Game Changer

by Stewart, Sylvie

  “Wait! You can’t—”

  I don’t even pause as I keep walking and cut him off.

  “Oh, yes, I can.”

  I’m wearing heels so I can’t stomp the way I really want to, but I’m getting damn good in these things. It’ll have to do.

  Jonathan scurries into his small office where he’ll probably either call the police or his mommy. But he can do whatever the hell he likes as far as I’m concerned.

  I turn at the corner of two partitions and that’s when I realize the soundtrack that was playing in my head as I killed it in my performance as badass Poppy is, in fact, not in my head. It’s coming from a speaker in Mac’s open studio.

  And it’s Old Dominion.

  It’s all I can do to keep my pace steady and not sprint into the room and launch myself at Mac. Which, it turns out, becomes even harder when I pass through the threshold and there he is, shirt off, muscular arms working, and sweat-slicked back open for my viewing pleasure as he hoists and swings the battling ropes, his grunts of exertion sounding in time to “Shut Me Up.”

  I bite the knuckle of my index finger because, come on. My eyes dart reluctantly to the set of windows I first spied Mac through and I want to throw a sheet over them so nobody else can happen upon my man in all his sexy, sweaty glory. Thank God the paparazzi are nowhere to be found or images of Mac would likely appear in every morning paper, giving heart attacks and spontaneous orgasms to all the women of America.

  “There you are!” Elle’s voice makes me jump. I was so caught up in Mac I missed her sidling up next to me. “Where’ve you been?”

  I don’t—or can’t—give her a good answer to that right now so I just shrug.

  Mac must sense motion from the corner of his eye because he glances over his shoulder and then does a double take, with perhaps the best over-the-shoulder-smolder I’ve seen to date. And, yeah, his eyes are hungry, just like that.

  He drops the ropes and goes to the table to turn down his music, stretching out his muscles as he walks. His strides take him right in front of me where he stops, eyes on me like Elle isn’t even in the room, and says a simple, “Poppy.”

  Oh, how I love the way this man says my name.

  The mini parrots in my belly all blush.

  “Hi.”

  “You two are too adorable,” Elle says, and I assume she rolls her eyes but I can’t see because I’m watching Mac’s lips twitch.

  He runs a hand through his sweaty hair.

  “Thought maybe I scared you away,” he says with a rumble from his chest, leaving me slightly confused.

  At what I assume is a perplexed slant to my head, Mac catches my hand and starts pulling me toward the stairs to his apartment.

  “Not so fast!” Elle scurries to keep up. “I need that signature page for the Nassar commission.”

  Mac glances back at her, which I assume is a silent communication for, “fine, whatever,” because she follows us up the stairs and proceeds to talk at Mac for a few minutes before taking her leave.

  I say “talk at” because Mac spends the entire three minutes watching me tiptoe around his kitchen trying to decide if I’m ready to take a seat or if I’d rather stand during the conversation we’re about to have.

  By the time Elle leaves with a wink in my direction, I’ve decided to sit, but only on a barstool, not one of the sofas. Too many things are likely to happen once my ass hits his sofa and we’ve got some serious discussion ahead of us.

  Twenty-Eight

  “Don’t ever be ashamed to cry as long as your mascara is waterproof and your heart’s on your sleeve.”

  – Cookie Rutledge

  “So,” I begin, “what did you mean when you said you thought you scared me away?”

  He keeps his distance—for the moment. “You didn’t come over last night.”

  My brows draw together. “Well, you never called me back. And the paparazzi…”

  His jaw ticks at the p-word. “Bloodsucking vultures.” But he takes a couple steps closer. “Jonathan told you the coast was clear, yeah?”

  Fracking Jonathan. “Uh, no. Jonathan definitely did not tell me that.”

  Mac’s eyes narrow.

  “The last time I talked to him was Sunday night and he said you’d call me in a couple days. I figured you freaked out about your mother.” I’m laying it all out for him with no sugar to help it go down.

