ELEVEN

Manic Monday

“Goddamn asshole!”

I slap at the printer as I try to wrench my crumpled document from its stupid, electronic clutches. “Let ... the fuck ... go! Bastard!”

Large hands close around my shoulders. “The poor, innocent printer was beaten so viciously by its human master, it never recovered, and it never forgave. And thus, the war with the machines began.”

I slump in frustration. “Tobes ...”

“It’s fine, Eden. Just step away from the equipment, okay? You’re in no state to handle this.” He gently moves me back then bends down to get a better look at the paper jam. “So, is this regular Monday-morning rage? Or is there something else going on?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m fine.”

“Sure. That’s why you look like you slept here and have yelled at nearly everything that’s crossed your path, including your phone, the vending machine, and now the printer.”

“I have not yelled!”

When he turns to me and raises his eyebrows, I let out a breath and say much more quietly, “Okay. Maybe I yelled a little.”

“Do I need to go grab some therapy brownies? Or does this have something to do with your story?”

He gives a final tug, and the mangled remnants of my document pull free. He looks them over. “Wait, this isn’t what you’ve been working on. It’s the story on the street artist you were telling me about. The one who penises potholes.”

I take it from him and ball it up before tossing it into the recycling bin. “Yeah. I thought I might be able to prove my worth to Derek with something other than the Mister Romance story.”

“And you want to do that because ...?”

I shrug and reload fresh paper into the machine. “He’s ... well, he’s an impossible man to deal with.”

“Uh huh. Impossible in what way?”

“All the ways.” I don’t tell him that I suspect he drugged me last night, or about my trip this morning to my friend who works in a lab, so he could test my blood. Saying it out loud would make it all too real, and don’t want it to be. I think some part of me was rooting for Max to change my mind about him, but this morning I’ve all but given up hope. I’ve rolled the events of last night around in my memory time and again, wondering if it’s possible my extreme reaction was all in my head, but I don’t think it was. Feeling that much for someone I hardly know can’t possibly be natural. I don’t think Max is a rapist or even sexually assaulting anyone, because God knows, he’s got more physical boundaries than a child care worker. But even if he’s just slipping his ladies something to relax them and make them feel good, it’s still wrong. And illegal.

All of a sudden, the loyalty his clients display is understandable. They’re all drinking the Kool-Aid. Literally.

I shove the paper tray back into the machine as my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to see the fourth text Max has sent me this morning.

<We need to talk. Meet me for lunch.>

“Nope,” I say and shove the phone back into my pocket.

“Wow,” Toby says. “Who’s on your shit list?”

“No one. Don’t worry about it.”

“If you say so.” He leans over my laptop and prints the document again. “But if I were that guy and valued my balls, I’d steer clear of you for a while.”

He walks back to his cubicle as I slump into my chair and watch the printer spit out my pages. He wasn’t wrong about me looking like I slept here. I hadn’t felt like facing Ash last night, so I came here and worked off my excess energy by writing.

Fueled by my experience with Max, I pumped out six-hundred words on the Brooklyn parking fine con, and a thousand words on the pothole penises. I figured if I could use them to convince Derek of my value as a journalist and drop Max and his whole romance routine, I’d never have to see him again. Depending on the results of the blood test, I also have to decide whether to go to the police. All of his messages this morning tell me he knows he’s busted, but I don’t want to confront him until I have all the facts. Besides, I’m feeling too raw right now to even see him.

When the printer finishes, I staple my articles together and march into Derek’s office.

He doesn’t even look up as he mutters, “Get out.”

“Derek, I have something I want to –”

“No.”

“But I –”

Now he looks up, and his expression isn’t happy. He points to the papers I’m holding “Is that your completed feature on Mister Romance?”

“No, but –”

“Then get the fuck out. I’m not interested.”

I clench my jaw to stop the bitch goddess inside of me from picking up the pretty chrome chair and smacking him in the face with it. Instead, I slap the articles on his desk so forcefully, he jumps.

