Authors: Jodie Becker
It was sad really. Swallowing back the discontent, he put on
mitts and pulled out the rack of lamb. The scent of rosemary and salted meat
wafted around him. He slipped the tray onto the stovetop. He checked on the
couscous, the buttery smell making his stomach grumble.
“You heard from Dylan much?”
Max turned to find Bryce standing by the island, his elbows
propped against the marble. “Yeah. He and Erica were gonna go to Spain. I
called to invite them for the weekend, but tickets were booked and all that.”
Disappointment drew his lips down. Max knew the feeling.
He’d been pretty excited to see his friend, but sometimes people just wanted to
move on.
“He probably wouldn’t come anyway. Dylan hated it here.”
Max wiped his hands with a tea towel and dropped it on the
counter. “I wouldn’t say that. He just wanted something more, and he found it
in Erica.”
Bryce smiled somewhat wistfully. “Giving it all up for love.
What a douche.”
“Yeah,” he agreed halfheartedly.
Max wanted what his mom and dad had. It wasn’t a hard
request for the average person, but as an adult actor? That cut his pool of
opportunity next to nil. Sure there were a few actors who managed to have a
relationship and family outside of work. He didn’t begrudge them any. It took a
real understanding woman to be okay with her man earning money fucking other
people, unlike Bridget. He scowled. What the hell was he doing lining her up as
if she were a candidate? He didn’t want anything to do with her. Bet fucking
her would be like fucking a starfish.
Max cut through the meat as if he were on the set of
The
Texas
Chainsaw Massacre
. Driving thoughts of Bridget from his head,
he served up and settled in a seat. They ate in silence. The eerie stillness
ended whatever joviality they’d managed to regain earlier. It brought to light
that he couldn’t have a Sunday roast on a whim like he used to. It had to be
planned to ensure that maybe, just maybe, Dylan and Ruby would come.
“This is kind of weird.”
“What?” Bryce asked around a piece of lamb.
“Not having Dylan and Rube around.”
“Could’ve invited some of the others?”
Max shrugged. “I thought about it, but then Vane would’ve
caught wind of it. I haven’t wanted him around for a while. Not since he’s
turning into a grade-A dick.”
“It’s because being nice never works for anyone.”
“I don’t believe that for a second. When did he get all anal
about contracts and all that shit? If a person wants to leave then they
should.”
“Sometimes it’s not that easy.”
“Sure it is.”
Bryce laughed bitterly. “Shows how much you know.”
Bryce washed down his dinner with the rest of his beer then slid
the bottle on the table. He rubbed his hands along his jeans. His skin had
taken on a shade a tad paler than before.
“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” Bryce mumbled.
Max’s stomach dropped. “Dude, I don’t want you doing shit in
my house.”
“That’s kinda hard not to when I say I’m gonna take a dump.”
“You know what I mean. Just ease off tonight okay?”
Bryce scratched his cheek. “Whatever. Move.”
Max hesitated, then shifted his chair and watched Bryce
march from the room, worry burning a hole in his chest. He hoped Bryce had
enough respect for his friendship to at least abstain while here, but if he
knew anything about addicts, they didn’t care whom they disrespected as long as
they got their hit. Max walked to the stairs and paused at the base. Should he
give his friend the benefit of the doubt?
Three minutes passed, then five. Max hurried up the stairs,
the embers of fury threatening to burn to life. He’d asked Bryce not to. He
paused by the door and knocked.
Silence followed.
“Bryce?”
“Go away.”
Max leaned against the door, his hand on the doorknob.
Locked. “Open the door.”
“Can’t a guy take a dump in peace? Fuck off.”
Lips pinched, Max shouldered the door until the flimsy lock
gave in. He stumbled over the threshold, the bathmat making his footing
unsteady. Bryce sat between the bath and toilet, his elbow perched on the lid,
a hand pressed to the side of his face. One knee pressed into his chest and his
shoulders heaved. Holy shit. Discomfort and concern coiled inside and he
struggled to find which emotion to lead with. Misery written in weary lines
marked his friend’s face.
“Nice going, Sherlock.” Bryce rubbed the heel of his palm
against his eye.
“What?”
Bryce cleared his throat. “Guess I did leave my balls
elsewhere tonight.”
“Bryce. I’m your friend. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
“You are.”
Max recoiled.
“With your knight-in-shining-armor get-up and your
nuclear-family bullshit. This is what we do and you fucking shit on it.”
