Max

by Tara Crescent

  “So you’re smart and sassy, with terrible taste in men.

  She raises an eyebrow. “Because I turned you down?”

  “Nah, I’m a big boy. I can take rejection. I’m talking about that douchebag you were with earlier this evening.”

  “He was an exception,” she says ruefully. “Most of the guys I date are usually quite okay when we break up.”

  “Most of the guys? Are you a fellow commitment-phobe?” I give her a questioning look. “I know what my excuse is. What’s yours?”

  “Wait, you have an excuse? What is it?” She leans forward, interested.

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so, Campbell. If you want some dirt, you’ve got to give me something first.”

  “Okay.” She takes a sip of her scotch. “I know this is going to sound really superficial, but I don’t like sharing my bed.”

  “Is that a metaphor about sex?”

  She rolls her eyes. “No Max,” she says, her voice heavy with patience. “It’s not a metaphor for sex. I like sleeping diagonally on the bed. Boyfriends crowd my space.”

  “So you never spend the night with a guy?”

  She shrugs. “Not happily. Then it gets to a point where I’m losing sleep, and I begin to ask myself - is this relationship worth it?” She peers at me, a small crack in her confidence. “Do you think I’m weird?”

  “Seriously? You think the guy who breaks up with women at the third-date mark is going to judge you?”

  “A valid point,” she concedes. “Your turn.”

  “I live a good life, Charlie,” I say simply. “A woman’s just going to get in the way of that, and before I know it, I’ll be spending Thursday night binge-watching the Bachelor, or some such nonsense.”

  “Come on,” she protests. “That’s not fair. I have to defend my gender here. All women don’t watch the Bachelor.”

  “I’ve dated five women in the last ten weeks,” I tell her. “Four of them wouldn’t schedule dates on Monday nights.”

  “Your average is two weeks? Sheesh. At least I typically last a month, Max.” She shakes her head, but her voice is amused. “Have you considered that the reason they didn’t want to go out on Monday nights is that they had to work the next day?”

  “I have to work the next day,” I point out. “Sorry, Campbell. I’m a big fan of women, but this Bachelor thing is real.”

  Joe comes back to our little corner. “I have to agree with Max about this, Charlie,” he says. Finally, some support. “Gayla’s addicted to that junk. Either of you want another drink?”

  “I’ll take one,” I tell him. “What about you, Campbell? I’m buying.”

  She tilts her head to one side. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Max?”

  No. Yes. Maybe. I have to keep reminding myself she’s off-limits. “And lose the bar in the custody dispute? Nah, that’s too risky. You look like the kind of woman who can handle her booze.”

  I can’t get sucked in. If my business doesn’t become financially viable in six months, I’m going to have to go back to working as a pastry chef. My former employers can’t wait for me to fail. George Pascal, the head chef at the Waterfall Inn calls once a week, asking if I’m tired of my little experiment yet. And yet, here I am, having another round of drinks with Charlie Campbell.

  “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment,” she laughs. “Yeah, I’ll have another, Joe.”

  * * *

  Three hours later, we’re both tipsy. She’s giggling and I’m completely charmed. She looks like a wobbly angel. “Max,” she slurs. “Kiss me.”

  Oh dear god. She radiates sex appeal and honest-to-god horniness. I grit my teeth and remind myself that I’m not the kind of asshole that takes advantage of an inebriated woman. “Ask me tomorrow, sweetie.”

  Joe looks at Charlie, shaking his head with a grin. “I’m doing last call, Max. Can you get Charlie home or do you want me to?”

  “I’ll do it.” I turn to Charlie, who’s put her head on the counter, and appears to be taking a nap. Looking at her, my heart does a funny pitter-patter. Heartburn. It’s got to be heartburn. Nothing else. “Hey drinky,” I nudge her gently. “Charlie. Wake up. It’s time to go.”

  “Okay,” she mutters sleepily. Her eyes remain closed.

  “Charlie,” I repeat indulgently. “You have to stand up.” Was the beer spoiled? I feel so strange...

