore winds kicked up so Gene and Ryan couldn’t converse, but Nana punctuated the road trip with happy barks, her ears flying straight back, her tongue lolling to one side. The ocean rippled, rose, and pounded the shoreline under a Tiffany blue sky, and the beaches were filled with sunbathers.
    They were meeting Michael Knight-Lewis, who planned to move to Branson for his own one-man show. Since he grew up in Malibu, he wanted to establish a second home on the West Coast so he could come back out and visit friends from time to time. He had sold his place in Ojai the previous week, so he was anxious to secure a beachfront getaway, pack his bags, head to Missouri, and be back in a few months to visit after professional decorators furnished his new pad to his specifications.
    As Gene pulled up to the Malibu Main Colony, Michael ducked out from beneath one of the winged-doors of his silver McLaren, slammed it shut, and waved. Ryan had seen cars around Beverly Hills that looked like they were straight from
Back to the Future
, but he thought they looked like a pain to get in and out of.
    Gene parked behind Michael’s car, and Gene and Ryan got out. As Michael approached them, Ryan reached around to untie Nana. His dad’s one rule was to keep Nana away from him while he was dressed in one of his better suits—a charcoal gray cashmere off-the-rack Brioni with a purple silk tie and matching pocket square. Neither Ryan nor Michael had any desire to dress in anything better than jeans and never-iron Dockers for the meet-up, but that didn’t bother Gene. Gene dressed to the nines because when he wore a great suit, he felt like he could conquer the world.
    Michael gave Nana a scratch on the head. “Big dog.”
    “A hundred and fifty pounds,” Ryan told him.
    Gene made the introductions. If Michael found it odd that his agent brought his son and dog along to show him properties, he made no mention of it. The two men talked as Ryan and Nana trailed behind.
    Malibu Main was a gated community, and Gene was eager to show Michael a beachfront home with five bedrooms and three-point-five baths worth eight million. The home had an open floorplan that gave the place the expansiveness of an airport hangar. While Gene waxed poetic about the exquisiteness of the French limestone fireplace, Ryan went out onto the patio overlooking the beach. He leaned over one of the solid panes of glass to look at the poles that supported the balcony. Water swirled as waves swept in, and Ryan felt like he was on the bow of a ship.
    “You can fish right off the deck,” Gene