Game Changer

by Stewart, Sylvie

  “Money. Influence. Connections. Monthly payments to Satan.”

  I scowl at him trying his hand at being funny at a time like this. He just swipes a stray tear from my cheek and looks all tender and shit. Dammit.

  “But your pops got a settlement. That’s admitting she did something awful.”

  “A civil settlement,” Mac clarifies in a rumbly tone. “Nothing criminal. Not enough evidence to prosecute.” He pulls me back into him and the sigh he releases is resigned. “I didn’t want any part of that civil suit. In fact, I fought my pops on it. Didn’t want a single dime from those assholes. But he didn’t ask me. Got lawyers to handle it all and I couldn't do a damn thing about it.”

  I’m still raring for a fight, but I let him finish talking. “I did my best to take care of him but you never met my pops. He was a stubborn SOB. And once I saw how much that kind of money could do to make him comfortable I shut my fuckin’ mouth. I could never get him that kind of care on my own, especially while salvaging my business and the apprenticeship program, which had turned to shit in the process. When he died he left me this whole damn building, already rigged out with the forge and apartment. Put it in a trust so I can’t sell it. I wanted to refuse but he knew me too well. It's the only thing he ever asked me to do for him. So I'm trying my best to live up to his memory.”

  I wedge my hands between his warm back and the sofa to hug him for what he just shared. My heart wants to tell him it loves him but I’m still too mad to get all gooey just yet.

  The hug is short and I lean back to see his face again. “That’s all kinds of lovely, Mac, and I wanna come back to it, but that’s… bullshit!”

  His head snaps back and his eyebrow is telling me I’ve gone and lost my mind again.

  “She got away with it!” I point out the obvious.

  He nods calmly. It’s as if my consuming rage makes it so he can step back and be the rational one.

  “Before the civil suit, we thought we had… an advocate.”

  My brows go up and he continues.

  “This guy showed up after my mother… did what she did. Claimed to be a victims’ advocate with media ties.” He shakes his head. “You have to understand, we had no money. I was putting in a full day at a feed plant and working the forge at night. Neighbors were complaining. It was a mess.”

  He plays with my hair absently from his seat next to me—or really, behind me, since I’m just about in his lap by this point.

  “There was no time to check credentials, not that we would have known where to start, but he wanted to help and we needed it. Pops was in and out of hospitals and I was trying to make ends meet while caring for him. And he hated it. I mean, hated it—depending on other people.

  “So this guy says he’s going to expose the Tenneson/Pile families and bust shit wide open. It’ll be in every newspaper. But everyone has a price and they found his. We ended up with a shitty article that used my pops as a case study on how opioid addiction wrecks families. Had to fight for a retraction. Thankfully, we got it. That’s actually how we met Elle.”

  There’s too much to unpack in this story. At least now I know why he doesn’t do interviews. I’ll have to wait until later to fully consider the gravity of him making an exception in my case.

  “Wait. That’s how you met Elle?” I have to pick one thing at a time or my mind will shut down. I’m still beyond angry that Mac’s mother is so damn untouchable. But hopefully not for long. I have half a mind to call on all the women of Savannah to march up here and put that witch in her place—‘cuz they could do it, I’m sure.

  “Yeah. Elle was working in PR, had encountered the reporter before and offered to help. I don’t know, she got charmed by my pops, I guess. Of course, that wasn’t hard to do. He might have been past his prime and confined to a wheelchair but he could draw every female eye in the room when he started with his fucking Gaelic.” Mac grins at me.

  I stifle what threatens to be a giggle. I could totally see that. Hell, if Mac busted out the Gaelic right now, my clothes would probably fall from my body in a tattered heap without me moving a muscle.

  He laces his fingers in mine and watches the movement of his thumb over the pulse point on my wrist. It’s mesmerizing, but I’m still not done. I need to shake off my Mac haze and concentrate.

  “I still don’t understand something, though.” I look up at him. “Why would your mama do it? Why would she push your father? I mean, what did she have against him other than him asking for money?”

