by M. Tasia
His plans included a restaurant and lounge on the ground floor, and condominiums on the upper three floors with a roof garden with lounges for the owners’ use. Plans. Saint scoffed at the word. As if he had any real plans other than getting as far away from his old life as he could. He looked down at the envelope still crumpled in his damaged right hand. When were they going to stop sending these letters? Saint pushed the offending paper into his pocket. He’d add it to the pile when he got back to his room.
Door after door stood open, revealing the four would-be condominium units on the first floor: one studio apartment, two one-bedrooms, and a large two-bedroom in the corner unit. Another set of four apartments mimicking the floor plan on the second floor was part of his vision, and he intended to occupy the entire third floor.
Which was where he stood now, the peeling linoleum tiles buckled in a few places, leaving glimpses of the wood planks underneath. Large, full-length, top-hung windows flooded the faded and stained rooms with light. Saint regretted they had to be replaced and hoped he could find something comparable. He walked up to the windows that would be front and center in his new loft-style home and looked out at the city before him.
The city of angels.
Chapter Two
Max stared at the building through the glare of sunlight hitting his truck’s front windshield. Grandma Rose owed him one for talking him into coming here, but honestly, who could say no to the matriarch of the Mason family? Even if he weren’t a Mason, he’d do whatever the older woman asked of him. Grandma Rose and the town of Brighton had saved his ass a time or two over the years, so agreeing to her request was a no-brainer.
He sat eyeing a turn-of-the-century carved stone building that would be stripped of its character and charm for the profit of this new owner. Max had seen this building sitting empty for the past few years and wished he’d been able to put an offer on it. He was doing well enough financially, but there had been no way to swing that purchase and the renovations if he kept the farm. After all, he had his mom to think about.
The tap on his window made him jump, and he spilled his coffee down the pant leg of his jeans. “Dammit.” Max looked over to find a young man eyeing him suspiciously.
“You lost?” the kid asked without moving any closer to Max’s truck. “‘Cause I know you don’t belong here.”
A bit taken aback by the guy’s attitude, Max replied loudly enough to be heard through the closed window. “And how would you know that?”
“We aren’t expecting any deliveries today.”
“We? Do you know Dr. Frank Jeffrey?”
That got the kid’s attention. “Why you asking?”
Max didn’t have time for this game. He grabbed his bag and got out of the vehicle. Without looking at the kid, he walked up to the back doors and pushed the buzzer. The kid had the nerve to follow him before leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the door.
“He doesn’t like unexpected visitors.”
“And who are you, his bodyguard?”
“Name’s Larry and I’m Saint’s friend.”
“Saint?”
Before the kid could answer, the back door swung open, barely missing Max’s head. A tall, well-built, sinfully handsome man a little bit taller than Max, and with more bulk to his muscles, held Max’s attention a little longer than what was considered polite. Hell, who could blame him for staring? The guy had the clearest blue eyes Max had ever seen. He was mesmerized, until the dude spoke.
“What. Do. You. Want?” the stranger growled, looking ready to lose his shit. Maybe Grandma Rose was a little off about helping this one.
“I. Want. Nothing,” Max growled back with the same force before composing himself. “But a wonderful lady from Brighton told me you needed help. If you don’t, I’m happy to leave.”
The blond Adonis looked a bit lost for a moment before the scowl on his face returned. “Brighton? Who sent you, and why?” Then he looked at the kid. “Finn, what’s going on?”
“Finn, not Larry, big surprise,” Max huffed. He dug deep for patience. Grandma Rose had warned him this wouldn’t be easy and that the guy had been through something horrible. But Max had spent enough years taking other people’s shit and he refused to swallow any of this dude’s, even if he was drop-dead gorgeous.
Pulling a business card out of his pocket, he held it out to whom Max assumed was Frank Jeffrey. “Rose Mason. When you get your head out of your ass, give me a call.”
As soon as the jerk took the card between his fingers, Max turned around and walked back to his truck. He’d noticed the guy had a bit of difficulty moving his fingers, but Max didn’t care. No one was going to treat him like garbage, favor or not.
***
Saint pushed the benign card across his desk with the tips of his fingers, barely able to feel the thick paper beneath them. Along with mobility issues, he had nerve damage—just for shits and giggles.
“Boss,” Finn called from the doorway. “Did the guy check out?”
Saint had made a call to his brother, Johnny, back in Texas and confirmed that this Max was indeed the contractor Grandma Rose had mentioned. A little warning would have helped. Yeah, and then I’d have had the chance to say no.
“Yes, he is who he claimed to be.”
“Are you going to call him back?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Maybe you should take a look at his website.”
“And what would you know about his website?”
“You left the laptop in the hub. I saw his name on the side of his truck and Googled him.”
“And what did you find?”
Finn stepped farther into the office. “He might be the real deal. This Max guy has a reputation. You need to check him out.” Before Saint could ask another question, Finn was gone.
