Not the Marrying Kind

by Kathryn Nolan

  “I know a lot of gorgeous women, and they know me,” I said, mimicking his shrug. “Me and Fiona are just friends, now planning a concert together.”

  “Wow, so she turned you down, huh?”

  I went to scowl again, but Mateo punched me in the shoulder. “I get to dunk on you. You didn’t call me for seven fucking years.”

  I shoved my hands in my pockets and accepted the verbal beating. “Okay, yeah she turned me down. But it’s whatever. You think I even care?”

  The smirk Mateo gave me was full of awareness. I’d forgotten you couldn’t really keep secrets from your best friend.

  “Fiona Quinn is a beautiful, brilliant woman who takes no shit and is immune to your charms.” His smirk widened. “I’m gonna guess if there was ever a woman to make you care, it would be her.”

  15

  Fiona

  My parents appeared shocked and sad on the tiny screen of my phone.

  I’d just broken the news to them about The Red Room.

  But Max was due to arrive in my office in fifteen minutes, and I was desperate for distractions to calm the sudden presence of fluttery nerves every time we were in the same room together. It was late enough that the other associates and secretaries had all gone home, leaving my office quiet and empty. But now I wished it was full of people, if only to ensure my interactions with Max were on full display to the public.

  “I need The Beatles,” my dad said, walking behind him to shelves of records that took up an entire wall in the ramshackle old house we’d grown up in in Queens. “I’m too sad.”

  Music, for my parents, was themed to different stages and emotions of their everyday lives. They were anarchist punks to their core but swore that Motown inspired the muse when songwriting. And The Beatles were imperative during tragedy.

  My mother’s face was pinched with worry. “Oh, this is breaking my heart, Fi. Why didn’t Pop tell us?”

  From behind her, I could hear “Don’t Let Me Down,” and it was true that it provided some tiny comfort. “You know how he is,” I explained. “Private, embarrassed. Money is hard to talk about for a lot of folks.”

  “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about and everything to be furious about,” my dad chanted from behind mom’s shoulder. “Of course, this city cares more about profit over people and will destroy every last bit of culture until we’re nothing but robotic cogs in their money machine.”

  “It’s a disgrace,” Mom said. “And we cannot stand for it.”

  “That’s why I’m calling.” I leaned in closer, waited for both parents to appear on screen. “I met with Pop yesterday, along with Max.”

  “Max is home?” they shouted in unison.

  “Only for two weeks,” I warned—more for myself than for them. “He asked for my legal advice on the letter Pop got, so this morning I sent it off to two colleagues who work in tenant and housing law to make sure his rights aren’t being violated.”

  That sent their eyebrows shooting up in approval. I knew how my parents felt about who I worked for—that Cooper Peterson Stackhouse was every bit the boutique law firm serving wealthy clients they saw, and mocked, in TV shows and movies. But they were annoyingly quick to forget all the many ways lawyers helped to fight for the rights my parents often marched and protested for.

  “That’s so nice of you, Fi,” my dad said. “I had no idea you had those contacts.”

  “We’re not all evil over here.” My tone was light, but it was nice to hear my parents express even a vague respect for my chosen profession.

  “Yes, well, but many lawyers are, though,” my mom said soberly.

  I bit my tongue and pushed past my irritation. “Anyway. Max and I are planning a benefit show in twelve days to raise the money Pop needs so he’s not evicted. Can The Hand Grenades be one of the headliners? And can you get your fans to buy tickets?”

  My dad threw his hands in the air. “Fiona Lennox, you make me so fucking proud.”

  “Love this idea, and of course we’ll be there with our fucking bells on,” Mom added. “What a way to fight the system. Bring the people together and solve this problem ourselves.”

  I propped my chin in my hands and smiled. This was the whiplash of being around my ridiculous parents. Confused and slightly dismissive but then cheerfully excited and proud of me. It was how they’d always been, and I knew, in my heart, they had no malicious intent. They loved Roxy and me so much you could see their parental dedication from space.

  But I was never sure if bringing my feelings up to them would make them actually change or only hurt them, and more often than not, I let things slide. Even as it started to hurt me.

  “I thought you two would like the idea,” I said. “We’ll get big posters made. Save The Red Room. If we sell out, and I convince Edward’s hotel to sponsor us, we’ve got a really good chance of raising what he needs.”

  “Who needs The Beatles. It’s time to dance,” my dad said, popping up to change out the record. Which allowed my mom to stare right at me and say, “Max Devlin is probably very cute now, I imagine.”

  I rolled my eyes. “And that’s my cue to go. That very cute boy is on his way here, and we’ve got logistics and details to figure out.”

  She nodded. “Thank god for you. If we had to do something like this, it would fail miserably.”

  “That’s definitely true.” I peeked at the clock on my wall. “Okay, I really do have to go though. Thank you for headlining. I knew I could count on you guys to help.”

  “And whatever else help you need,” my mom said. “Say the word. We’ll be there.”

  I hung up, not expecting to feel so emotionally connected to The Red Room again. My skills for planning and organization could actually help the wild, chaotic world my family operated in.