“I wrote these last night,” I say. “Read them. They’re good.” He scowls before picking them up and scanning through the pages. “If you finish them and don’t think I deserve a chair on the features desk, then –”

He throws them back across his desk to me. “They’re shit. Not only have they already been reported by at least three major news outlets, but they’ve been covered better and expressed more eloquently. What the fuck are you playing at, Tate? Where’s the Mister Romance piece?”

“It’s proving more challenging than I thought.”

“So, what? You’re giving up? How can you call yourself a journalist?”

“Derek, you don’t understand.”

He slaps his hand on the desk. “No, I fucking don’t! You begged me for this story. You guaranteed me you could get it and that it would be an exclusive scandal-bomb that would blow the underwear off my advertisers. Then you tucked a thousand bucks into your bra for fucking ‘expenses’, and what? Completely failed to deliver? Not on my watch, Tate. Your bullshit doesn’t play with me. Either you walk out of here to finish that story, or your keep walking to the unemployment line. Which will it be?”

God, I’m so tempted to just tell him to shove his job up his miserable ass and start afresh, but I don’t have enough money to cope with being out of work, even for a week. So I swallow my pride, and my fears about Max, and accept my fate. Still, I promise myself that someday, somehow, I’m going to pay Derek back for being such an almighty asshole.

“I’ll get the story,” I mutter and take back my articles.

“I should fucking think so.” Derek picks up his tablet and jabs at it. “This company is in enough goddamn trouble without you screwing up our most promising scoop in years. And don’t you dare think you’re not going to give me names. I mean you’re not stupid enough to cut a deal promising him you’ll protect his clients, right?”

Oh, shit.

“He’s reluctant to name them, unless I can protect their identity.”

“Then you do the same as I do when I deal with my ex-wife you – tell them whatever’s necessary to get your way then do whatever you want.”

He’s divorced? What a shocker.

“And if I’m not comfortable doing that?”

“Then you don’t have a story. Or a job.”

“Derek, what happened to journalistic integrity? The right to protect our sources?”

He throws his tablet onto his desk and leans back in his chair. “For Christ’s sake, Tate, we live in a society where ethical journalism is going the way of the dinosaurs. These days, any asshole with an internet connection and an opinion can become a ‘journalist’. People don’t give a shit about integrity. Every major news corp. in the country is struggling, because people only want to read stuff that either doesn’t challenge their current belief system or makes them feel superior to others. Do you think we’re going to gain any readers by tiptoeing around the precious celebrities involved in this scam? Fuck, no. And even if you play Mother Teresa and keep the whole thing anonymous, some asshole at a competing agency will dig up the truth anyway, and then they’ll get the scoop. So, if you’re going to do this, it’s all or nothing. Am I making myself clear?”

I grit my teeth and nod. “Yes. Crystal clear.”

“Good. Then tell me something that will make me think I didn’t make a mistake in trusting you. Do you have anything new to tell me at all?”

I’m really not in the mood for this conversation, but what choice do I have?

“I went on a date with him last night,” I say, gripping the back of the chair in front of me. “A fake date, of course. Rock star fantasy.”

He sits forward. “And?”

“And ...” I swallow. “I suspect he may be drugging his clients.”

Derek goes totally still. “Are you screwing with me right now?” When I shake my head, he says, “He rapes them?”

“I don’t think so. It’s more about relaxing them. Making them feel ... uh ... good.” I clear my throat. “Aroused.”

He chews the inside of his cheek. “Still a crime if he’s doing it without permission. Do you have proof?”

“No. I’ll get the results of my blood test this evening.”

Derek stares at me, and I can feel his excitement growing.

“You’d better hope that test comes back positive, because this is what’s known as a bombshell, Tate. It could blow this whole thing wide open. Lover boy is not only a petty conman, but also a criminal? Nothing would make me happier.”

