The bottle paused in front of my mouth. “That is not something she needs to be afraid of.”
Mateo walked over to examine what I’d done on the bike so far. I stood, shoved the rag in my back pocket, and pointed out some of the changes I was considering. “It really won’t take me long. I’ve got a guy in Queens who used to get me parts way back. You’ll be riding in no time.”
Mateo cast me a steady gaze. “It does mean something, you doing this.”
He seemed so earnest and hopeful I felt like shit all over again. “Yeah, well, I’m still really fucking sorry.”
He nodded, clapping me once on the shoulder. “I can only stay for a few minutes. Last minute buyer is on their way to the gallery. But I think you and Fiona will like my ideas. The old box of photos you dropped off from Pop really helped give me inspiration.”
I breathed out slowly, letting that information soften the hard knot in my chest. I hadn’t expected coming home to be so complicated. But I also hadn’t expected all these people in my life to come together like this. To want to do something.
Mateo pulled his chair next to mine, unrolled the first print. The force of it hit me in the gut—the bright colors, the vintage throwback style, the black-and-white images of punk rockers dancing while Patti Smith clutched a microphone and sang her damn heart out. Pop was endlessly behind the scenes—the invisible man, through and through—but his hard work and no-bullshit dedication made this place happen.
“Fuck,” I said.
Mateo chuckled. “In a good way?”
I took a long pull from my beer. “You’ve only gotten better. And I thought you were Picasso when we were kids. I still carry around that drawing you did for me before I left. The one of the skyline. I hang it up in every apartment.”
So many apartments over the years, none unique enough to stand out. But that picture went up day one, hour one, on moving day.
“For real?” he asked.
“Yeah, of course,” I said. “It makes me feel… actually I don’t really know how it makes me feel.”
Was this just your basic nostalgia or actual longing? Was there a difference?
“Maybe you miss home more than you want to admit,” he said.
“You might be right.” I peeled at the label around my beer, needing the distraction. Then I decided to check my phone three times in one minute to make sure Fiona didn’t need me or had gotten lost or whatever.
“Nervous?”
“What?”
He glanced at the open garage door and then back at me. “Are you nervous to see Fiona?”
“The last time I got nervous about seeing a girl, we were in middle school.”
“Sure.” He sipped his beer, laughter in his eyes. “And you’ve been shaking your knee and rubbing your palms on your pants this whole time for other reasons, I guess.”
“Fuck you, I haven’t been—” I started to say, then looked down to catch my knee shaking. I glanced back up to catch his shit-eating grin. “Be fucking cool when she gets here, okay?”
“Oh yeah,” he drawled. “I’ll only tell her all of my favorite embarrassing Max stories.”
“Did someone say embarrassing Max stories?” Fiona Quinn appeared in the doorway, hand on her hip and a smirk on that smart mouth. She looked head-to-toe expensive—pearl necklace, heels, a black dress with a loose skirt that hit right above her knees. She was corporate, buttoned-up sex appeal, and I wanted to dirty her up. Rip her dress, tangle her hair, bend her right on over this goddamn bike and wrap my hands around that slender waist of hers.
“I’ve got enough to shame him for years,” Mateo said, arms spread and smile casual. “And I know you’re Fiona, and I know we’ve kind of met over the years, but it’s still a pleasure.”
We both stood up. Fiona hadn’t made eye contact with me yet, and I was suddenly desperate for her to notice me. I crossed my arms and leaned back against the bike, wondering when I’d officially lost my cool.
Last night I’d tossed and turned while hyper-focusing on that contract of hers, the dedication she had to marry a man the exact opposite of me. Like everything else, Fiona was prepared to conquer, and given her tenacity, she’d probably find the perfect man. The kind of man who would do romantic stuff and bring her breakfast in bed in their nice house.
Fiona probably looked soft and sleepy and gorgeous first thing in the morning.
“I think I do remember you a little bit. From school and maybe later, too. Which shows at The Red Room do you go to?” she asked, setting down her work bag.