“I’m not shitting on it.”
“What the hell is it when you make out like this is a poor
choice in life? Venus made her choices and should’ve followed through like the
rest of us.”
Anger pounded through his temple. “And what, go into
self-destruct like you?”
“Fuck you.”
The sting of Max’s poorly thought-out words jolted him. Kid
gloves. He had to handle what Bryce was doing with kid gloves. “Look, man, I’m
concerned about your usage. You never used to get this twitchy. You’ve moved
beyond recreational to addiction and you need help.”
Bryce pushed to his feet and pulled a clear plastic bag with
around a dozen pills inside. “You think I need this shit?”
Bryce flipped the lid and threw it into the bowl before
flushing it down. A flash of panic skated over his face, but he quickly covered
it with a smirk. Making a show of dusting his hands, Bryce held them out for
inspection.
Nothing but the swish of the toilet filled the room. Max
noticed the tremble in his friend’s hands. “It doesn’t prove anything. Don’t
use at all. For a month, and then I’ll concede.”
Bryce licked his white lips, shock giving way to fury.
“Easy. Piece of piss.”
Max shrugged. “All right then.”
Bryce glanced almost forlornly at the toilet before he
shouldered by Max. He paused. “Thanks for a fucked evening.”
He pounded down the stairs and the door slammed, making Max
sigh. Had he pushed his friend too much? Only time would tell.
Chapter Five
Bridget picked up her cello, blinking back the blur of
weariness in her eyes as she trudged down the stairs. Last night she practiced
her piece, but with each stroke, Max still haunted her. Snatching up an apple
by the table, she walked out the door toward her car and paused. Her car seemed
lower than usual. She rested her cello against the side and crouched at one
tire. The rims touched the driveway. Shock tightened her chest, quickly obliterated
by the anger that fired in her veins.
Max.
It was Monday morning and she was going to be late for work
all because he wanted to get back at her. That was low. She stormed across the
lawn and banged on his door. Never letting up until the door swung open. She
gulped back the momentary heat at the sight of his naked chest and the way the
dragon seemed to move as he rubbed the heel of his palm against his eye.
Max sighed. “Should’ve known.”
“Of course. You mightn’t have a job that holds proper hours,
but I do. I’m going to be late because of you.”
Max glowered. “Wait? What? How is you being late my fault?”
Bridget scoffed. “As if you don’t know. Look what you did to
my car.”
He leaned out of the door and squinted. “Seems fine to me.”
Bridget’s hands fisted with the urge to slap him. “Don’t act
as if you don’t know. You let the air out of my tires.”
Max straightened. “That wasn’t me.”
“Oh don’t pretend! I know it was you.”
Max shook his head once in ferocious denial. “Why would I
deflate your tires? It’d mean you’d be here and not elsewhere playing that
instrument of yours.”
“If it wasn’t you, then…”
Gillian.
“Who knows how many enemies you make? How many people have
you thrown gnomes at lately?”
Now she wished she’d packed a gnome and thrown it at
Gillian. She briefly relished the image of Gillian going down from a knock to
the head by a gnome.
Max looked at her expectantly and she realized he’d asked
her something.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I have an air compressor. I could pump your tires for you.”
Surprise made her lips part. “You’d help me?”
He rubbed the back of his head, a wry twist to his lips. “It
seems like a neighborly thing to do.”
The irony of the situation brought a burst of laughter to
her mouth. “Yes. It would. I would appreciate that.”
Close enough to catch his woodsy scent, she tried to ignore
the arousal that flared to life. Goose bumps prickled and it wasn’t because of
the cold. Wrapping her arms around herself, she took a step back, resenting his
gorgeous body.
“Aren’t you cold?” she asked.
Max perched his hip on her car. “Nope.”
“But I can see goose bumps on you.”
He looked down at his arm then shrugged. “I grew up in
Michigan. That’s cold. This is nothing.”
“A bit far from home, aren’t you?”
He shrugged the question off, then crouched to check the
tire. “What the hell?”
Bridget crouched beside him to stare at the tire. It looked
fine to her, if still deflated. “What is it?”
He ran his hand along the treads and dipped his head on a
curse. Max cast her a searching look as though he couldn’t figure her out.
“What?” she asked.
“Your tires have been slashed.”
“No. That can’t be right.”
He grasped her hand in his warm and wonderfully smooth one.
“Here.”
The ragged edge of raised rubber was unmistakable. “Oh no.”