  “No. Shit.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I guess I should have found a way to call.”

  You think? I don’t have to say the words because my expression speaks for me.

  Mac closes the distance between us and brings a thumb to the center of my chin. I shiver at the contact even though I don’t want to ‘cuz we’re not done talking.

  “Miscommunication, I guess.”

  I cross my arms. “Mac, you’re generally a perceptive guy, but I’m thinking you need to seriously take another gander at Jonathan’s behavior. It’s like the man is purposely trying to screw with me.”

  He shakes his head. “Not him. But somebody else is—or was, I should say.”

  Now I’m confused. He needs to use more words so I tell him so.

  His thumb drops. “Fuck. This is such a mess.”

  “Can you just start from the beginning?”

  “Yeah. No. Fuck.”

  “I think we’ve established that.” I go for a small smile and his face relaxes.

  “Sass,” he grumbles, squeezing my knee with his callused hand.

  I tap the end of his nose for emphasis and he tries to bite my finger. Playful Mac has arrived, no matter the timing kind of sucks.

  “I told Jonathan to tell you I needed a couple days to deal with this JoAnn bullshit.”

  “JoJo,” I correct as I nod, because I guess that is kind of what Jonathan said. “Okay, but, Mac, I saw the text from your mother on Saturday. The one with my name in it.” I brace, waiting for him to back up or his jaw to turn to stone again. It doesn’t.

  “Bitch was baiting me.”

  To hear him call his own mother that name is jarring, not that it isn’t deserved. I close my mouth and keep it shut.

  “Then this thing with that JoJo person just… happened. Didn’t even know who she was. She just grabbed my arm and flashes started going off. My phone was buzzing in my pocket before I could get the hell out of there.”

  I grab his hand where it rests on my knee. I can only imagine how frustrated he must have been.

  “But I got a new text from my mother, this time going on with some bullshit about this JoJo chick. I figured… I don’t know. I figured as long as she thought I was involved with someone else—someone with more money—you’d be in the clear.”

  Of course. That makes perfect sense.

  “So you didn’t refute the gossip,” I finish for him.

  He shakes his head, his eyes making sure not to drop mine.

  I can’t help it. I pull up and plant a soft kiss on his lips. He sighs into my mouth like I’ve just lifted a five-hundred-pound boulder off him.

  When I pull back, my hand is on his cheek and his whiskers are tickling my palm. “But, Mac, you can’t keep this charade up forever. I mean, surely, JoJo’s people will eventually get around to dispelling the rumor.” And, besides, I need my boyfriend back—preferably without JoJo fans chasing me down the New York sidewalks to brand me with a scarlet letter.

  He shakes his head again but doesn’t knock my hand lose. “According to Elle, they haven’t said anything to refute it yet. I can’t begin to understand these people. I just want my phone back.”

  This makes me laugh out loud because it’s such a Mac thing to distill it down to the one practical aspect that matters.

  “Missed that.”

  I almost don’t catch his words because my laugh is so obnoxious. When I do, though, it hits me right in the heart. He missed my laugh. He missed me.

  “Missed you,” I say, my thumb swiping his bottom lip. “Don’t run away anymore, okay?”

  His head
shakes again. “I wasn’t.” Then he pulls my hand from his face and laces our fingers together, drawing our joined hands to his sweaty chest. “I’m sorry. I should have called but I’m not… I’m not used to being accountable to anyone. I saw a solution to a problem and ran with it.”

  I squeeze his hand. “I know.” Then I slide off the stool and look up at him. “But we’re gonna solve this problem together.”

  His brow furrows.

  “Your mama is a major freakin’ piece of work, Angus McKinley.”

  His lips twitch.

  “But she’s also got a huge chink in her armor.”

  * * *

  “You found all this on the internet?” We’re sitting on one of his leather sofas and I’ve got my laptop out.

  “Honestly, mostly on Twitter. That place is a wellspring of useless drivel, but damn, do people like to talk.”

