by Leisa Rayven
I hand him a map of Manhattan I snagged at a news stand on the way. “Feel free to make him extra dense today.”
“Ja, ja, ja!” He takes the map. “Wunderbar!”
After his buddy opens the back of the truck, Dyson goes straight to the keypad and punches in a number. Clearly, he’s in Max’s inner circle. The door buzzes as it unlocks, and he yanks it open before heading inside. Within a minute, the roller door opens, and he ushers the other dude, who I’m assuming is Rosco, to follow him. They emerge a short time later carrying a large and expensive-looking dining table.
“And today on Removalist Wars,” Toby whispers in a British accent, “Danny and Brett are going for the gold with an oak eight-seater. They’ve loaded it onto the truck, now let’s see what they do ... Oh, yes, I think they’re going back for the chairs. Well, this is good form from the New York boys. If they keep it up, we could see them in the final.”
I stifle my laughter as I nudge Toby. If I get arrested for trespassing, at least I’ll be smiling in my mug shot.
“You ready?” I say.
“I was born ready, fräulein. You want me to hang around until you get out?”
“Nah. As soon as I’m done I have to go and help Nannabeth at the markets. Thanks, Tobe. You’re a life saver.”
“Yeah, well, what can I say? I’m a giver. Still, if you wanna pay me back by taking a few pics of yourself in a Leia slave outfit, I’d be down with that. See you next week.”
I pat him on the arm as he passes.
When he gets to the dock, the guys have their arms full with padded chairs. He waves the map at them and loudly says, “Excuse me! You can help me? Zis subvay system is most confusing, ja? Vere am I finding ze Times Square? It is near here?”
The guys put their chairs down and laugh. “Pal, you’ve taken about a dozen wrong turns. You’re not even in Manhattan any more. You have to get back on the subway.”
“You will show me vere to go?”
For a few minutes they try verbal instructions, but when Hertzog can’t understand them, they jump down off the dock to point to the map. Hertzog walks them away from the truck as he struggles with their directions, and as soon as they’re at a safe distance, I make my move. Running as quietly as I can, I dash to the dock, climb up, and duck inside the roller door. The urge to commando roll hits me, but I have no time for that right now.
As soon as I step inside the warehouse, I’m hit by the sheer size of it. For the most part, it’s a massive empty space that would make a fantastic mega skating rink. Then I notice that to my left are some overhead lights illuminating a stack of furniture and boxes, and the end of the area is blocked off with wire fencing like a security cage. I can see a collection of old office furniture in there, including bookcases that are being used for storage.
I quickly run down to the end, and when I discover the door on the cage is unlocked, I scoot inside and hide behind what looks like a tall clothing rack, covered in a dust cloth. Toby must have taken off, because I can hear Dyson and Rosco’s voices clearer now as they come to grab more furniture.
“We’d better hustle,” Dyson says. “Max will shit if we keep the old lady waiting for this stuff.” Not a hint of Irish today. He sounds like he’s from Queens.
“Where’s he been, anyway?” Rosco asks. “He’s missed poker night two weeks in a row.”
“He’s freaking out about some reporter who’s been sniffing around. I guess he’s trying to get rid of her or whatever.”
I take in a sharp breath.
Those words cut through the parts of me that had begun to trust Max. The parts that wanted to believe what he felt for me was more than just a con. Of course, the bitter side of me that’s been trying to avoid falling for him this whole time feels vindicated my mistrust was founded.
“Come on,” Rosco says. “Grab the end tables first, and we’ll come back for the credenza.”
“What the hell is a credenza?”
“That big thing with the drawers.”
“Then just say ‘that big thing with the drawers’. What are you? The King of England?”
I sit cross-legged on the floor as they finish loading the truck and try to tell myself that knowing Max has been playing me doesn’t hurt.
See? This is exactly why I don’t put myself out there. Men lie. They flatter and flirt and kiss you stupid whenever it suits them and fucking lie to make you feel things. And then they break you, the same way my father broke my mother. I shouldn’t be surprised that Max is no different from the rest of them, but I am. Surprised and more disappointed than I’ve ever been in my life.