Sometimes, I really hate the vampiric nature of mass media. “Can I go?”

He nods. “Yeah, yeah. Sure. Let me know when you hear from the lab.”

Deep breathing helps me remove myself from his office without shoving the paper I’m holding down his throat. When I get back to my desk I crumple up my articles, toss them into the trash, and slump into my chair where I rest my head in my hands.

Well played, Monday. Well goddamn played.

I grab my phone and text Asha.

<I hope you’re not tired from bass-player shenanigans, because we’re going out tonight. No excuses.>

After everything that’s happened, I need to refresh and reboot, and that means finding myself a male-shaped palette cleanser to remove the taste of conman from my body and mind. By tomorrow morning, I want to have had enough sex with anyone who’s not Max Riley, I can’t walk straight.

* * *

The music blares from the jukebox as I dance my ass off and work what God gave me. There are several candidates here tonight auditioning for the role of ‘man I’ll be riding later’, but I’m leaning toward the Wall Street douche in the pin-striped suit who’s already asked me about the color of my underwear. Sure, he’s blonder than any man should be, and clearly plucks his eyebrows, but the main reason I like him is because if Max was on one side of the hotness see-saw, this guy would be his perfect opposite. Not too attractive. Not too bright. Not too sexy. In other words, perfectly mediocre. Exactly how I usually like my men.

Asha says most of the guys I sleep with are like Fast and the Furious movies – they’re fun for a couple of hours, but hard to remember the next day.

My soon-to-be inside-trader is named Brick, and it’s kind of perfect considering how thick he is.

“You dance so good,” he says as he flails to the music like he has some sort of palsy. “You’re like ... hot. So fucking hot. Are you a real redhead? Does the carpet match the drapes?” He waggles his eyebrows at me, and I bite back a groan.

Ugh, shut up, dude. There’s fun-dumb, and then there’s just plain dumb-dumb. He’s quickly veering into the latter.

“It’s hard to hear you over the music,” I say, pointing at my ear. “Probably best not to talk.”

He nods enthusiastically and moves closer, dancing in that weird way so many men think is sexy where they lead with their crotch. It must be some throwback to ancient mating rituals or something, but I doubt females ever found it appealing. It’s right up there with unsolicited dick picks as the top way to turn women off. Having known the delightful Brick for less than half an hour, I would bet money on him having a whole folder of dick pics on his phone, all photoshopped larger than life and ready for some poor, unsuspecting girl’s eyeballs. I pray it won’t be mine.

We dance for a bit longer, and just when I’d given up hope that Asha’s going to join me tonight, she shows up on the edge of the dance floor looking like the cat that caught the canary. When I’d called her earlier, she was just about to go into a late meeting and didn’t think she could make it. I’m so glad she was wrong.

She mimes the drinkies gesture and points to the bar, and I nod. I don’t really feel like talking about the whole thing with Max, but just being with her always makes me feel better.

I lean into Brick and put a hand on his chest. “Let’s take a break. I need to talk to my sister.”

“Cool,” he says. “Gotta spend some time hanging with my homies, anyway.” Ugh. He calls his bro-dudes homies? He’s getting less attractive by the second.

Before I can escape, he leans in so close I can smell the delicate aroma of Budweiser on his breath. “I’ll be down the end of the bar when you need me, hot stuff.”

I smile, but as soon as he turns away, I drop the pretense and head over to the bar.

God, why am I being so intolerant tonight? Brick isn’t any more heinous than most of the men I’ve hooked up with, and yet my eye-rolling has gotten so severe, I can feel a headache coming on. I rub my temples as I make my way over to where Asha is waving to Joe and ordering our usual drinks.

“What’s up?” I say, giving her a quick hug. “The meeting wrapped up quickly.”

“Actually, I’m just on dinner break, but I needed to come here first and tell you my amazing news in person.”