Max stood, leaving her to learn the damage to her tire. The
air compressor fell silent. Tears of frustration pinched at her eyes and she
sniffled. How could Gillian do this? Dropping her hand, she checked the time.
It was too late to call anyone to swing by to pick her up and she’d probably
have to call a cab and that was more time she couldn’t afford. “I’m going to be
late,” she mumbled.
Calling a number, she started to organize for a pick-up.
“I could drive you.”
She paused and pressed the cell to her shoulder. “Pardon?”
“You said you were going to be late. I could drive you.”
Lungs expanded. “Are you sure?”
One shoulder hitched up. “I got nothing better to do.”
Relief weakened her knees and butterflies took flight in her
stomach. “Oh thank you. I’ll give you money for gas.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get my keys and meet you by the
garage.”
She retrieved her cello and carried it over to his garage, a
rendered structure separate from the house. Unlike hers, which had a simple
carport. The Lexus chirruped and the trunk clipped open and she put her cello
inside. Moving over to the passenger side, she slipped inside, the leather seat
whispering as she sat. The car smelled of pine, men’s deodorant and something
uniquely Max. Max clipped in, thankfully now wearing a sweater. “Where to?”
She gave him the address and he typed it into the GPS. The
car started with a smooth hum and he pressed his hand on the back of her seat
as he reversed. Bridget’s heart did a crazy little hip-hop at the thought of
him touching her. Clenching her knees together, she tried to call her desires
under control.
Jazz music rumbled through the speakers. Something that
surprised her. She didn’t expect Max to have a sophisticated palate. Turned out
she might’ve known less about him than she thought. They drove in silence and
all she could think about were his hands. The hands pressed over the steering
wheel. Every time he changed gears, her body would tremble with need. Being so
close to him played havoc with her libido.
Clearing her throat, she tried to think of something to say.
“So…Michigan?”
He glanced at her. “Yep.”
“That’s…nice.”
He grinned as he turned a corner. “Yep.”
She shifted in her seat. “I didn’t know you liked jazz.”
“Does that surprise you?”
Yes.
“No. I mean, I thought maybe you’d like rock or
something.”
He grinned. “I like that too. But I prefer the old
crooners.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I never fit in with everyone else liking the
pop garbage.”
Bridget giggled. “I can relate. Most people like me are
expected to like Bach and Mozart and I do. But I also like the def metal
stuff.”
Eyes widened as he shot her a look of disbelief.
“Does that surprise you?”
“Yes. I mean, you’re… You portray someone a bit more
conservative.”
Years of ingrained behavior she couldn’t shake. “It’s how I
was raised. My family is pretty conservative. Def metal was the equivalent of
doing drugs to my parents. In my teens I was quite rebellious. Even had my own
electro band.”
Max chuckled. “Seriously?”
Bridget folded her arms in defense. “Yes. We were pretty
good. Got a few gigs early on. But…”
Max cast her a questioning stare. “But?” he prompted.
She shoved the dark weight of guilt. “It didn’t work out.”
“That’s a shame. I’d have paid to see that.”
“It probably isn’t your scene.”
“Hey, I’d give anything to see you with a…cello between your
thighs.”
By his tone she knew he wasn’t talking about cellos. “I
don’t sit for those types of things. It was a bit more freestyle. Less
restrictive. It didn’t go anywhere though. It’s my guilty pleasure I suppose.”
He chuffed out a sound. “Yeah, I guess we all have our
guilty pleasures.”
Yes and one of hers happened to be Max. She didn’t like to
know he had layers. She liked to think of him as some sex-crazed fiend. That
particular Max filled her fantasies and she dismissed him a bit more readily
than the idea of the jazz-loving, considerate Max.
They settled into a comfortable silence until he pulled up
at their destination. He twisted toward her, hand on the back of her seat. “Do
you need me to pick you up after you finish?”
“Oh no. Thank you. But I think I can find someone to swing
me home.”
“All right.”
Bridget exited the car and waved him off when he started
toward the trunk. “I’ve got it.”
Max hesitated but let her remove the cello herself. She
glanced down at her watch. They’d made good time, but she was still late.
Holding back the sharp disappointment, she pressed a hand over the churning in
her stomach.
“You all right?”
A brittle smile pulled at her mouth. “Yes. Thank you for the
lift.”