  “Fine.” She slides to her feet with a pout. Her eyes are still scrunched shut, and looking at her disgruntled expression, I stifle a laugh. She’s adorable.

  “Come on, Campbell.” I wrap an arm around her waist, effectively holding her upright. She snuggles against me, soft and warm, and when I feel her body pressed against mine, my dick hardens. “Let’s get you home.”

  We catch a cab, and she wakes up enough to tell me her address before leaning against my shoulder again and falling back asleep. I sit upright and resist the urge to stroke her hair. Partly because that would be creepy, and partly because I want to keep my testicles.

  She’s attracted to me. I’m attracted to her. We’re two consenting adults. What’s the harm, right?

  Except I like Charlie too much for my three-dates-and-out routine, yet I’m not cut out for commitment.

  Friends. It’ll have to be enough.

  4

  Charlie

  “Charlie.” My friend Debbie hurries up to me right after the morning session at court. “What are you doing tonight?”

  Debbie’s in the early stages of a new relationship. Outside of a few conversations at work, I’ve barely seen her the last three weeks. “Let me guess,” I tease her. “Parker’s hanging out with the boys at poker night, and you want to know if I’m free.”

  She looks abashed. “Sorry,” she says meekly. “So, are you free?”

  “I was going to listen to Max’s band.” I wonder if my cheeks are flushed. So far, I’ve taken advantage of Debbie’s distraction with Parker to keep Max a secret, but Debbie’s a bloodhound. “You’re welcome to join me.”

  Sure enough, her ears perk up. “Max? Someone you’re dating?”

  I shake my head. “Just a friend.” I keep my voice casual. “He’s a regular at Joe’s bar.”

  Debbie gives me a searching look. “Just a friend? I’ve never heard of him before.”

  “We’ve only been friends for a few weeks.”

  Crap. I sound defensive. Judging from Debbie’s expression, she’s noticed. I’m in for the third degree now.

  Sure enough, she marches me to the coffee shop next door to the courthouse. “Spill,” she demands.

  I glance at my watch. “Okay, but I have to get back in twenty minutes.”

  “Spill quickly.”

  “Max is a guy I met in Joe’s bar.”

  “Have you slept with him?”

  “Whoa. Way to get to the point, Deb. No, I haven’t.” Though it wasn’t for of lack of trying. Under the influence of a three scotches, I’d practically thrown myself at him that first night. Instead of taking me up on the offer, he’d escorted me home and he’d made sure I’d drunk a glass of water and swallowed some ibuprofen.

  The next morning, there had been a brown paper bag outside my door with a note on it. Even now, the memory of his words makes me smile. I know you want my buns, Charlie, it had said. Inside the bag were a half-dozen raisin buns, sweet and warm and fluffy.

  Bakers. Dangerous creatures.

  “I’m attracted to him,” I admit. “But if we date, we’ll implode in no time. And Debbie, I like having a bar where the bartender knows me.”

  “How very Cheers of you,” she says dryly. “I’m confused. What does a bar where everyone knows your name have to do with sleeping with a hot guy? I’m assuming he’s hot?”

  “When God was parceling out good looks, he stopped twice at Max Granger.”

  “So? What’s stopping you from being friends after you break up? Is he the pouting sort?”

  “Max? No.” We line up and order our coffees and sandwiches. Egg salad f
or Debbie, grilled cheese for me, with a slice of tomato to make me feel healthy, and a couple of slices of bacon to make it tasty. “I don’t believe in being friends after a breakup.”

  “You don’t?” She gives me an interested look as we move to a small table by the window. “I didn’t know that. Why?”

  “Because eventually, there’ll be one day that I’ll be down about something. Maybe I’ll stand on the scale after starving myself for a week, only to find out I’ve gained weight. Or maybe I’ll lose a case I should have won. Then I’ll start drinking, and before I know it, drunk booty call.” I shake my head firmly. “Once I break up with someone, I delete their number from my phone. I block them on Facebook. No contact. No possibility of making a fool of myself.”

  Debbie’s looking at me oddly. “We’ve been friends for five years,” she says. “Have you always been this way?”

