“Thank you, Max,” she murmured, her words muffled by the pillow.
“You’re welcome.”
It took a while for her breathing to even out, for her slight form to lose its hard edges and fall safely into sleep. Strangely, it didn’t feel weird for Max to be sitting in the low lamplight watching Grace sleep. It didn’t feel imposing or creepy. It felt right. It felt right that she’d asked him and he felt right doing it. He was damn certain he wouldn’t have trusted anyone else to do it, especially the asshole cop whose eyes betrayed the lust he harbored for her. Max sat back, comfortable, warm, and he watched. He glanced at the digital clock on Grace’s side table.
It was midnight.
He’d stay for another half hour and then he’d leave.
Max was wrenched from an unexpectedly deep sleep by a bloodcurdling scream. Max shot into a sitting position, dazed and shaken, and wondering where the hell he was and what the fuck was going on. Gaining his bearings, Max looked over to the bed to find Grace fighting with the sheets, crying and calling out gibberish that chilled Max’s bones. On sleep-heavy legs, he rushed over to the side of the bed. Sweat speckled her grimacing face.
“Grace. You’re okay.”
Her voice became hoarse with her screams. “Rick, please! Don’t, please!”
Max reached for her flailing arms, before she could hurt herself, and took her hands. “Grace, you’re safe.”
But still she fought.
It wasn’t until Max—in a moment of lunacy, and without another solution—climbed into bed with her, holding her close to his chest, that she started to calm. The fight in her ebbed slowly, leaving her breathless, and clutching Max’s T-shirt like a lifeline.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. I won’t let him hurt you.”
He stroked her hair and whispered words of safety and sleep until she rested once more, her small body clinging to his like a limpet. But that was all right. If a warm body was what she needed, Max was happy to provide it, despite the echo of her screams resonating around the small, dark room. She mumbled and murmured into his neck and Max held her tighter. She moved and shifted and he stroked her hair some more until he, too, was claimed by exhaustion.
Max awoke alone. From under a furrowed, tired brow, he glanced around Grace’s room, looking for signs of her presence. He called out her name, twice, but there was no reply. With a stretch and a groan, hating the feeling of having slept in his clothes, Max stood from the bed, reaching for the jacket he’d wrapped around Grace the night before. He snuck out, glancing down the hallway, and entered his room.
He needed a long, hot shower and a hard think.
From the moment he and Grace had first met, he’d been in awe of her ability to be so together, so sure and positive. Max had admitted a few weeks ago that he enjoyed spending time with her. Obviously, she was great to look at, but it was more than that. She eased some painful part of him with her stress-free smiles and laughter, and her enthusiasm for almost everything made Max forget the bad shit and focus on the good.
He liked her. He would be happy to call her a friend. And seeing his friend fall apart that way, to see Grace so broken, was hard to take.
Cleaned and dressed, Max headed into the boardinghouse kitchen, where the sounds of Lynyrd Skynyrd and pots clanging alerted Max to his uncle’s presence. Vince grinned when he saw Max enter and immediately offered him a freshly buttered piece of toast.
“How’s it goin’, son?” he asked, throwing a dish towel over his shoulder and stirring a pan of . . . something, which smelled spectacular.
Max spoke around his toast. “Okay. You see Grace this morning?” Vince’s face grew concerned. “She left early. I think she’s up at the house. Didn’t say much. She okay after last night?”
Max shrugged, wiping his crumby hands on his jeans. “She was pretty spooked.” He explained how he’d taken her to her room, but didn’t speak a word about her nightmare. That shit was personal. He knew Grace wouldn’t appreciate folks knowing that about her and it wasn’t for him to tell.
Vince leaned a hip against the kitchen countertop. “Buck’s tore up. He was rambling last night about sending her roses, kept asking Caleb if he was gonna get arrested or some shit.” A wry smile curved his lips. “I talked him down.”
“She knows he was just drunk,” Max assured him. “I’m gonna go and see if she’s all right.” He waved a thumb over his shoulder.
