Connor "Mad" Rogan személy
“And the next time you choose to project into my dreams, do keep your clothes on.”
He smiled. It was a very male, self-aware smile, not just sexual but carnal. The predatory look in his eyes turned ravaging. (…)
“I can project, but I would have to be next to you to do it.”
His voice turned smooth and sensual. A man had no right to sound like that. “Tell me, what wasn’t I wearing in your dreams?”
I rose, turned my back to him, and walked out.
“Rogan,” I said. “Lift up your shirt.”
He pulled his Henley up, exposing his side. A folded paper towel covered his lower ribs, held in place by duct tape.
“What is this?” I demanded.
“It’s a bandage,” Bern said.
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is,” Grandma Frida said. “Sometimes you cut your finger and you wrap the paper towel around it real tight, slap some duct tape on it, and good to go.”
“Your father used to do this,” Mom told me. “I swear, it’s like every man is born with it, or they must take some secret class on how to do it.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Grandma Frida asked.
I put my hand over my face.
“No,” Mad Rogan said.
“A boyfriend?” Grandma Frida asked.
“What about . . .”
“No,” Mom and I said in unison.
“But you don’t even know what I wanted to ask!”
“No,” we said again together.
“Party poopers.” Grandma shrugged.
“Yes, I’m a hermit. Mostly I brood,” Mad Rogan said. “Also I’m very good at wallowing in self-pity. I spend my days steeped in melancholy, looking out the window. Occasionally a single tear quietly rolls down my cheek.”
“You’re Mad Rogan!” Leon burst out.
“Yes,” Mad Rogan said, his voice calm.
“And you can break cities?”
“And you have all this money and magic?”
Where was Leon going with this?
My cousin blinked. “And you look . . . like that?”
Mad Rogan nodded. “Yes.”
Leon’s dark eyes went wide. He looked at Mad Rogan, then glanced down at himself. At fifteen, Leon weighed barely a hundred pounds. His arms and legs were like chopsticks.
“There is no justice in the world!” Leon announced.