  Mac blinks and it’s like he’s trying and failing to push back something he needs to save for later because it’s too big. He swallows and his voice comes out in a rasp. “Because I chose him. And nobody ever puts her second.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone more than I hate fucking Margaret Tenneson-Pile in this moment. And I’ve never loved anyone more than I love Mac McKinley.

  Twenty-Nine

  “Don’t ever lose sight of what’s important or you may lose it altogether.”

  – Cookie Rutledge

  We don’t talk much after that. It’s the most I’ve ever heard Mac say and it’s clear he’s exhausted. And so am I.

  I understand where he’s coming from now—why we can’t play internet war to catch his mother at her own game and why we need to let this thing ride until the cards fall where they will. I understand a lot of things now. I still want justice and I still have questions, sure, but they can wait.

  At least it appears his mother is distracted by JoJo. It should take her a good few weeks of trying to contact the JoJo Ames PR machine before she gives up or confirmation comes to light that JoJo and Mac won’t ever get their own couple name. In the meantime, I’m just fine with laying low with my man and pretending the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

  Mac goes to take a shower and I putter around his apartment, thinking about cooking some dinner but I find nothing inspirational in his fridge.

  There’s a knock on his door a bit later and my lip curls when I think it’s Jonathan, but I hear Elle’s voice so I hurry to unlock it.

  “Hey,” she says, and when she sees my face—which must look a mess—she grabs my arm. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I roll my eyes at myself. “I’m just being dramatic, I guess. But, no, I’m fine.”

  “Okay.” She looks skeptical but lets it go. “I think I left my phone in here. I can’t find it anywhere.”

  We both take a peek around and, sure enough, it’s laying on the kitchen island. She grabs it and heads for the door, then turns around at the last minute. “He told you, didn’t he?”

  I want to hold everything from the last hour just between Mac and me, but I nod anyway.

  She smiles a sad smile. “Well, at least I can make peace with my promise to Angus, Sr.”

  I swear, she’s trying to make me cry again but I manage a tremulous smile. Then I shoo her away before I turn into a big baby again.

  Later, when I’m sprawled on top of Mac in bed, both of us in just our underwear, I think about what Elle said again about his dad—and what Mac said about how his pops would have loved me.

  “Tell me something else about your pops, something that’s not caught up in the sadness. What’s your favorite memory of him?”

  Mac scratches his chin where the scruff is thickest. “Dunno. He wasn’t a particularly talkative guy—not all that demonstrative.”

  “Hmm. You don’t say?” I tease and it gets me narrowed eyes.

  “He always called me a sheòid.”

  “My warrior,” I say, tracing his scar with my fingertip.

  “Yeah.” His thick brows draw together.

  “Elle told me.”

  He doesn’t look all that surprised.

  “He never called me Mac. Not once. Used to rub him wrong when he heard other people calling me that.” His fingers trace circles between my shoulder blades and my nerve endings sing at his touch. “He was a second-generation immigrant with one foot in Scotland and seeing as
Mac translates to ‘son of,’ he didn’t like it. Said my life was my own to define and I shouldn’t be known as just the ‘son of’ anybody, especially not him.” He shakes his head, obviously reliving the memory. “But tell that to a teenager who has to introduce himself by the name Angus. Anguses don’t get laid.”

  I cough out a laugh into his chest. “Trust me, I’m sure the ladies would have made an exception.”

  One side of his mouth curves up as if to prove me right.

  I pull my head up so I can get a full view of his face. “Wait, so if Mac means ‘son of,’ does that mean I can call you MacBitch?”

  He looks at me for only a second before his head falls back and he lets out a deep, unrestrained laugh that comes from the bottom of his gut. His perfect mouth spreads in a full-on, blindingly-gorgeous, make-me-need-to-throw-out-these-panties smile. The low joyful sound combined with that smile completely undo me. It’s extraordinary and I’m pretty sure I gasp.