Vince’s smile stretched. He nodded. “That’s good of you. You tell her, she needs anythin’ she just has to ask, okay?”
“I will.”
Max drove up to Grace’s house, stopping on the way for coffee and muffins, and pulled up in front of what was now a beautiful, clean, freshly painted two-story property. There were still some jobs to complete, the upper-level walls needed plastering, some electrical work, and a few more licks of paint here and there, but it looked amazing.
Max knocked on the front door once before walking in. The way he saw it, until his uncle passed those keys over to Grace, it was still a work site and he was a site worker. Manners be damned. The sounds of “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” drifted from the sitting room. He found Grace sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor, her hair pulled back, draped in a large hoodie, yoga pants, and sneakers, surrounded by bags and boxes, looking through photographs, the music coming from the cell phone at her side.
He lifted the coffee cups and muffin bag. “I come bearing sustenance.”
She raised a hand without looking up. “Shhh, you’re stepping on Marvin.”
He smiled and approached when she gestured for him to join her on the floor, which he did. He plopped the paper bag close to her.
“Thank you,” she uttered. “I knew someone was bound to hear my stomach rumbling eventually.”
He lifted the lid of his cup and sipped his mocha. “What are you doin’?” He glanced curiously at the copious amounts of packages.
She sighed and turned off her music. “I ordered some stuff for the house, decorative stuff, and it all arrived today. It completely slipped my mind after . . . well; anyway, I got a phone call at the butt crack of dawn from the deliveryman asking me where the hell I was.”
Max frowned. “I never heard your phone.”
“You sleep pretty heavy.” Grace averted her eyes and opened the muffin bag.
“Apparently.”
“Thank you, by the way,” she whispered. “For staying with me. I . . . it meant a lot.”
“Not a problem. How do you feel?”
She shrugged. “Like a moron. Embarrassed.”
Max shook his head. “Don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong.” A small breath escaped her when she shook her head. “Do you wanna talk about it?” he asked.
She seemed to ponder the offer of a friendly ear before she looked away. “It’s a very long, very . . . hard story to tell.”
Max picked at his muffin, silently acknowledging her refusal to share. He wasn’t sure how to feel about it. He wanted to help her, he wanted to understand, and he wanted to know who the fuck Rick was and what he’d done to her. He wanted to be a friend; he wanted her to trust him.
“You know that Brooks isn’t my maiden name, right?” Her words were quiet.
Max nodded. “I heard.” Grace bit her bottom lip, fussing with one of the boxes. “Was Rick your husband?” Her head snapped around to him so fast, Max was amazed her eyes didn’t wobble out of their sockets.
“What? How do— Why would you ask that?”
“Last night. You called out his name while you were sleeping, like you were scared of him.”
Grace’s eyes dropped closed before her hand covered her face. “Jesus,” she muttered. “I’m so sorry you had to see that, Max. I really am. I—”
“How about you stop apologizing,” he insisted with a mouthful of muffin. “Seriously. It’s annoying.”
A smirk tugged at her mouth. After a quiet moment, she lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and looked him
dead in the eye.
“Yes,” she answered. “Rick was my husband.”
Max attempted to look indifferent to her confirmation but he wasn’t sure he pulled it off. He picked at his muffin, suddenly not very hungry, and waited for her to continue. She didn’t. She nursed her drink, not saying a word, leaving the room heavy with expectation. Max shifted under its weight, an alarming thought creeping up his spine.
Maybe she was waiting for him to share, too.
Shit, he didn’t know if he could do that. It was bad enough opening up to Elliot, let alone Grace. He glanced over at her while she pulled some brightly colored canvases out of their bags, and he began to appreciate how hard it must have been for her to share even that small slice of information. She trusted him; it was only fair he paid her back in kind.
He steeled himself and breathed deeply. “I was engaged once.”
Grace stared at him, her mouth dropping open.
“Her name was Lizzie.”