  I think Mac physically shudders at just the notion of ever venturing onto social media.

  “Not surprised to read it, but how does this help?”

  “Well, the woman’s reputation is all she cares about, right?”

  He gives a curt nod.

  “What if, instead of random Twitter comments by people nobody’s ever heard of, her transgressions somehow made their way onto the social media radar of a national magazine publication?”

  Mac considers me, his teeth scraping his bottom lip as he realizes what I’m saying.

  “Could you… do that?” His voice is low, cautious.

  I shrug, trying not to get distracted by his still-naked chest. “Well, I can’t, but I’ve been working my ass off for the past few months crafting the aesthetics of our online presence.” I brush my shoulder with a smirk. “I know a few people.”

  He continues looking at me and then shakes his head. “It’s no use. People with this kind of money and pedigree are untouchable, believe me.”

  I throw up a finger. “Aha! I thought you’d say that.”

  I click a few more tabs on my browser and turn the laptop to Mac again. “Guess who had his offices raided and his assets frozen on Friday? That’s right, Sterling Pile. Your mama has got to be panicking—thus her creepy pursuit of you and your gazillions.”

  “I don’t have gazillions. I don’t even technically own…” He trails off and scowls at me but he doesn’t mean it.

  “Whatever.” I wave him off. “Then the non-fictional amount you do have. Anyway, no money, no power. She gets the one-two punch of frozen assets and the exposure if her sociopathic shenanigans all over social media.”

  “Timmm-berrr.” I put my arm up in the air and let it fall with a maniacal grin. All I need now is a mustache to twirl the ends of.

  Mac stands from the sofa and runs a hand over his face while I clutch the laptop so it doesn’t fall to the floor. He doesn’t seem as ready as I am to break out the champagne. “She’s always got my grandfather to bail her out. It wouldn’t be the first time, although she may have burned that bridge.” He paces to the end of the other sofa. “Regardless, we… can’t.”

  I look around the room like I’m seeking out someone to agree with me. “Of course we can. It’s the only way to get her gone for good.”

  He paces again to the far side of the rug, his back to me. “You don’t understand.”

  Then explain it to me!

  I realize there’s only one way through this and it involves me being completely transparent first.

  “Mac, I have to tell you something.”

  He glances back at me, the tension around his eyes pronounced.

  I take a breath and let it out. “I know about your dad.”

  His face goes completely blank and he turns fully toward me again.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I know about his accident. His lawsuit. His… death.” The last word is almost silent.

  I can see Mac’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard. I expect his expression to turn angry. Livid. Hurt. I went snooping into his business and invaded his privacy, even though I knew from the very start he wanted me to stay far away from it.

  But it doesn’t happen. Instead, he breathes out one word.

  “Explain.”

  “I… I found a couple articles online.”

  He blinks once. Then twice. “You read an article.” It’s halfway between a question and a statement.

  I nod, my neck muscles barely cooperating. “A couple articles.”

  “Show me.”

  I don’t even hesitate. I quickly type in the search criteria I remember from weeks ago, and then walk over, practically shoving the laptop at Mac.

  He holds it with both hands as his gaze breaks from my face and he scans over the first page before clicking to the next one. I hold my breath and wait.

  When his eyes come back up, they’re laced with confusion.

  “This is your big confession? Two mentions about my pops in a newspaper that don’t explain jack shit?”

  I open my mouth and then shut it again. “I… uh… yes?” I finally manage.

  He closes the laptop and sets it on his coffee table, then turns and disappears into his bedroom.

  “Mac! I don’t think this is the time for…” I trail off as he reappears and I realize he wasn’t wanting me to follow him there so he could ravish me. Instead, he’s holding a small piece of paper which he brings with him back to the sofa. He sits, pulling me down next to him on the leather.