I gasp in mock surprise. “O.M.G.! You and bass boy from the Stoners are getting married, and you want me to be chief bridesmaid for your wedding? Oh, Ash! Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes!”

She rolls her eyes. “As if. He was hot, but it turns out he’s as dumb as a post. After the concert, I started talking to him about his songwriting process, because, you know, his lyrics are half the reason my panties melted in the first place. Well, it turns out he pays some other guy to write the lyrics, and then he takes credit for it.”

“What?” Joe delivers our drinks, and I take a sip. “Why would he admit that?”

“Because,” she says, stirring her cocktail, “he was drunk, and dumb, and more than a little high. Apparently, I should have been rubbing myself all over some guy named Caleb Sykes.”

I cough on my drink, and Ash pats me on the back. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” I take a breath. “Really? Caleb, huh? Wow.” I grab some napkins and dab at the mess on my chin.

“Wasn’t he playing at the Rock Shop last night? I heard his name announced, but I was too busy lusting after an imposter to catch his set.”

Seems like lusting after imposters is something we have in common at the moment.

“For all I know,” Ash says, “he looks like one of the less attractive cousins out of Deliverance. I mean, you just know that anyone named Caleb is a total hillbilly, right?”

I cough again and nod. “Oh, yeah. Definitely. He’s probably ... you know ... totally gross.” My whole body lights up just thinking about how not-gross Max was as Caleb.

Dammit! For a while there, I was doing so well. I know I should level with her about Caleb’s real identity, but I honestly just want to put last night behind me, and if I tell Ash about how Max made me feel and that it was possibly chemically induced, we’re not getting off the topic any time this year.

“So,” Ash says, swiveling around to face me. “How about you? Hook up with anyone I know?”

I shake my head. “Nope. Just some random musician. It was pretty forgettable.” At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

“Anyway,” Ash says, “my amazing news has nothing to do with boys and everything to do with my job. Guess which junior editor has been chosen to go with the head of publishing and the foreign rights director to the European Book Fair next week in Paris?”

My mouth drops open in shock. “No way!”

“Yes, way! I leave on Friday. We have a whole bunch of meetings lined up in London the week before the fair, so I’ll be gone for just over two weeks!”

“Oh, my God, Ash! That’s amazing!”

“I know, right?!”

I pull her into a hug, and after she almost squeezes me to death, I hold up my glass in a toast.

“To my baby sister. May she have a wonderful trip and find a hot Frenchman to romance the bejesus out of her.”

“Oh, hell, yes!”

We clink glasses, and after Ash sips her drink, she puts her hand on my leg. “Will you be okay dealing with Nannabeth by yourself for a while?”

“Don’t worry about it. As long as Nan stays out of my love life, we’ll be fine.”

Ash laughs. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”

For a few minutes, we chat about everything she wants to do in Paris, and I’ve almost put everything with Max out of my mind when she looks off into space and says, “So, what’s going on with the whole Mister Romance thing? When are you going on those dates with Max?”

Again, I’m tempted to tell her about the whole rock star debacle, but I just don’t have the energy right now. I’ve finally gotten my blood pressure down to healthy levels. No need to spike it again.

“I don’t know, Ash. Derek’s breathing down my neck about the whole thing, but I’m not sure I even want to go through with it, anymore.”

“Well, I think Max wants you to go through with it.”

“Why do you say that?”

She points over my shoulder. “Because he’s heading straight toward you.”

I swivel around, and sure enough I spot Max, looking very much like Caleb in jeans and a snug Clash t-shirt, striding over to me. I immediately tense up, and every step he takes winds me a little tighter. By the time he’s standing in front of me, I’m lightheaded and full of conflicting emotions.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at my sister. “Asha, nice to see you again.”

“Uh, hi.” Asha’s expression tells me she’s contemplating the fastest way to extricate herself from this awkward threesome. “How are you, Max?”

“I’m great, thanks.” He gives my sister the briefest nod before turning to me. “May I speak with you, Miss Tate?”