There. Tit for tat. Just two friends talking. Sharing. Easy.
The spiking of his pulse suggested otherwise.
“And she broke your heart.” Grace’s statement floated around them like dark, thunderous clouds, conjuring a sharp nod from Max as reply. It was all he could do, his throat blocked by too many words.
“Rick and I got engaged when my mother passed away.”
Max looked at her, recognizing Grace’s familiar strength ripple beneath the surface. He dipped his chin for her to continue.
“My brother, Kai, never liked him, said he was trouble, but . . . I was madly in love. We’d been together for eighteen months after meeting at the bar I worked in, and I was ready to be his wife.” She pushed the bags and boxes away, held her latte close, and spoke toward the floor. “The wedding was small but Rick treated me like a princess. We bought an apartment; we talked about children, the whole nine yards. I was sickeningly happy.”
Max moved closer, their shoulders just touching. “What changed?”
She smiled sadly. “He got a promotion at work and . . . nothing was ever the same again.” She pulled her knees up to her chest. “Before we were married, Rick would always tell me how beautiful I was, how lucky he was to have such an amazing-looking wife. He liked showing me off and I liked him doing it. It made me feel good about myself having a husband who desired me.” Her cheeks darkened at the admission.
“He worked in advertising, had since college, long hours, and mammoth workload. He partied as hard as he worked, but it never occurred to me to mind. That was just Rick. He was the life and soul. That’s what attracted me to him. Finally, after months of barely seeing each other, he got a promotion to head an important deal. He was over the moon. To celebrate there was an office party. I bought a new dress. I wanted to look special for him, pretty for him, so he could be proud to have me at his side.” She paused. “Looking back, I think I bought it because I knew something wasn’t right. He’d become distant, moody, less attentive, but I put it down to the amount of work he had. While working for the promotion, he’d started drinking every night. There was always a bottle of something on the kitchen counter when I got up in the mornings.”
Max turned his body toward her.
“All night at the party, Rick’s work colleagues commented about what a fine couple we were, how lucky Rick was to have me, how lovely I looked. He thanked them and smiled, but it never reached his eyes.” She pulled her knees closer and sighed. “Anyway, when we got home from the party, Rick accused me of flirting with his coworkers, of embarrassing him. I called him crazy and delusional and he pushed me against the wall, telling me I needed to learn some respect . . .” She blew out a long breath between pursed lips. “He wasn’t gentle.”
Max’s stomach rolled. “Christ, Grace.”
“I didn’t know the man who pinned me to the wall. He was a stranger. The entire time he told me I was a tease, how I’d humiliated him by looking like a slut, how I’d loved all the attention being on me and not him.” She rubbed her hands down her face. “It was only later I found out he wasn’t just drunk but high”—she looked at Max—“on cocaine.”
Max blinked, knowing he shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was startled all the same. “Fuck.” He dropped his head, his chin tapping his chest.
“He’d gotten involved with some guys he’d met through work and started using heavily to cope with the stress after his promotion. He kept it a secret from me. He’d use it to keep awake so he could meet deadlines. Later I discovered he’d been a heavy user in college, too, before we met. Every night it became the same: he’d go out, get shitfaced, high, come home, and take it out on me.”
“Why did you stay with him?” Max asked, desperate to keep the incredulity from his voice, because who the fuck was he to judge about making bad decisions?
“I tried, but he would apologize,” Grace answered too matter-of-factly for Max’s taste. “He’d promise me he’d change, beg for another chance. He’d take me out; make love to me as I remembered. He’d go back to being like the man I fell in love with, the man I married, for a day or two and then . . .”
“And then he’d hit you.”
Grace’s face was all the answer he needed.
“I hope the fucker is rotting in a prison cell somewhere,” Max growled, running his hands through his hair.
“He’s on parole, living in the apartment we bought back in California.” The unspoken question must have been a beacon on Max’s face. “He served two years in state prison for assault and battery after he shattered my hip, collapsed my lung, and broke three of my ribs the night I told him I was leaving him.”