I close my eyes and push down the hurt. It only fuels my determination to find out what the hell he’s so intent on hiding.
At last the guys finish up, and the warehouse is plunged into darkness as they turn out the lights and close the door. When the rumbling of the truck fades away, I grab my phone and turn on the flashlight.
“Okay, Max. Let’s see what all this stuff is.”
The first thing I do is find the light switch and turn the lights back on, so I can take a quick inventory of what’s underneath the dust cloths. Even after the Dyson and Rosco removed a truck full of furniture, there’s still some left, and from what I can tell, Max has a pretty swanky collection. It leads me to wonder why he’d want to sell it for cash with my Nan, when he could probably get more money through a dealer. He said he inherited it, but from whom?
Alongside the furniture are some cardboard boxes. I open the closest one and look through the contents. There are several trophies with the name Max Roberts on them–baseball, football, and even one for music. So, I guess the guy I spent the evening with yesterday was the real Max after all. I’m not sure how I feel about that, considering I’ve never felt so intensely intimate with someone before. Beneath the trophies is a certificate for achievement in music made out to Max Riley Roberts.
So, Riley is his middle name.
At the bottom of the box I find a few crumpled photographs of Max in high school. It’s strange, but the boy in the pictures looks quite different from the Max I know. Grown-up Max might be a little too smug for my liking, but young Max looks flat-out arrogant. And more than a little aggressive. In most pictures, he seems to be scowling, not smiling.
I go to another box. It contains files and some printouts of news reports about something called Fulcrum Financial. As I rifle through the faded articles, one of the headlines jumps out at me. Carl Roberts Faces Fraud Charges Over Fulcrum Financial Collapse.
I scan through the article. From the picture of the handsome middle-aged man below the article, I assume Carl was Max’s dad. None of the other articles tell me what happened to him, so I do a quick search on my phone.
“Oh, shit.”
Seems like Daddy Dearest got hit up on a class-B felony for embezzlement and insider trading and was sentenced to eight years. The date indicates it was three years ago, and I’m guessing that was around the same time Max dropped out of college.
I spread the articles on the floor and photograph them. They may come in handy for background info.
Checking the time on my phone, I realize I need to speed this up or risk Nannabeth’s wrath, not to mention getting caught. I quickly put the boxes back where I found them and move into the fenced-off area. When I lift up the dust cloths draped over the clothing rack, I discover it’s filled with dozens of costumes. Max wasn’t joking when he said he had a cowboy hat and chaps. And yes, he also has a white navy uniform, similar to the one Richard Gere filled out so nicely in An Officer and a Gentlemen. I can see that would be a popular fantasy.
He also has costumes for a firefighter, biker, and army dude, among others. I wonder if he’s used all of them. Then I get powerful flash of jealousy at the thought of him playacting with other women.
Goddammit.
Why couldn’t I just resist feeling anything for him? Liking someone I’ll never have isn’t a feeling I’ve ever wanted to experience.
At the side of the room, there�
��s a small set of mahogany drawers sitting on a table. When I open the top drawer, I gasp. It’s shallow and lined with black velvet, and inside is a collection of stunning jewelry. By the looks of it, the stones are real.
“Whoa.”
This must be where he got the necklace he gave me last night.
All of a sudden, a horrible possibility occurs to me. Could Max be using his position of trust with these rich women to relieve them of their finery? A little involuntary tip for his services. Is that his big secret?
God, no. He wouldn’t.
The thought makes me queasy. I know I’m just speculating, but I can’t discount it as a possibility. His father was a thief and a criminal. Maybe Max is following in his footsteps.
I’m so focused on scanning my memories for further proof of corruption, I jump when I hear, “They were my mother’s.”
I whip around to see Max there, standing a few feet away with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. His expression is one of supreme disappointment. He looks like I feel, which is sick to the stomach.