  I shrug, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. “On a different note,” I say pointedly, “I could use some advice with my case.”

  “In a second,” she says, unwilling to allow the change in topic. “Right now, I’m piecing two and two together and making five. This is about Dominic, isn’t it?”

  Dominic was the only guy I’ve been in love with. We dated for three months, and then one day, he ghosted. I called, I left weepy voicemails. I sent pathetic emails. For years after, I couldn’t understand why he’d disappeared. I still can’t.

  I don’t want to talk about Dominic. Is the wound still open in my heart? I don’t know. I haven’t let myself check. “Max’s concert. You coming?”

  She tilts her head and surveys me. “No,” she says at last. “I’m going to give you guys some alone time.” She takes a bite of her sandwich. “What’s going on with your case?”

  Right. My case. Renee’s trial is far more important than our discussion on whether Max is hot or not. “I got an anonymous note the other day,” I tell Debbie. “It said that Nolan has a video of the entire incident.”

  “Of the alleged assault?” She compresses her lips. “You think he’s withholding evidence?”

  Nolan Thomas is the Assistant District Attorney prosecuting this case. He’s young and ambitious, and in my opinion, he’s far more concerned with his win-loss record than seeing justice done. I can’t stand him. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “Withholding exculpatory evidence is illegal.”

  “If the defense finds out.” I munch on a piece of bacon. “What if Nolan’s counting on an overworked public defender?”

  “Hmm.” She chews on her sandwich. “Who’s the judge on your case?”

  “Grace Tang. I’ve never worked with her before.”

  “She just moved to Toronto from Ottawa. She presided over one of my cases last month. She’s tough, but fair.” Debbie looks thoughtful. “If you are positive Nolan’s withholding evidence, ask Justice Tang to intervene. Nolan isn’t stupid enough to lie under oath. But if you aren’t sure, Charlie, then I’d keep quiet, because the judge will rip you a new one if you waste her time.”

  We both get up, and dump our sandwich wrappers in the trash can. I’m contemplating Debbie’s advice. Dare I trust the contents of an anonymous letter, or should I just take my chances in court? I’m not sure. Getting on the wrong side of a judge is a career-killer.

  “Oh, and Charlie?” Deb’s voice is amused. “Have fun tonight with your hot piece of ass.”

  “He’s not my hot piece of ass,” I reply automatically. “We’re just friends.”

  5

  Max

  There’s a million good-looking girls in the bar tonight. I barely notice, because I’m like a teenager waiting for his prom date.

  Then I spot a trace of her bright blonde curls, and that trademark shit-eating grin. Charlie Campbell. Everything becomes brighter. “Hey,” I wave her over. She’s wearing jeans and a sparkly pink top, and she looks like a piece of candy. “You made it.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” she apologizes with a grimace. “I had to work.”

  “Your current case?” She’s been working some long hours in the last month, and I know how stressed she’s been. I’m really glad she’s made it out - she needs the break. “Are you still trying to figure out what to do about the note you received?”

  She nods. “My friend Debbie suggested I approach the judge.”

  We wind our way to the bar, and I order a scotch for her and a beer for me. She pulls out her wallet and I wave it away. “I drink on the house, Campbell,” I tell her. “It’s one of the perks of being the lead singer.”

  Her mouth lifts into a smile. “Good to know, Max,” she says, looking around the room. “Hey, I’m cramping your style. Look at how many women there are tonight.”

  I roll my eyes. “I have to wake up at five in the morning to bake four hundred muffins, Charlie. I assure you, you’re saving me from doing anything I might regret.”

  “So Tonight Max wants to get laid, but Tomorrow Morning Max wants the extra sleep?” Her eyes gleam with amusement. “Tomorrow Morning Max is a wuss.”

  I tousle her hair affectionately. “Don’t hold back, Charlie. Tell it like it is. So, did you take Debbie’s advice and talk to the judge?”

  “I was going to,” she replies, giving me a withering look as she smooths her hair back in place, “then I thought I’d give the assistant DA one last chance to do the right thing.” She grimaces. “Instead of producing the video, the asshole dumped five boxes of paperwork on me. No doubt the information is buried somewhere in that mess.”