Saint had noticed when the kid gave his personal opinion he didn’t stick around for the response, confirming Saint’s opinion that Finn was used to not having his thoughts and ideas heard and valued. On his many aid missions, Saint had seen first-hand what some children had to live through to survive, and he saw that same look in Finn’s eyes. Acceptance of his fate, and resignation.
He hadn’t admitted to Finn that he’d already researched Max Connor, and what he’d found was indeed interesting. Max owned Connor Construction, and he had offices, as in plural, in SoCal. The flagship office was in Temecula, ranches, exurbs, and wine country, a good two hours from downtown, and the satellite offices were in Santa Monica and Pasadena. For real, the guy had a list of accomplishments under his belt.
However, the big question remained, was Max like all the others? Ready to tear the heart and soul right out of this building, much as what had been done to Saint, then throw it all away for something new and undamaged. Saint’s thoughts were going back down a familiar dangerous path, and he brutally pulled himself back from that trip to the dark side. The past was the past. Or so he kept telling himself.
It had been over a week since Connor’s visit, and, of course, Saint wouldn’t have his answer if he didn’t “get his head out of his ass.” Saint didn’t like where his anger and pain were taking him, but he felt powerless to stop the fucked-up feelings. It was exhausting being pissed all the time. The people he’d gone out with on aid missions wouldn’t recognize him now. Maybe he should talk to someone, like his brother had suggested.
Yeah. Right.
The thought of reliving all that pain was not in his immediate plans. Saint physically shook at that idea, and with great care stood from the tufted, brown leather chair he’d found on the first floor. The wound in his abdomen wasn’t happy about all the recent activity, but Saint couldn’t, and wouldn’t, walk away and leave the building for others to handle. This place deserved a new life the same as him.
He walked through his office and out into the large bar area. He could really go for a beer right now. Unfortunately, the shelves were dusty and empty.
Beer is for the lower classes, Francis. Saint spun a
t his father’s voice but found he was alone. Shit. Hearing voices on top of all the other crap rambling around in his brain. His father, Dr. Thomas Jeffrey, used to make comments like that about several topics, always wearing his trademark sneer.
“Finn,” Saint called, knowing the kid would hear him. The young man’s dark blond hair bounced as he ran down the stairs.
“What do you need done, boss?” Always ready to help out.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-three, sir,” the kid answered without hesitation.
“While we’re at it, how many times have I told you to call me Saint?” he asked, knowing Finn’s response before he even spoke a word.
“You’ll have to remind me a few more times, boss.” The smirk wasn’t new either.
“Do you have ID to prove it?” Finn went on alert and Saint quickly continued. “I don’t want to see it, I believe you. But the guy at the corner store might ask for it when you pick up a six-pack along with supper tonight.”
“Beer, sure I can pick some up. What one do you want?”
“Surprise me with something brewed here in California. Do you know of any?” Another part of jumping right into this new life: freedom to drink local beer whenever he wanted.
“I have the perfect IPA in mind. Lagunitas.”
“Good. Go grab the card and head out while I call this contractor.”
“So you’ll give Connor Construction a try?”
Not ten minutes earlier, Saint had shown yet another idiot with a contractor’s license out the front door, so Connor Construction seemed as viable an option as any. “How could I not with your recommendation and all,” Saint said before turning back into his office. This conversation was going to suck.
He’d had to put a thicker case around his cell so that he could still use it without causing himself too much pain. He tapped the screen and made the call before he changed his mind. The line rang five times before going to voice mail. The deep timbre of Max’s voice reminded Saint of their confrontation and the fire in the man’s green eyes.
When the voice mail beeped, Saint said, “This is Frank Jeffrey and I’d like to arrange for you to come out to the building so we can meet…officially this time.” He disconnected and pocketed his phone. He felt bad for taking his frustrations out on the guy, but he wouldn’t lie to himself, it was likely to happen again. His fuse had been cut short.
By the time he had tidied the office and did his customary walk around the building, Finn was back and waiting for him in the hub. The aroma of tomato sauce and cheese wafted over him when he walked through the door. Finn had their plates filled with ravioli and garlic bread and sitting at the ready on the coffee table. Yes, they had a table, but they both preferred to watch television as they ate. An old habit he’d picked up from his countless nights alone fronting a life he didn’t want to lead.
His father had known Johnny was gay for a long time, but when it came to Saint, that information was buried so deep in the closet, the dust was two inches thick. Dear old dad would never have tolerated both of his sons being gay, and had made that crystal clear. If Saint wanted his brother to live free of their father’s control, Saint had to follow the rules. Any trysts—no relationships, ever—happened far from home and away from Thomas Jeffrey’s reach.
“This smells amazing,” Saint moaned as he sank down into his favorite reclining chair. It was one of the few things he’d had shipped across the country. Over ten years old with cracked leather and worn armrests, it had been his before he’d made his decision to start over. The chair was the only piece he had left of his life before that fateful day.