“I’m not a thief, Eden.”
There’s so much raw emotion in his voice, I’m taken aback. “I didn’t think you –”
“Yes, you did. I know how your mind works by now.”
I feel my face flush in embarrassment. “There are a lot of beautiful pieces here. Your mom had good taste. Expensive, too.”
“My father bought them for her.”
I nod. “Ah, so he was Mister Romance senior?”
His face twists, and he laughs, short and bitter. “No. Not at all.” His shoulders bunch. “What are you doing here?”
I close the drawer and slide my phone into my pocket. “I’m just trying to find out the truth, Max.”
“I had every intention of telling you the truth.”
“When?” He stares at me, unblinking. “I know I shouldn’t be here, but you’re the king of stonewalling. For all the time we’ve spent together, I still know virtually nothing about you – the real you. Is it any wonder I’m having trouble trusting your motivations? Yes, we’ve been getting close, but you’re a fantastic actor. And let’s not forget, you gloated you could make me feel something for you as a way of killing the story. So the fun time at Maxwell’s apartment and then the kiss ... For all I know, this is all part of your grand plan to protect yourself.”
“My grand plan went out the window the moment I realized I was the one developing feelings.”
“That’s what you say, but according to the steroid twins who moved your furniture today, you’re freaking out about a reporter who’s been sniffing around and working your ass off to get rid of me.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks as he stares at me. “And you found it all too easy to believe, didn’t you?”
“I honestly don’t know what to believe anymore. My brain hurts, and for the first time since I was eleven years old, my heart hurts. And neither of those things feels good.” I rub my face, feeling tired and thoroughly confused. “All I wanted out of this arrangement was a story. That’s it. Not whatever the hell is happening between us.”
“Do you think I had any intention of feeling like this? Because in case you don’t already know it, you’re a pain in the ass. You complicate my life in the most intoxicating ways, and everything I used to want has been thrown into chaos because of my intense goddamn need for you.”
Every time he says something like that, he carves another chink in my armor. But if I accept him at his word, I have everything to lose, and he has everything to gain. Admitting I want him means he’s won, and the moment I kill my story, he’ll have a free pass to say, “Oh, oops. Never mind. All those pesky feelings have conveniently vanished. See ya!”
He waits for me to say something, and when I don’t, he walks over to the desk beside me and pulls a framed picture from the top drawer. “Okay, fine. It looks like we’re doing this.” He hands me the picture. “This is my fucked-up family.” I study the faces looking back at me. “At least it was. I don’t have a family anymore.”
The picture was taken in a garden, with what must be his mom and dad laughing as they hug their two tall sons. I recognize Max but not the other good-looking boy.
“That’s my older brother, Spencer. He died of a drug overdose when I was seventeen.” He points to his father. “That piece of shit is my dad, and he’s currently lazing around in a cushy white-collar prison for screwing hundreds of people out of their life savings. And that ...” He swallows as he brushes his finger over the pretty woman’s face. “That’s ... my mom.” He stares at her with a haunted expression. “She killed herself three weeks after Dad was arrested, which was six months after Spencer died.”
He opens the back of the frame and pulls out the picture. “Here,” he says. “You’ll need to scan this for the story. Spencer overdosed on heroin, in case your editor asks. And mom took sleeping pills. Dad’s due for parole in a few months, but I really hope he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t deserve to be free after everything he’s done. He’s dead to me.” Max thrusts the photo into my hand. “Take it. You’re right, I’ve been holding out on you. I promised you full exposure, so here it is.”
“Max ...”
He walks over to a filing cabinet and yanks open the drawer. “I have more pictures of Spence in here somewhere. Even a couple taken at a party where he looks like he’s out of his mind on drugs, which he probably was. And there’s a nice one of Mom that was from a charity event a few weeks before she died.” He rifles through a box of photos in the bottom of the drawer. “There are even a few of me at my high school prom. I’m sure you’ll get a laugh out of them.”