  Still amused, he finally notices me staring at him like a stunned, lovesick idiot. “What?” The word passes right through the center of his devastating smile.

  There are no words so I basically attack him with my mouth, which is a bit of a shame since it covers that smile, but I’m hoping I can get a repeat later. Mac grabs my ass with both hands when I slide my tongue past his lips. He smells of spiced soap and tastes like warm mint with a hint of sweet.

  I moan when his fingers edge past the hem of my panties to feel the bare sensitive skin, one finding its way to my wetness and making me squirm on top of him.

  He hoists my hip up with his other hand to get better access and I’m willing to go anywhere he takes me. I pull on his hair while his hand works me under my panties and I’m frustrated by the barrier of our underwear.

  I break from his mouth. “Naked.”

  He understands it for the demand it is and quickly shucks his boxer briefs to accommodate me. His sable gaze sears me, the dark ring around his irises almost meeting his lust-enlarged pupils as he resumes his task of pleasuring me.

  When my squirming reaches the next level, he takes it upon himself to flip me to my back so he hovers over me, running his whiskers along my collarbone as he nuzzles my neck.

  “Mac,” I moan, grazing my fingertips across the rigid muscles of his back.

  His lips hum along my skin until they reach the top of one of my bra cups. He doesn’t hesitate before pulling it down with his teeth and then skimming my turgid nipple before biting down. My shoulders dig into the mattress as my back arches sharply and I cry out. He knows how to drive me completely insane.

  I reach behind my back to remove the troublesome bra, but he flicks the closure before I have a chance and swipes the bra aside. My panties are a memory shortly after that and Mac is sliding home with my hips meeting his and welcoming him into me.

  It’s a perfect storm of desire and fulfillment coming together and it leaves me breathless beneath him.

  Mac settles deep and stills for several sweet moments as we revel together in the connection. He kisses my chin and places the softest of kisses on my lips before raising his head and looking down on me with a mix of possession, want, and a sort of contentment I haven’t quite seen there before.

  He doesn’t use any words, but I know in my heart exactly what he’s saying.

  * * *

  “Why the fuck would I do that?”

  Mac trying to whisper cuss words into a phone is one of the funniest things I’ve seen in a long time.

  We’re in the corner of one of the fifth-floor collection galleries at MoMA the following Saturday, and it’s our first real outing together since the stuff with JoJo broke.

  Her camp still hasn’t denied anything and Mac is letting it ride but, thankfully, the paparazzi seem to have lost all interest in him.

  Naveed, however, has not. I told him and Kate that I got the same “no comment” response from Mac’s team but Naveed won’t let it rest. I honestly think he might be onto me and is just torturing me because he’s salty I’m keeping the good stuff from him—Mac being the good stuff, obviously.

  I bite my lip to keep from laughing at Mac as he stands with one hand on his hip, his ear to his cellphone with Elle on the other end, and a grumpy scowl that’s scaring away every child—and adult—who passes by.

  Sometimes I don’t know how she puts up with him.

  I tug on his arm because I want to go look at my favorite Frida Kahlo with him and he finally pulls the phone away from his ear and shoves it back in his pocket.

  “After I show you my favorite, you show me yours.” I grin up at him, ignoring his frown and reminding him of our plan. “What did Elle do to torture you this time?”

  “She wants to post on my Instagram account that I’m dating JoJo.”

  I pause. I do not like this idea. I mean, yes, it would help keep Margaret sniffing up the wrong tree, but Mac is my man, not JoJo’s. I find my grip on his arm tightening.

  “Finally got rid of the damn photographers and now she wants ‘em back.” Mac treks in his big boots at my side.

  Crap. I haven’t asked, but it only makes sense that the exposure from the mistaken JoJo connection must have been good for sales.

  I take a breath. “Come on, bachelor number twelve. Today is a fun day, not a work day.”

  And thank God for that. Things with Jenna Baylor have only escalated in the past few days and I’m about to lose my shit.