  He hands me the paper. But it’s not just a paper, it’s a photograph of a good-looking middle-aged man who bears a striking resemblance to the one sitting next to me. He’s got the same dark slash of eyebrows and the thick hair I recognize, only his is gray instead of black. But the damn maddening half-smirk is exactly the same.

  Mac’s voice comes out in a quiet rasp. “My pops was addicted to pain killers and stole money from my business to fund his habit.”

  My jaw locks and my nose stings.

  “If we retaliate or expose my mother for what she is, it’ll expose him too, and that’s not happening.”

  Holy shit. His dad stole from him? The same guy he called his best friend?

  I’m beginning to understand exactly how nuts things are around here compared to back home. Stealing? Betrayal? Although, now that I think about it, my daddy hijacked the neighbor’s car when he was eighteen and took it for a joyride that ended in a ditch. As far as I can tell, nobody held a grudge past him making appropriate restitutions.

  But this is far from the same thing.

  I watch Mac’s face and silently urge him to continue with a soft touch to his arm.

  He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, letting his hands fall between them. And then Mac McKinley shares.

  And he shares everything.

  Angus McKinley, Sr. was not a perfect man. He was careless with money and wasn’t one to dole out hugs or compliments. He wasn’t savvy or quick with a joke or a particularly good husband. And, while he did involve himself in a youth work program, it was more out of a sense of duty than any personal passion.

  But Angus McKinley, Sr. loved his son.

  Loved him so much that when he divorced the boy’s mother, he let him go with her to have a chance at a better life. And when his angry, bitter son came back to him and started falling through the cracks, he picked his boy’s ass up and put him into a trade.

  He loved his son so much he worked an extra job to help him start his first forge and wore out three sets of tires hauling ironwork and furniture all over the New York Metropolitan area to make sales for his boy.

  He loved him so much that when the pain from the car accident ten years ago made it too difficult to work, instead of leaning on his son, he found his own way through. And when that way turned bad and the opioid dependency slipped out of his grip, he hid the poor decisions he made from his son so he could shoulder it on his own.

  He loved his son so much that when he made—and freely admitted to—the biggest mistake of his life and stole from that son, he swallowed all
his remaining dignity and begged for help from the very people he swore he’d never allow to make him feel small again.

  And when that encounter turned nasty—when his ex-wife, the same one who’d mistreated and ignored their son when motherhood became an inconvenience, pushed him from the second-floor balcony of the family estate—he loved his son so much that he again laid his dignity aside and pursued a lawsuit that would secure the money to pay for his care so his son wouldn’t have to lose his business and he wouldn’t be a burden.

  And when Angus McKinley, Sr. finally died from his injuries, he loved his son so much that he left him a building where his boy could live and work and create beautiful things he loved and never have to lower himself to ask for anything from people who should have loved him but didn’t.

  By the time Mac is done telling his pops’s story, I’m bawling like a baby and Mac has long since pulled his daddy’s picture from my hands so I don’t ruin it with my blubbering.

  My face is buried in his chest, which is still naked from his workout. The hairs on his pecs are soft against my cheek and I’m half mad at myself that I can’t even enjoy the bits of underarm hair peeking out from beneath his bulky bicep.

  “I think I love your pops.” I sniffle into his neck and feel his chest vibrate with what’s either one of his hums or a laugh. I’m not sure.

  “I can tell you with one-hundred percent certainty, honey, that he would have loved you like his own.”

  That just sends me off on another crying jag and this time I’m sure Mac is laughing at me. But I don’t care. Because Mac had family. He had fierce love like I have. The kind that fights and dies for you. And he lost it.

  If that’s not a reason to ugly cry, I don’t know what is.

  By the time my tears subside, they’re only replaced by a white-hot anger.

  I pull back from his chest and look up at him with fire in my eyes. “Tell me why your mother’s not in jail!”

  Mac sighs and pushes my mess of hair back from my face. His eyes travel over my splotchy cheeks and red-rimmed eyes and if he finds me hideous, his expression does an excellent job of hiding it.