I hate the way he can make a formal greeting feel intensely intimate.

“I don’t think that’s necessary, Mr. Riley.”

“I do.” He turns to my sister. “Asha, would you please excuse us for a minute?”

Taking the opportunity to bail, Asha swallows the rest of her drink and grabs her purse off the bar. “Sure. In fact, I have to get back to work. No rest for the wicked. I’ll be late, Edie, so I’ll see you in the morning.” She smiles at Max as she books it toward the exit, and I silently curse her for looking so gleeful about leaving me alone with him.

I take a sip of my drink and try not to look at him. “What do you want, Max?”

“We need to talk about last night.”

“Why? So you can try to excuse it? I trusted you.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. That’s not how I usually like to operate.”

I let out a short laugh. “Oh, really? That was just for me? I’m honored.”

“It wasn’t intentional, I assure you. I jus–”

“Not intentional?” I put my glass down on the bar. “How on earth do you spike someone’s drink by mistake? Are you saying it’s not a normal part of your routine? Please. It’s easy to make women fall for you with a designer love potion helping you along, right? Guaranteed success.”

He stops dead and stares at me. “What are you talking about? You think I spiked your drink?”

Now that I’m on a roll, it’s easy to let my anger drive me. “Of course you did. I just can’t figure out when. It had to be at the Rock Shop with that first beer you gave me.”

He’s now looking at me like I’m speaking another language. “And what, exactly, do you think I put into that sealed bottle of beer which I opened in front of you?”

“I’m not sure. Some sort of GHB or Molly. Strong stuff, too. It had me rolling for hours. If I wasn’t so goddamn angry, I’d ask you to give me the name of your dealer.”

His stare intensifies. I try to maintain eye contact, but he’s making that difficult. “Why on earth do you think I drugged you?”

I waver under his scrutiny. “Because I’ve had that stuff before, so I know what it feels like.” I check points off on my fingers. “Overstimulation. Heightened senses. Dizziness. Sensitive skin. I had it all.”

“So did I. Are you saying I spiked my own drink as well?”

That stops me in my tracks. “Uh ... you did?”

“Yes, I did.” Now, he looks beyond furious about what I’m accusing him of.

“So you’re saying you didn’t –?”

“Commit a goddamn felony? Of course not!” His eyes flash with anger, and the serene, Zen-Max I’m used to is nowhere to be seen.

“But ...” I say, feeling the need to backpedal. “When I left last night, I mentioned it and you looked guilty. And you just apologized about how you –”

“I was talking about something else. Jesus Christ ...” He steps forward and lowers his voice. “Do you honestly think I’m the kind of man who would use a date rape drug on you, Miss Tate?”

“Well ... to be honest, I don’t know you that well.”

“Yes, you do.” The certainty in his tone takes me by surprise. “You know me better than you’d like. And that’s what this is about, isn’t it? You’re looking for a reason to dislike me. To continue believing I have immoral methods, because whenever you’re with me, you’re terrified of how I make you feel. I could see it every time I touched you last night, and I can see it now.”

“No ... you’re ...”

He steps closer, so we’re almost touching. In an instant, every hair on my body stands on end, and he looks at the goosebumps on my arm before leaning down to whisper in my ear.

“This is what you were feeling last night, isn’t it? The rush of hormones. The lightheadedness. The craving for my hands and mouth on every inch of skin. The way your blood rushes so hard and fast, you think you might pass out.” I can see the pulse in his neck thrumming double time. “I hate to break it to you, Miss Tate, but the so-called drug you’re so strung out on is me.”

He leans back just enough to look into my eyes. “Go ahead. Tell me I’m wrong.”

My head is spinning, and I blink too fast as I try to resist pushing him away so I can think. “You’re ...”

When I don’t continue, he says, “Finish your sentence. I’m ... what?”

Infuriating. Arousing. Not the type of male pushover I’m used to or comfortable with.