  “More late nights?” My voice is sympathetic.

  “Yeah.” Her voice is rueful. “I’m too invested in this case, Max. It’s a problem.”

  “Why? Isn’t this what you got into the profession for?”

  “Sure. But I’m one overworked attorney, and the other side has teams of lawyers. Nolan can smother me in paperwork, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  She looks dispirited, and on impulse, I hug her tight. “Charlie Campbell,” I tell her sternly. “You are the most awesome person I know. You will kick ass, because you don’t know how to do anything else.”

  “You think?” She looks hopeful.

  “I know. You’re far too passionate to give up.” My arm is still around her waist, and I can’t seem to make myself let go. Her body feels really good against me. Holding her feels right, and my brain fills with mush at her nearness. That’s got to be the reason for my next words. That plus, I’ve never seen Charlie even close to depressed. If she’s feeling gloomy, I want to take care of her. “What are you doing later tonight?”

  “I thought Tomorrow Morning Max wanted to sleep,” she teases me. “Why?”

  “You said you wanted to watch Love Actually last week, remember? It’s on Netflix. Want to watch it tonight?”

  She hesitates, and I sweeten the pot. “I have buns, Campbell.” I wink at her. “You know you like my buns.”

  She laughs and punches my arm lightly. “You’re a goof, Max.” Standing on tiptoe, she kisses me briefly on the lips. “I think you’re wanted at the stage. Break a leg.”

  Charlie Campbell just kissed me. I’ve had fantasies about this moment, and they don’t even begin to come close to the reality. Her lips felt so good pressed up against mine. I wish I could pull her back into my arms and deepen the kiss, really taste her sweetness.

  Pull it together, Max.

  I have to think thoughts of George Pascal screaming at the line cooks in order to quell my hard on. By the time I get to the stage, the rest of my band is thoroughly irritated with me. “Where’ve you been, Max?” Andy, my drummer grouses. “Pick up chicks on your own time.”

  “I wasn’t.” I still sound dazed. “I was just talking to a friend.”

  A friend I’m utterly crazy about. Fuck me. I’m in trouble.

  6

  Charlie

  What the fuck was that?

  Sparks shoot through my body, from the point where our lips touch, warming me, caressing me. I stumble backward and barely
meet Max’s gaze, muttering something about his band being ready to begin. I need a few moments to collect my wits, to remember all the reasons why starting something with Max would be a really bad idea.

  Reason One. Joe’s Bar. My place of refuge. Because of Richard the douchebag, I can’t eat Korean food in my favorite restaurant. I don’t want to lose another place.

  Then there’s Reason Two. Max has become my friend. When I’m stressed about work, I call him to shoot the breeze. When he tries out a new recipe, he brings me samples so I can pronounce them delicious. He’s important to me, damn it. And if I give in to this obvious attraction, I’m going to lose him.

  So Charlie, I scold myself. Given that you have to fight the urge to jump him, should you really be going over to his apartment late at night? What good is that going to do?

  Then the band plays a little ditty, and the noise in the room dies down instantly. Max swaggers up to the mike. He’s no longer the normal guy I know. He’s oozing rock star appeal, and judging from the screaming, I’m not the only one who’s attracted to him. Damn it.

  “Hey everyone,” Max says, waving lazily to the audience. A number of women shriek in excitement. Max’s lips curl up into a smile. “You ladies ready for a show tonight?”

  More shrieking. I try to ignore the sharp stab of jealousy as Max grins down at his groupies. The band breaks into the opening refrain of ‘What I Like About You’ and Max opens his mouth to start singing.

  Oh. He’s good. He’s really good. His voice is smooth and mellow, and each note sends a wicked shiver of lust through me. I am such a cliché. A guy wears tight pants and croons into a mike, and I’m ready to throw my panties in his direction.

  And I’m going home with him, and somehow, I’m supposed to keep from making a move. Kill me. I signal the bartender for a refill. I’m going to need it.

  * * *