Revulsion heaved through Max. So much about Grace now made sense. Her aching injury when they ran, her abhorrent fear of Buck and his behavior, and the subsequent panic attack and nightmare. Her continuing wariness of Deputy Cock’s advances and flirting, her desperate need to be independent, to show that fucker ex-husband of hers she could be in control of her life, in the face of what he did to her.
In spite of what she’d suffered at the hands of a man who should have been worshipping her body and loving her, she was moving on, being strong, finding the good in shit Max didn’t even notice or pay attention to. His respect for the woman at his side multiplied exponentially.
What it didn’t explain, however, was why she wanted to be close to Max. Why did she want to be friends with a recovering drug addict when she’d suffered so much at the hands of another? Was it a test for her? Was it simply for her own recovery, or did she really want to know him?
“I know what you’re thinking,” Grace murmured. “And you’re wrong. You’re nothing like him. Nothing, believe me.”
Max scoffed and leaned his forearms on his bent knees. “We’re all the fucking same,” he answered despondently, his eyes on the floor between his feet. “Addicts. Our brains are wired identically. We want the same things and we don’t give a shit who we hurt to get it.”
“Did you beat up the woman you loved, rape her, abuse her with words so vile you’d pray for silence?”
“No,” Max replied firmly, offended by her question. “I’d never fucking— I loved her, I’d . . . Never.”
Grace smiled sadly. “See. Nothing alike.”
Max’s hands found his hair again. “It’s not that black and white, Grace. I may not have done those things, but I’ve done my fair share of fucked-up shit. Shit I’m not proud of, stuff that I’m still working through.” He exhaled heavily. “You shouldn’t want to have anything to do with me.”
“I’m a big girl,” she retorted. “I can make that decision for myself.”
Max wasn’t so sure. The urge to bolt, to save her from his past, his addiction, his mistakes, swelled in his stomach, but for the life of him, he couldn’t lift himself up off the floor.
“Do you know what I saw when I looked at my husband the last time in that courtroom?” Grace asked. “I saw hate. I saw violent anger and a monster unleashed by all the drugs and all the drinking. I saw sec
rets, threats. I saw a man who was seconds away from self-destruction, a man who, had the police not been called by a neighbor who heard my screaming, would have killed me. There wasn’t even a shadow of the man I married.” She nudged his shoulder. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?”
Max shook his head fervently. “I’d rather not know—”
“I see a man who wants so much to be better, who regrets the decisions he made, who wants to make amends and move on with his life. I see a man terrified to take a chance, to trust, but desperate to do so. I see a man who’s fractured, but trying. I see hope.”
He looked at her askance, too stunned to speak, too wary to believe her.
“You’re a good man, Max,” she said, standing with a groan and wiping the dust off her ass with her hands. “Now stop overthinking things and help me with these boxes.”
And just like that, the conversation was over.
Grace’s head was still groggy. It always was the day after an attack. It was like swimming through wet concrete. Her whole body was heavy and stiff, but she wouldn’t let it slow her down, not when she had her new home to make beautiful. She looked over at Max, balancing on a ladder he’d fetched from his uncle, hanging a large canvas on her wall. An expression of concentration on his handsome face.
Waking up next to Max that morning had been a surprise, to say the very least. A good surprise, but a surprise nonetheless. She’d woken with a headache evil enough to cripple a rhino, dazed and unable to move. Max’s forearm had been wrapped tightly around her waist, his strong chest to her back, his nose in the crook of her neck. He was an epic big spoon.
She hadn’t even remembered him getting into bed with her, but her heart warmed at his thoughtfulness. He was more caring and compassionate than he realized. Even his arriving with a latte and muffin for her was something he probably didn’t give a second’s thought about. He was so used to playing the role of the big bad wolf that he couldn’t see how good he actually was. Sure, he still had a lot to work through—Grace wasn’t that naïve—but he was so much more than he gave himself credit for.
An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2) Page 13