“You’re wrong.”

He keeps staring. “Am I?”

Now, I have no choice but to put my hand on his chest and push. I’m certain the frantic rush of blood I’m experiencing isn’t healthy, and it’s not going to calm down with him so close. He steps back but continues staring at me.

I try to match him. “Do you know that your constant eye contact is uncomfortable to endure?”

His expression softens, but he continues focusing on my eyes. “In my opinion, people don’t look at each other enough. Eyes speak truths mouths refuse to, and liars always find a reason to glance away.” He looks from one of my eyes to the other. “So, tell me – why does it distress you so much to be this attracted to me?”

Before I can come up with anything resembling an acceptable response, I become aware of another presence at my side.

“Is this guy bothering you, sweetheart?” I turn to see Brick there, puffed up like a lizard in a suit, glaring at Max. “Just say the word, and I’ll save you.”

I bristle at his noxious sexism, but I can’t think too badly of him. He did save me from having to answer Max’s minefield of a question.

When I turn back to Max, I see him give Brick an openly disdainful head-to-toe assessment, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Uh ... Brick, hey. This is my ... uh ...” I take a breath. “This is Max. Max, Brick.”

To my surprise, Max holds out his hand. He doesn’t go so far as to smile, but he acts friendly enough. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

Brick isn’t quite as evolved and grab’s Max’s hand way too hard to be considered anything but a dick move. “Yeah. Cool shirt, bro.” He’s heavy on the sarcasm, and I bristle on Max’s behalf. That shirt is hella cool.

For several long moments, Max and Brick just stare each other down, and I have no doubt they’re doing that stupid macho thing where they squeeze each other’s hands and see who bails first. I’m not surprised to see it’s Brick. One thing I know for sure is that Max didn’t get biceps the size of grapefruits from stroking kittens.

Brick subtly massages his hand as he turns back to me with a questioning look. “So, babe, are we going to dance or what?”

I grind my teeth. One of my least favorite things in the world is to be called babe by a guy I hardly know. “Uh ... actually, Brick, Max and I were just talking, so–”

Max draws up to his full height, which is about six inches taller than Brick. “No, we’re done, Miss Tate, so by all means don’t let me keep you from dancing with ... Brick.”

“Uh ... well, I...”

Brick holds out his hands. “Hey, Clash-boy says we’re cool, so let’s go.”

I flash Max a dirty look as Brick leads me out to the dance floor. I don’t feel like dancing anymore, but what am I going to do? Admit to Max I’d rather keep talking to him? Just the idea of that makes me break out in a cold sweat.

I shake off the heaviness in my limbs and try to dance. Elvis is blaring from the jukebox, and Brick must be a fan, because he knows all the moves.

As we continue dancing, I can see Max watching us from the bar. His expression is unreadable, which means I’m passionately compelled to figure out what he’s thinking. God, why are even his facial expressions fascinating?

I’m hoping that when I get more information on his background, I’ll find him way less attractive. I’m aware that part of his appeal right now is his air of mystery. If I can find a way to pull back the curtain, I have no doubt I’ll discover that the Mighty and Powerful Oz is just an ordinary man after all.

In all honestly, that day can’t come soon enough.

I’m one of those people who hates going to see illusionists, because I can’t stand the feeling of ignorant wonder. Max may believe in magic, but I don’t. I believe in clever people using smoke and mirrors to fool the masses, and Max may be clever, but he’s still just a fraud wrapped in misdirection, and one day soon I’m going to prove it.

* * *

By the time ‘Viva Las Vegas’ ends, I’m almost danced out. Brick is sweating profusely but still insists on hugging me, and in the process his hands get way more acquainted with my ass than I’d like. That’s when I feel the hair stand up on the back of my neck. After we pull apart, I find Max right beside us.

“Miss Tate? A word.”

Brick doesn’t look happy about it, but I think his hand is still suffering from earlier, so he knows better than to push his luck.