  But I can ignore it for now because I’m in one of the most amazing museums in the world and I’m about to share some Frida Kahlo with Mac. That’s a coalescence of goodness a girl can’t pass up.

  He lets me lead him to Fulang-Chang and I, a self portrait of Frida with one of her pet monkeys. Next to the portrait is a matching mirror which Frida herself intended to hang beside the painting.

  “She gave this painting to her best friend so she could look in the mirror and they’d be together.” I look at myself in the reflection and wonder if Iris would think I was a nutcase if I sent her a picture of me and a mirror. Yeah, best not to go down that road.

  “And this is your favorite?” Mac asks as he refuses to let me push him in front of the mirror.

  I sigh and take in the portrait again. “Today, it is. But that can change anytime. I just always love the intimacy in the scale of her self-portraits. She’s not hiding anything, you know?”

  Mac studies me for a few seconds before giving time to the painting.

  “And, besides, the monkey is cute.” I look back at him. “And, now that I have you in the same room as Frida, I’m noticing certain similarities…” I trail off and raise my hand up to swipe my thumb over one of his eyebrows.

  “Funny.” He grabs my wrist and walks us unhurriedly from the gallery.

  I can’t help my cackle but I try smothering it with my palm.

  “Okay, sorry. Now you show me your favorite.”

  Mac pulls out the museum map from his pocket and unfolds it. After a quick scan, he leads me by the hand down the stairs and around a few corners until we enter an exhibition gallery on the second floor.

  In the middle of the room stands a sculpture. It’s a simple column carved from wood, but it appears to be formed from a series of stacked and flipped pyramids in a repeating pattern. When we approach, I see it’s labeled Endless Column by Constantin Brancusi.

  It’s a simple, sturdy structure, yet the repeating pattern of its construction suggests it could continue on through the ceiling and up into the sky. There’s nothing particularly beautiful about it except for its simplicity and potential.

  “And this is your favorite?” I throw his question back at him.

  He tilts his head to the side and runs his eyes up the sculpture. “Not really.”

  I laugh and he turns one of his closed-lip grins on me.

  “I’ve seen photos of another version of this in Romania. It’s made from steel and it’s almost a hundred feet high.”

  I look back at the much smaller version in front of us. “N
ow, that, I’d like to see.”

  Mac drops his chin in a nod.

  “So, what do you like about it?” I know that’s not fair. Sometimes you just like something because you like it, but I love getting glimpses into how Mac’s mind works.

  “When I first learned blacksmithing, the idea was to focus on the functional. Punch holes, weld a ring, make a hinge. But I wanted to move right on past that and turn it into something new, not just a piece of iron or steel nobody would look twice at. I got a little carried away and into my own head about it, making these elaborate sculptures and then wondering why nobody wanted to buy them.

  “I forgot about the basics and about how you can combine beauty and function. It wasn’t until I remembered that that I was able to really discover my talent for furniture-making. I like to think I strike a good balance now.”

  “That’s an understatement if I ever heard one. Your furniture is breathtaking.”

  “And it gives you a place to rest your feet.” He winks like he’s giving them out for free now.

  “I, uh, I actually haven’t been able to bring myself to sit in my chair yet.”

  His face freezes. “Excuse me?”

  I throw my hands out. “I’m sorry, it’s just so pretty and I love looking at it. I’m afraid to sit in it.”

  He just stares at me as people pass by us on either side. Then he shakes his head and mutters something under his breath with the words “pain in my ass,” but I don’t catch the whole thing because he’s pulling me out of the gallery and I’m following with a shit-eating grin on my lips.

  * * *

  By the time Monday dawns again, I decide I’m done taking Jenna Baylor’s passive aggressive shit. I stop in at the coffee shop on the ground floor of the Warbey building to grab an extra big cup of coffee with enough sugar to make the spoon stand up straight. Coffee in one hand, I wave at the security guard on my way to the elevator. It’s time for me to figure out a way to get Jenna off my back once and for all.