“Well, there was a long stretch where I saw The Hand Grenades every week.” He shrugged. “Your parents are fucking legends.”
“They’re utterly ridiculous,” she replied. “You’d think getting older would make them less intense, but they’ve only doubled-down on their anti-establishment lifestyle.”
Mateo rubbed his jaw, nodding. “You seem to be the only Quinn on the straight and narrow.”
Emotion flickered across her face. Fiona always seemed seconds away from wincing whenever their differences were brought up. Which was strange, given how confident she seemed.
“Someone has to be the odd one out,” she said smoothly. And then finally, finally, let her green eyes settle on mine.
My simmering nerves ignited, went full inferno status.
I was flirting with you on purpose. You, and only you.
The second I’d hit send on that message, the weird lightness I felt whenever I thought about Fiona—lately, that was all the fucking time—multiplied and spread throughout my body.
“Hey there, friend,” she said. “Nice touch with the classic Zeppelin album. This one’s my favorite.”
I noted her fingers, tapping along to the bass line against her thigh. Noticed my feet and Mateo’s keeping the same rhythm.
“Hey there,” I said, thrilled when my voice didn’t croak like a teenager’s. “It happens to be my favorite too.”
“Plus, I’ve provided the cheapest beer possible.” Mateo grinned. I found a third chair, quickly wiped the dust from it, and pulled it out for her. Her eyebrows just about shot out of her face. But she took the beer with a secret smile before sitting down gracefully, crossing one leg over the other.
“Don’t let the pearls fool you,” Fiona said. “I’m a cheap-beer-and-shots girl all the way.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything else from a Red Room wild child,” I said. “And before we get to the one embarrassing story Mateo might have on me, let’s talk artwork.”
Mateo was checking his watch. “Yeah. Much as I’d love to drink beer and shoot the shit with you both, I need to run in a minute to meet a buyer. But this is what I had in mind for posters, obviously with different bands featured from the photographs Max found. The Hand Grenades will absolutely have their own design.”
My best friend unrolled the canvas and Fiona had the same reaction as me. Utter awe. She blinked, set her drink down. Reached out to hold it herself. “It’s Patti.”
“Sure is. From one of the first shows, back when everyone was either at The Red Room or CBGB to catch whoever was playing the underground scene at that time,” he said. “I’ve got designs worked up for The Clash and the Sex Pistols and Blondie.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “Debbie Harry is my personal hero. Although, fun fact, my middle name is Lennox, as in Annie. But it was almost Harry.”
“Fiona Harry Quinn.” I chuckled, shook my head. “What’s Roxy’s middle name?”
“Ramone, as in The Ramones.” Fiona bit her lip. “This is, seeing this, it’s extraordinary. It’s like you’ve captured the spirit of The Red Room. It’s grit and hunger and all that history.” She swallowed, voice thick with emotion. “So much of this city is disappearing to developers, and club owners like Pop are locked out of neighborhoods they used to be able to afford. It’s like they want to suppress art and music and creativity. And we can’t fucking let them.”
We can’t fucking let them.
Her back was s
traight, chin lifted, stilettos still moving in time with the bluesy bass line. My father and an entire lifetime of his work was under attack, and this was the beautiful warrior standing next to me.
“Right the fuck on,” he said, raising his beer. “I’m ready. Once we get these posted, let’s paper the fucking streets like the good old days.”
“Although,” I added. “That was mostly just an excuse for me to flirt with girls in different boroughs.”
“Yeah, and once Rafael and I started dating, we’d sneak off to make-out somewhere and let Max carry the burden.” Mateo shrugged. “Gave the two of us a solid alibi since my mother worshiped the ground Max walked on.”
Worshiped, as in past tense.
I swallowed hard, relaxed my shoulders. “Well, that was only the case because of that one summer, when you and Rafael were newly dating, and I’d go over to keep your mom company. It’s why I know how to cook so many traditional Puerto Rican dishes.”