“Go for it, babe,” he says to me. “I need to refuel the old tequila tank, anyway. Be right back.”

As Brick leaves the dance floor, Max steps toward me. The heat of his gaze is scorching, and when the next song is slow and sexy, he looks at me for a few seconds before saying, “I’d like to walk you home. I have something I need to say.”

“Dancing isn’t your thing?” I ask as the other couples on the dance floor get close and grind to the sensuous beat. Not that I’m angling for him to press that rock-hard bod of his against mine or anything. It’s just that the music is there. It’s kind of rude not to take advantage of it.

His posture is stiff, like he’s a soldier standing at attention. “Not tonight.”

I dislike how disappointed I am by his response.

“You know,” I say. “If we were on one of your romance-novel dates, you would have laid out Brick for daring to touch my ass.”

He shoves his hand in his pockets. “I considered it. Would you have liked that?”

“I don’t know. I guess there’s something sexy about an alpha willing to fight off the attentions of the other males.”

“Uh huh. There’s also something unhinged about a man who resorts to violence with minimal provocation. Besides, Brick is a lightweight. Me fighting him would be like swatting a fly with a bazooka.”

My phone buzzes, and I check the screen.

It’s from my friend at the lab. My blood test came back negative.

Shit.

It’s official; there are no drugs in my system except my insane attraction to Max.

I drop my head and sigh. That knowledge should make me feel better, but it does the opposite. There’s a chill in the air without my cozy, convenient denial to protect me.

When I look up, Max is staring, and it seems he caught a glimpse of the text, because he crosses his arms over his chest and looks at me expectantly.

“So,” I say with a weak laugh. “Good news. You didn’t drug me last night.”

He continues to stare, unimpressed. “I already knew that. Do you have something you’d like to say to me?”

Apologizing isn’t something with which I have a lot of experience, but I can’t deny I was in the wrong. Sucking up my embarrassment, I shove my phone back into my pocket and mumble, “I’m sorry I accused you of something you didn’t do.”

He holds his hand up to his ear. “What was that? It’s pretty loud in here. You’ll have to speak up.”

I take a breath and talk louder. “I said, I was wrong about you. I’m sorry.”

There’s still a look of disappointment on his face, but at least he’s not glaring anymore. “You’re forgiven. For now.” He nods toward the exit. “I still have my own apology to make, but not here. Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

I cross my arms. My purpose in coming here tonight was to try and get him out of my system, and judging by the way I’m still fighting tooth and nail to keep my hands off him, my objective has yet to be achieved.

“I’m not ready to go home. And I’m definitely not ready to go home alone.”

“You wouldn’t be. I’d be with you.”

“Yes, but unless you intend on giving me orgasms, you’re not the kind of company I was thinking of.” I raise my eyebrows. “Were you planning on giving me orgasms, Max?”

Please let him say no. If he doesn’t, I’m well and truly screwed, and not in a good way.

He tenses his jaw. “They aren’t one of my regular services, no.” He looks over his shoulder at where Brick and his buddies are doing shots like it’s a competitive sport. “Are you honestly going to let that swamp dweller touch you? If his brain were dynamite, it wouldn’t blow a part in his hair.”

The mental image makes me smile. “I’m not looking for a life-partner, Max. Just sex.” With a man who doesn’t dominate my thoughts and hijack all my fantasies.

He jabs his finger in Brick’s direction. “I would bet you a million dollars that man has never made a woman come in his life. But if you’re determined to confirm he’s a lousy lay firsthand, be my guest. I’ll be at the bar when you’re done with him.”

He goes back to perch on a stool as Brick rejoins me, smelling like he’s been on a week-long bender in Tijuana.

“Ready to show everyone else how it’s done, sweetheart?”

I fake a smile as I admit to myself that if Max weren’t here, I would have left this loser in my wake an hour ago. But something small and vicious in me gets satisfaction in making Max believe I’d still consider taking Brick home.