When I walk over and put my hand in the middle of his back, he freezes.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have come here. I should have waited until you were ready, and I –”
That’s as far as I get before he spins around and pushes me up against the filing cabinet as he kisses me. The unexpectedness of it shocks me into stillness for a second, but as soon as I register the warmth of his lips against mine, I moan and open my mouth to him.
Jesus, the taste of him. The white-hot hunger that flares when he kisses me as deep as he can. He groans in relief as I kiss him back, and then things go from hot to downright incendiary when he picks me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist. He shoves my back flush against the filing cabinet as he grinds against me. The metal clangs loudly when he plants his hand on top of it to get more leverage. The rock-solid feel of him, even through his jeans and mine, launches my body into a level of arousal it’s never felt before. I squirm and pull him closer, trying to get some relief from the incessant pulsing between my legs.
“God ... Max.”
I anchor my hands in his hair as he kisses my neck, nipping and sucking, his breath hot and ragged. I want to get naked with him. Tear off the clothes separating us and press my fevered flesh to his hard, warm skin. He talked last night about the difference between sex and fucking, and right now, there is zero doubt in my mind I need Max Riley to fuck me, furiously and with zero restraint.
With rough, desperate hands, I shove his jacket off his shoulders, and he puts me back onto my feet so he can help. My jacket is next, flying onto the desk as I press Max against the wire fencing and palm his erection.
He throws his head back and closes his eyes. “Fuck, Eden.”
“I need this,” I say, savoring the hard line of him. “Please.”
I fall to my knees and start on his belt, but before I can get it unbuckled, strong hands close over mine. “Wait.”
I look up at him in confusion. “You can’t tell me you don’t want this.”
“I’m not. I’d like nothing more right now than to fuck you until we both can’t see straight ... but I can’t.”
“Sure, you can,” I say as I stroke him through the thick denim. His eyelids flutter, and his fingers curl around the chain link fence. “You take off your clothes, I take off mine. We do what we want to each other and ge
t relief from the hell our bodies are in. This doesn’t have to be complicated.”
He gently pulls me to my feet. “Whether we like it or not, it is complicated. And with what I still have to tell you, it’s about to get worse.” He retrieves my jacket and hands it to me. “When we have sex, Eden, I intend it to be the start of something special. Not some desperate quickie in a dusty warehouse. And once you hear my full story, you might decide even that’s more than you want from me.”
He pulls out the chair from behind the desk and gestures to it. “Please, sit.”
He grabs another chair from near the wall and sits at the end of the desk, facing me. The positioning makes me feel like I’m conducting a job interview. In a way, I guess I am. With most men, the only thing I’m interested in is their body. Once the flush of arousal fades, so does my desire to have them anywhere near me. With Max, I want him near me all the time, whether he’s touching me or not, which is why I’m vaguely hoping that what he’s about to tell me will be so unforgivable, I’ll never want to see him again.
Max leans forward, forearms on his thighs, hands clasped together. His expression is so grave, I become genuinely concerned.
“I didn’t bring up my family before now, because I was ... ashamed. I wasn’t ready for you to know the person I used to be. But ... nothing I’m about to say changes how I feel about you. I need you to know that.”
“Jesus, Max, you’re really starting to freak me out. Did you kill someone or something?”
I expect him to laugh at that, because I was going for ridiculous to lighten the mood, but he doesn’t.
“What would you say if I did?”
I look for any sign that he’s joking and swallow nervously when I don’t find one. When he sees the horror dawning on my face, he looks away. “The first thing you need to know is that as far back as I can remember, my dad tortured my mom.”
That makes my skin crawl. “He was violent?”
“Not with his fists, but he pummeled the hell out of her with his words every damn day. Taunted her. Belittled her. Committed psychological warfare every chance he got. I’ve since discovered that he’s a malignant narcissist, so that should tell you something about how bad he was. And the most shameful admission I can possibly make to the woman I have feelings for is that ...” He takes a breath. “... there was a time when I wanted to be just like him.”