Hurrying from him, she paused at the front door of the
building to watch him drive away. The silver car glinted as he passed and she
wandered inside. Music filled the auditorium and she rushed down the stairs
toward the platform. The conductor turned his head toward her, his features
pinched as she laid her case down to pull out her cello. The orchestra became
discordant and stopped. Silence condemned her. Gripping the fingerboard she
waited, unsure if she should slip into her seat. A seat currently taken by
Gillian. A snarl started to pull at her lips, but she held it back.
“I’m sorry I’m late. Car troubles.”
The conductor stepped off the podium, his hand on the
underside of her arm to draw her away from the others. She followed, her heart
pounding against her rib cage. Frank eyed her over the top of his glasses. The
kind of look someone would give when they were disappointed. It sliced right
through her. She felt as if she were fifteen again and dealing with the
disappointment of her parents.
“This can’t go on, Bridget.”
She tried not to shift on her feet. “I know. I assure you
this won’t happen again.”
“You worked hard to get the principal seat, but you seem
distracted. Is there something I need to know?”
She glanced over her shoulder at Gillian’s smirking face.
“No. Nothing that I can’t handle.”
“This is your final warning.”
Gulping back her trepidation, she nodded. “I understand.”
She followed Frank back to the orchestra and worked her way
to her seat, which Gillian thankfully abandoned. Settling into position, she
watched the conductor begin. Determined not to show Gillian had upset her, she
worked hard to get every note change right. She pushed herself despite her sore
fingertips.
As they broke for a fifteen-minute break, she marched toward
Gillian, who stood by the coffee machine. “What was that about?”
Wide-eyed, Gillian faced her, stirring her cup. “What was
what about?”
Lips thinned. “You know what I’m talking about. I know you
want my seat and that was a dirty move.”
She shrugged, not denying it. “You weren’t here, so I don’t
see the harm.”
“I do, when you slashed my tires.”
Gillian’s face scrunched in disbelief. “I didn’t slash your
tires. You probably drove over something.”
“Something that makes a four-inch gash on every single tire?
I’m not stupid.”
Gillian eyed her disdainfully. “I didn’t do anything to your
tires. You should just accept the consequences of your actions and move on.”
When she started around her, Bridget latched on to her
shoulder, pulling her to a stop. “I’m not making this up. My neighbor had to
drive me here. If it wasn’t you, then who else would it be?”
Gillian glowered. “I don’t know. I don’t go around slashing
tires.”
“You want my seat.”
“You might do something like that. But I’m above doing that,
I let my work speak for itself.”
Bridget stiffened at the carefully veiled insult while
Gillian storm off. Breathing hard, she turned to find the other musicians
staring at her as if she’d grown an extra head. She wasn’t making any of it up,
but from the looks of a few people, they thought she was paranoid. Gillian had
made her insane.
Gathering her composure, she poured herself a drink,
ignoring the way her hand trembled and the thundering of her heart. If what
Gillian said was true, Bridget couldn’t think of anyone else who’d want to
slash her tires. Max said it wasn’t him and for some reason she believed him.
Even if it was him, why would he have given her a lift to work if he’d slashed
her tires? Was it some type of ploy?
Alex wandered up to her, his gaze flicking about the room.
“What was that about?”
Bridget sipped her coffee, anxiety tight in her stomach.
“Someone slashed my tires.” She looked at him then, earnestly hoping he would
believe her. “I’m not making it up.”
“I believe you. Was it your neighbor?”
“No. He tried to help and then drove me here. If it was him
he wouldn’t have done a thing, would he?”
Alex rubbed his forehead. “I understand you’re having it
tough right now. But you really need to focus on your job. You can’t have a
cohesive line if you’re fighting.”
Bridget sighed. “I know.”
“Look, take a breather and find a way to repair the cracks
in your team.”
“I was going to invite everyone to a wine-and-cheese
get-together, but now…”
“Do it. Remember, hold your friends close, but your enemies
closer.”
Bridget nodded, her gaze zeroed on Gillian. She’d find out
her agenda and defeat her by keeping her seat.
* * * * *
Wineglasses clinked and laughter filled the room. The entire
cello section sat in her living room and some in the kitchen as they chatted.
The wine-tasting get-together had turned out wonderfully. Gillian had settled
in the corner of the kitchen, talking with one of her confidants, but overall,
her pull on the group was loosening. For the last few days, Bridget played
smoothly and kept everything above board. She never mentioned that day again
with Gillian and treated her with professional courtesy. And that perhaps was
her saving grace. People weren’t as wary of her anymore. Frank didn’t find
fault in anything she did.