Mateo laughed again. “Shit, hermano, that’s right. The guilt trips I got that summer were epic. But now she can’t say anything since Rafael is about to become her son-in-law, making all of her dreams come true. Until we give her grandchildren, that is.”
Fiona’s eyes sparkled. “Congratulations, by the way. Max told me you’re engaged?”
Mateo pulled up a picture on his phone, showed it to her. “Rafael and I met when we were sixteen. Although Max and I had been best friends since we were ten. That was the year—”
He stopped, glanced over at me with a questioning look. I shrugged, shook my head. “Fiona knows my parents are divorced, that Mom left. It’s no big deal.”
His brow furrowed. But I didn’t feel like bickering with Mateo today about my mom and the ways in which he thought she was a terrible person. It was tiring, constantly defending someone that other people judged so quickly.
“How did you ask him to marry you?” Fiona said.
Mateo gave me one last look before refocusing on his phone. “Gather ’round, children. I paid a friend to capture his reaction on video.”
As I stood next to Mateo, it wasn’t the happy, emotional scene on the tiny screen that captured my attention. It was the smell of Fiona’s hair, close to me as we hunched over together. What was that—fresh strawberries? It was bright and crisp and made me think about taking her on a picnic at Central Park, nothing but warm sunshine and my fingers sifting through her golden strands.
Fucking hell, I was losing my mind. Taking women on picnics was an action firmly in the camp of promises that weren’t mine to make because they were promises I could never keep.
Mateo pressed play. On a city street, in front of a dark building, was a glowing light fixture that read: Will you marry me Rafael Navarro?
“After I got down on one knee in front of the wall, I clicked a remote, and the lights came on behind me,” Mateo said. I watched in wonder as my two best friends hugged and kissed each other, crying and laughing. Rafael was gazing at his engagement ring and gazing at Mateo, and people on the street were stopping to say congratulations.
I’d never seen an engagement before. Never been interested. Now I was seconds away from fucking crying. Mateo caught it, the sneaky son of a bitch.
“You can cry,” Mateo said. “You wouldn’t be the first. When I showed Pop, he kept coughing and avoiding eye contact.”
I coughed. Stepped back and absolutely avoided eye contact with the gorgeous spitfire next to me. “You, uh… Pop’s seen this?”
“Like the day after we got engaged,” Mateo said. “I showed strangers on the fucking street this video. My mom told me she watches it every Sunday night just because.”
I pressed my hand to the back of my neck, rubbing a phantom sore spot.
How many calls with my mother centered around encouraging me to pursue the way of life that made her happy? A life without permanent roots was like the ebb and flow of the tides to her. You had friends, you left ’em. You had jobs, you quit ’em.
The joy I felt at twenty-eight was real. I’d seen so much of this country, had abandoned that idea that your life had to fit into society’s edges. Fuck, I identified with Fiona’s parents a lot. Coloring outside the lines made things fun and easy, at least according to my mom. And living by her advice hadn’t led me astray.
Until now. I flashed back to that night the three of us sat on the fire escape the day we graduated high school, drinking cheap beer and dreaming of the future. A decade younger, wild and carefree, hungry for what came next. That night, I’d have gladly done anything—any goddamn thing—for my two friends.
Mateo and Rafael had strangers watching their engagement.
And where in the hell had I been?
And why in the hell hadn’t Pop told me until I was home again?
Fiona pressed the edge of her palm to her eye and flashed a watery smile. “That seems like a beautiful habit to me.”
“We’re extremely excited.” Mateo said, standing up and gathering the canvas. I was about to be alone with Fiona and wished that thought didn’t give me heart palpitations. “Do you have anyone special in your life right now, Fiona?”
He didn’t have to glance at me. I knew what the bastard was doing.
“Don’t you have to be somewhere?” I squeezed his shoulder, hard, and began pushing him out of his own garage. “Besides, I’ve got bikes to fix and benefit concerts to plan.”
His shit-eating grin was teasing as he called past me, “So do you? Have someone?”
We both stopped when Fiona said, “Not yet. But I’m currently looking if you know any single guys.”