“Joe put in a little extra garlic bread this time,” Finn said before handing Saint a beer and sitting down on the couch.
“You don’t want one?” he asked, noticing Finn hadn’t grabbed a beer for himself. “It’s cool if you don’t.” Far be it from him to tell someone to drink when they didn’t want to, but if Finn feared taking one, that was different.
“I didn’t want to presume, boss. I know food is part of the deal here but…”
“Go get one if you want it,” Saint instructed. “Just don’t get slobbery drunk.”
“I would never,” Finn assured him before opening their small fridge and pulling out a bottle.
Before Saint grabbed his plate of food, he turned on the television and took a long swig of his ice-cold beer. God this is good. “What do you want to watch, kid?”
“Can we watch that comedy with all the scientists?”
“Sure,” Saint agreed and flipped to the station. Once he had it all set up, he grabbed his plate, filled his fork, and sank his teeth into the melty, cheesey goodness.
This was all he wanted: a cold beer, good food, and peace. Now that he had a purpose once again, Saint was positive he could move forward and bury the past even deeper than ever before.
Chapter Three
Max listened to the recording for the fifth time and felt like an idiot for doing it. The man was an asshole. That was plain as the sun in the sky. But dammit, Max was inclined to return the call. He stood, threw the file on Dr. Jeffrey’s building in the trashcan, and paced his office while feeling like a damn fool. It had to be the building, that’s what was drawing him to this job. He couldn’t let some other contractor go in there and rip the place apart. With a huff he turned around and pulled the file out of the bin and threw it on his desk.
“What has that file ever done to you?” Miguel asked from the open doorway. “I’ve seen you chuck it too many times over the last two days. What’s going on?”
Miguel sauntered in and flung himself onto the small couch Max had slept on one too many times. He was Max’s head supervisor, his right-hand man of sorts. Miguel was, is, a Marine. Because, as he’d been told frequently, once a Marine always a Marine. Now retired, but still active in some sort of ex-military community Miguel was vague about, his work ethic was unparalleled.
As Max was about to answer the question, the damn answering machine hit rewind and began replaying the message from Frank… Dr. Jeffrey. Max tore across the room and hit the end button.
“So, wanna tell me why you are still listening to that message?” Miguel asked with a knowing smirk.
Max looked at his childhood friend and said, “I hate you and your damn questions.”
Miguel broke out into a deep laugh and even had the audacity to wipe a tear from his eye. “No you don’t, you love me. Who else would put up with your bullshit?”
“You’re lucky my mom loves you. I tolerate you,” Max shot back.
“Yeah, yeah…so spill it. What’s going on?” Miguel. Master interrogator.
“He’s an asshole. He’ll destroy that building.”
“And this is the man from the file and the voice message?”
“Yep. He’s infuriating. The guy yelled at me the moment he opened the door.”
“His voice made my cock twitch. Is he single?”
Max turned and glared at his best friend. “Not your type.”
Miguel sat up on the couch and planted both feet on the floor. “Oh shit. You have a thing for this guy.”
Max spun around so fast he almost landed on his ass. “No. I don’t. I’m worried he’s going to destroy that beautiful old building.”
“Uh-huh. Okay. If you say so. Then take the damn job and make sure that doesn’t happen. Easy.”
Easy. The hell it would be. “Well, maybe our services aren’t what Dr. Frank Jeffrey needs.”
Miguel went on alert. There was no mistaking it. Max had seen it before. “I’ve heard that name before.”
“Maybe. He’s a plastic surgeon. Probably some Mr. Fix-It to the stars.” Max didn’t know why that thought bothered him.
Miguel sat frozen in thought and Max knew better than to bother him when he was searching for an answer to something. Max began filling his makeshift briefcase/messenger bag for the long drive to Temecula. His mother had a list of things for him to do when he got there. He looked at the red
file, acceptance making him pick it up and shove it inside the bag. He couldn’t let the pompous ass destroy the history inside that building.
“I can’t place it, but I’ll figure it out. I don’t tend to be wrong about things like this,” Miguel stated as he stood from the couch and headed to the door. “Call the guy. You already know you’re going to end up doing it anyway.”
“Are you coming for supper on Sunday? Mom will want to know,” Max asked, trying to direct the conversation away from the blond he couldn’t get out of his head.
“Of course. I’d never disappoint Ms. Connor. You know I’m her favorite son.” Miguel sauntered out as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Bastard.
Max collapsed back into his chair and stared down at the phone as if it had done something personal to piss him off.
“Call him,” his best friend’s voice echoed down the hallway from somewhere in the shop.
Max let out a huff any teenage girl would have been proud of before picking up the phone and dialing. Part of him wished it would ring through to voicemail. This was insane.
“Hello?” A voice Max assumed was this Larry/Finn fellow answered. The young man seemed out of breath as if he’d been running or…. Shit.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m returning Dr. Jeffrey’s call,” he said stiffly, unsure why the thought of the two as lovers bothered him.