  Maybe after this—maybe if I succeeded—they’d learn that there was value in all the ways that I was different.

  I didn’t have a record player in the office, but I did have a tiny speaker I kept beneath my desk for late nights working when music kept me company. I turned it on, connected it to my phone, and pressed play on The Clash’s London Calling album.

  Then I double-checked my appearance in the mirror on my wall: pencil skirt (immaculate), silk top (perfect), pearl necklace (exquisite). My hair was up, my lipstick was a bold red, and my heels were sharp as blades.

  I was prepared for battle. And the foe I was looking to vanquish was my pointless, tiny, basically insignificant crush on Max.

  My friend, Max. Who never stayed the night and never fell in love and never wanted to build a life with another person. Crush or not, I had my contract on my side. I had my goals, my timeline, and a specific set of outcomes. These had always been the things that gave me strength, gave me purpose.

  This breathless, unruly attraction to Max was the opposite of that in every conceivable way.

  Unrolling a large paper calendar, I taped it up to the wall in my office not covered with my framed degrees and awards. Then I grabbed a stack of sticky notes and some pens and began carefully adding lists of tasks we needed to accomplish in the next twelve days. I smiled to myself as I danced to my favorite songs and embraced the pure, simplistic joy of a blank piece of paper brimming over with organized items to check off a list.

  Slowly, the days ahead filled with sticky notes on which I’d written neat reminders: tickets go on sale, confirm list of bands, are food vendors available? We needed to book promo and schedule marketing and have posters created.

  And beneath the orderly rainbow squares beat the very real heart of the issue: we needed to figure out if Pop would be able to sustain paying his rent moving forward, since being sued if this happened again would only spell disaster and probably lead to his eviction.

  The knock at my door had me turning in expectation. I already knew to lock my knees. Max was perfectly framed in the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the side. He was all casual, confident sexuality—from his scuffed boots to the holes in his jeans and his tight, whit
e t-shirt. That scruff on his jaw was almost a short beard.

  And the look he pierced me with was raw hunger.

  I arched one eyebrow. “You’re five minutes late for our meeting.”

  His mouth curved into a half-grin. “Won’t happen again. Does it help my case that I believe you’re playing the best Clash album of all time?”

  I hesitated. Because I agreed and because this album was one of those crucial works of art that truly changed me from the first time I heard it. Courtesy of my parents, of course. I couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen, but my parents had thrown a random dance party with this album on in the background. Roxy had been off flirting with a handful of boys. But I’d sat next to the record player, arms wrapped around my knees, and let Joe Strummer’s voice ignite my soul.

  “It doesn’t help your case, no,” I said. “But, for the record, this should be considered in the top five best rock albums of all time, and I’ll fight anyone who disagrees with me.”

  “That’s the spirit,” he laughed, smile broadening, charming me into returning the gesture. After all, we were friends now. Friends smiled at each other and talked about music and definitely didn’t think about kissing each other.

  I can’t deny that I want you very, very badly.

  I pulled out a chair for him, stepping back immediately to make sure I avoided his scent and the heat of his body. I was almost absurdly happy to see him.

  “These are some fancy digs.” He pointed at the wall behind me. “That all you?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Do I intimidate you?”

  I didn’t miss the wolfish gleam in his gaze. “In the best way possible.”

  I perched on my desk, directly in front of the tattooed bad boy staring at my bare legs. He was close enough in that chair to reach out and wrap his hand around my ankle.

  To stroke me, caress me, devour me.

  “When did you know you wanted to be a lawyer?” he asked.

  I tapped my pen against my pad of paper. “In eleventh grade, my best friend Lucy used to have me over for sleepovers all the time, which I loved. Her house was quiet and clean and not filled with a rotating band of musicians that practiced loudly while I was trying to study.”

  Which never ceased to amaze me—walking into a friend’s house to find it empty and absent of music.

  “I idolized her mom. She was a lawyer, a total bad-ass, married to a man she loved, with children and a home they filled with laughter and memories. Roxy idolized and identified more with the lifestyle of my parents, but I was searching for calm, for rules and boundaries, for a future with less anarchy and more structure.”

  My eyes met his curious, open ones, and my cheeks got hot.

  “Anyway. Her mom was the first lawyer I knew, but it got me interested in the study of law. I liked how challenging it was, I liked how much I had to learn, liked the sheer volume of knowledge placed in front of me for my consumption. I liked how lawyers could be involved in so many different fields that affect our lives, including helping people plan their legacy, which is what I do.”

  He grinned. “Poodles in diamonds?”

  “Poodles in diamonds,” I repeated. “But, for all that I joke about my extremely wealthy clients, I genuinely like to work with them, to get to know them for years, to know their families. What we do with our wealth after we die can have a real impact, and more often than not, philanthropy is a guiding motivation. Not all evil, like my parents think. I’m inspired by helping my clients create their legacies, help them give back to their communities and make a real impact.”

  His eyes narrowed a little. “I’m pretty damn sure nothing about you is evil.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  He lifted one shoulder. “What are friends for, hey?”