“Oh, I’ve got some ideas,” he said smugly. I nudged him out the door before he could say another word.
“I thought you said you’d be cool,” I hissed.
“You are so fucked.” His laughter was even more smug. I crossed my arms and pretended like he wasn’t speaking the truth.
“Yeah, yeah.” I looked over my shoulder to make sure Fiona was distracted. And she was, tapping quickly on her phone. “Maybe I have a little, tiny crush. Which isn’t a big deal since she’s looking for a committed partner and I’ll be out of here and back on the road in a week anyway. I have crushes on women. Sometimes.”
“Don’t fucking lie.” He poked me in the chest. “You pursue women you’re sexually attracted to. But the dopey, hangdog look you had in there when you were smelling her hair—”
“I would never smell a woman’s hair—”
“—is the kind of stuff you swore you’d never do.” He was backing away slowly, arms wide, smiling like he’d won the lottery. “Give it two weeks, and you’ll be in love with her.”
“You want me to fix this bike or not?” I tried to scowl, but the words in love with her were giving me a fucking heart attack. But not in a bad way? Maybe I needed to call a doctor and get these symptoms figured out.
He paused, face growing serious. “Hey. About the engagement video.”
Guilt and regret rushed through me. We’d known each other long enough that he didn’t need to say more. “I should have been there. I’m so sorry.”
Mateo stepped close and gave me a quick hug, which I probably didn’t deserve. “Do you get it now? What I was saying?”
“I’m an asshole.”
“Yeah, but you’re still the most charming guy on the block. And I’m leaning more towards forgiving you, so you can rest easy.” He turned around and started to walk away. Then called over his shoulder, “Rest easy, but don’t do it again. You feel me, hermano?”
“I feel you,” I said seriously. Gave him a nod goodbye before blowing out a giant breath.
Then I turned back around to face Fiona’s pretty smile, aimed right at me. The truth tumbled out before I had the ability to soften it. “You look beautiful tonight.”
I watched my words affect her. Watched her fingers flutter, her throat work. Finally, she said, “Flirting again?”
A couple of days ago, I would have happily kept up the joke, teased her into laughin
g and then changed the subject. Instead, I wiped my hands once more then shoved the rag back into my pocket. Grabbed another beer from the fridge and walked it over to her. I held it out, kept our eyes locked together. “Just being honest.”
Her lips parted. She glanced at the bottle, then back at up at me, eyebrow raised in question.
“Have another drink with me?” My voice came out hoarse.
“Promise to keep the music on?”
I flashed her a half-grin. “Deal, princess.”
When she took the bottle, she didn’t keep our fingers from brushing against one another. And electricity zipped so fast across my skin I almost jumped back.
You are so fucked.
Mateo was right.
19
Fiona
Max leaned against the seat of Mateo’s vintage motorcycle, one ankle crossed in front of the other. His dark eyes lingered on mine as he took a long swig of beer. I’d been especially foolish to think his messages yesterday were blush-inducing.
The serious longing on Max’s face had me breathless, like I was a tiny sailboat crashing against giant waves. Roxy had mentioned this swept away emotion multiple times. I’d anticipated hating it. It was a feeling that obliterated carefully controlled boxes and lines. It was the exact fucking opposite of arranging task-filled sticky notes on a wall according to date.
This moment right here felt like lighting my future goals on fire with glee and kicking them out a seven-story window. It was intoxicating and terrifying. And if I didn’t slow my heart rate down, it was going to catapult out of my chest.
Max currently had the audacity to have grease on his strong, toned forearms. Dirt smeared on his flexing biceps. A red rag hanging from the back of his worn jeans, and his stubble was extra stubble-y. The gray shirt he wore clung to the planes of his chest. It was an old band shirt with The Sex Pistols on it, faded and worn-looking.
I wanted to sink to my knees in front of him and drag my fingernail down the hard length of his jean-covered cock. I wanted his fingers in my hair as I showed him how ardently I longed to taste him.
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