Despite my souring mood, Brick keeps me occupied for a few more songs, and when Hound Dog comes on, he forces me into the world’s most awkward jive. He dances like a drunk guy trying to appear sober, and his terrible technique makes me laugh when he spins me out before pulling me back. It’s a wonder I stay upright, considering how tipsy I am.

“Jump,” he says to me, as he grips my waist.

“Oh, no, don’t think that’s –”

“Come on, babe! The song’s almost over. Jump!”

He hoists me off the floor, and I don’t have much choice but to place my legs on either side of his hips as he dips me down then pushes me up into the air. I feel something go in my back and make a noise.

“Shit.” I grip his shoulders as I start my descent. “Brick, don’t –”

“I got you, babe. Chill!” The words are barely out of his mouth when he overbalances, and before I know it, the dance floor is rushing up to meet me.

“Miss Tate!”

I’m vaguely aware of Max’s concerned voice as I land heavily on my back, and a sharp pain makes me say several words that would make my Nan blush.

“Oh, shit, babe. You okay?” I wince and roll onto my side as Brick hovers over me, the stench of tequila on him making it hard for me to breathe.

“Move, asshole!” Brick is hauled backwards as Max appears. Strong hands that just shoved Brick halfway across the room are gentle as they touch my shoulder. “Where does it hurt?”

“My back. Not from the fall. I think I pulled a muscle when he dipped me.”

“Can you move everything?”

“Yes.”

“I should call an ambulance.”

“No, really, I’m fine.” I let out a breath and glance up at him.

Whoa.

Never in my life have I seen a man look at me like that. As if the pain I’m feeling is being felt twice over by him.

“Miss Tate, you shouldn’t move.”

I wave him off and sit up. “I’m not paralyzed, Max. I just have an owie. I need some aspirin and an ice pack.”

He helps me to my feet before wrapping his arm around my waist to support me as we move off the dance floor.

“I’ll take you home.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Brick steps in front of us. “That’s my job, pal. I haven’t been hanging around this smoking-hot ginger all night just to lose her at the last minute. If anyone’s taking her home, it’s going to be me.

Max’s body tightens like razor wire, and even though he doesn’t raise his voice, the intensity he radiates through his glare makes Brick take a step back. “She’s not a toy you get to buy with your time, pal. Have some fucking respect. You injured her, and if you don’t get the fuck out of my way this second, I’m going to injure you. Understand?”

I don’t know if I’ve heard Max use the “F” word before, but even with my back pain, my body reacts positively.

By now, Brick has had enough booze to forget how Max crushed his hand earlier, and when he belligerently grabs my arm, Max gives him a look that’s truly terrifying before grabbing his wrist and squeezing. Brick sinks to the floor with a strangled cry.

“Brick, I know you’re not an intelligent man, so I’m going to use small words. If I ever see you lay your hands on Miss Tate, or any woman, ever again without permission, I’m going to shatter your arm in three places.”

Having been on the receiving end of Max’s brutal sincerity, I know Brick believes every word. That would explain why he looks like he’s about to pee himself as Max towers over him. When Max releases him, he skulks back to his frat-boy brat-pack, red faced and not willing to even look back at me.

Max doesn’t spare him another glance. He just scoops me into his arms and heads toward the exit.

“What was thing you said earlier about resorting to violence at the slightest provocation?” I say, struggling to deal with both the pain in my back and the vicious arousal that comes from being in his arms.

His face still looks like thunder. “That wasn’t violence. It was restraint. And there was definite provocation. Brick was an asshole who needed to be taught that women aren’t vending machines that trade attention for sex. I hope the little shit bruises easily.”

I notice how everyone stares and smiles as he carries me down the street toward my apartment. “I feel like you should be wearing a white Navy uniform right now.”

“I have one of those. If you play your cards right, I’ll bust it out someday.” He shoots me a look, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch as he begins to hum, Up Where We Belong.