  Will you help me? In that moment, cocky Max Devlin had been as shy and sweet as I’d ever seen him. I liked his flirtatious bravado. It was paired with just enough vulnerability to be charming.

  Of course, I was going to help.

  “Look at you, having a relationship with a woman that isn’t only sexual in nature,” I praised, smiling when he laughed.

  “A lot of firsts for me this week,” he said. “I even brought a pencil for our planning meeting.”

  “This is you coming prepared?” I smirked. “That’s a lot of fucking talk for very little action.”

  He chuckled like he was surprised. “We’re planning a punk show, not convening the United Nations. Although I like whatever you got going on behind ya.”

  I turned around. “I’ve got a thing for staying organized and maximizing success.”

  To his credit, he looked genuinely interested, which I wasn’t used to. “You lead, I’ll follow. Tell me what we need to do, and I’ll make it happen. So far, Pop and I are working on the bands, and my best friend has offered to design the poster.”

  “Oh yeah?” I said, excited. “Who?”

  “Mateo Rivera,” he said. “You’ve met him a few times at The Red Room but way back in the day. He owns a new art gallery in the Village, and his style is incredible. He loves Pop, loves The Red Room, offered to design us some pieces right away.”

  I cocked my head. “Long hair in a bun? Tons of tattoos?”

  “Probably holding hands with another man he’s clearly obsessed with?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Rafael, right? I haven’t thought about them in years.”

  “They’re engaged.”

  I cheered. “That’s fucking amazing, Max. Are you going to be in the wedding?”

  His brow creased and he rubbed at the spot. “Uh… yeah, I don’t know about that yet. I have been told I need to plan two bachelor parties. But are you okay with working with him?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Max nodded, thumb stroking across his lip. “I had Pop give me a list of all the bands who play there regularly. The local ones, at least. I’ve got calls out to about twenty or so.”

  “If the capacity is 350 and we sell tickets for $100, which is a bargain for a live benefit show, plus band donations, we’re easily over $35,000,” I said.

  Tap-tap-tap went the pencil on Max’s knee. Which, coincidentally, was shaking up and down. He noticed me noticing. Stopped. And gave me a somewhat bashful grin. “This whole being stressed out about Pop and his finances and the future it’s uh… it’s new. I usually try to, literally, ride as far away as possible from this shit.”

  “I get that impulse,” I said. “I hate feeling out of control with my emotions, and I really hate being stressed about the future. That’s why I live my life like this.” I indicated the wall of colorful notes behind us.

  “Ah, I don’t think I could live my life that way. But thank you for the suggestion.”

  “You never make a single plan?”

  “Nope,” he said slowly. “Do all of your plans always work out?”

  “Always.”

  Except for last year’s dating work, which didn’t pay off one bit. But I was choosing to see that failure as a learning experience.

  Max leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His breath feathered along my bare legs.

  “When was the last time you said fuck it and did something spontaneous? Something that felt good?”

  His words dripped with erotic suggestion. My entire core went liquid at the sight of his mouth curving around the word fuck. Wouldn’t it feel good to let him rip this tight skirt right in half?

  Wouldn’t it feel very good to press my thighs against his ears as he licked my clit with the deliberate intent to make me come? An orgasm, just because. Not part of an orderly system of outcomes leading to the goal of being married.

  But an orgasm in its purest form. Just one. Or three. Unbridled ecstasy at the extremely capable hands of Max fucking Devlin. Whose flirtatious gaze was currently making me half pissed, half horny.

  Hands planted on the desk, I leaned in close to him, caught the tight clench of his jaw. “The last time I did something that felt good was making that color-coordinated
chart of action items on that wall. And you better watch yourself, friend. I’d say you’re tiptoeing down the line of flirting.”

  His brow lifted. “I wasn’t talking about sex. Although it must be on that dirty little mind of yours.”

  I prayed he couldn’t see the flush creeping up my neck. “I’m saving all of my dirty thoughts for my future husband.”

  “Sure.” His smirk was pure arrogance. “That doesn’t sound like a lie at all.”

  16

  Max

  With an arrogant smile, Fiona slid off her desk and walked past me to her wall of notes and calendars.

  “It’s true, Devlin,” she said over her shoulder. “My dirty thoughts are many, and yet none of them involve you.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Oh yeah? And who do they involve?”

  “Brett.”

  I burst out laughing again. Even as my fingers clenched the chair like I was trying to rip it in two. Jealous. Over Brett. Who wasn’t even a real fucking guy.

  The problem was she looked, to paraphrase Mateo, drop-dead fucking gorgeous. When I’d first seen her in here, dancing to The Clash in pearls and a goddamn pencil skirt, a storm of desire had swept over me. Made me dizzy but in a good way. And my damn palms were sweating again.

  The evidence of her ambition and talent literally hung on the wall behind her as we sat in a law firm that the internet had told me had one of the most competitive hiring processes in the state. Of course, Fiona Quinn had nimbly stepped over her competition while wearing pearls and that mischievous smile. The power of her position here, the power of her standing over me, was goddamn intoxicating.

  What I wouldn’t give to serve her many demands, give her as many orgasms as she had meetings until she was blissed out and stress free.