WALKING down the third storey hallway, I tip toe towards the sound of banging and laughter and music – some kind of gangster rap. I stop mid-step when I hear the easy-going chuckle of Bronson filling the gaps between the profanity-filled lyrics. Glancing down at my pink silk pyjamas, I consider going back and covering myself in a robe.
Another bang pulls my gaze back to the room ahead.
Max’s voice, more relaxed than I’ve heard it in a long time, greets my ears like a warm hug. His tone makes my heart pirouette. With that lovely feeling, I’m too intrigued to turn back.
The door at the end is open. Its walls are painted a bright white, reflecting the natural light. When I reach the entry, I peer around, trying to catch a glimpse of who is inside before they notice me. Bronson’s dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a blue shirt the colour of his eyes. I notice Butch at the exact same time as he notices me.
Frick.
My cheeks warm at his welcoming smile. He’s in a dark fitted suit, looking oddly out of place standing on the blue tarpaulin that covers the floor. ‘Girl of the hour.’
Butterflies break loose in my stomach.
Bronson uses his watch to turn the music down. He grins at me, that mischievous dimple indenting his cheek. ‘Good morning, sister Cassidy.’
‘Hi,’ I say, waving a little, like a complete weirdo.
Max steps out from around the corner, his strong tattooed torso bare, abdominal muscles moving as he lowers the big mallet-type object in his hand. ‘Little one, too loud?’
My mouth drops open, partly because he’s a sight worthy of a statue and also because he appears to be putting holes in a wall. I stare at the holes in the plasterboard, timber beams exposed, dusty residue lingering around.
I shake my head, glancing back at Max but find all three eyes fixed on me. ‘No.’
Butch moves towards me, stopping an arm’s length away. ‘Congratulations. I can’t tell you how pleased I am for you both.’
Stunned, a response literally refuses to form in my mind. I didn’t expect Butch to be pleased. Although, he is Sicilian. They like big families, right? Maybe. I don’t know. That’s a stereotype, perhaps a falsity. But he is Catholic, so it can’t sit well with him that we are having unprotected sex out of wedlock. Wedlock. . . Who uses the word wedlock anymore? I start blinking really fast, unable to stop.
Bronson chuckles and is quickly upon me, banding his arms around my middle and lifting me off the ground. He squeals like a little girl getting a new toy. ‘We’re having a baby.’
Unable to ignore the clear approval of the Butcher family, my cheeks burn hot with equal parts happiness and embarrassment. When Bronson places me on the ground, I stare at Max. A veil of feigned exasperation at his big brother covers the hint of a grin.
‘Pick her up like that again and I’ll remove your arms,’ he says, revealing that smirk.
Bronson’s silly cavalier smile only grows. ‘Ah, Maxipad. I’m so proud I’m rubbing off on you.’
I shift in place, still confused by the moment. Still coming to terms with everything myself. Still. . .isn’t it a bit early to tell people? Shouldn’t we have informed people together? I should have told my mum first. Or Flick. I find myself staring at the cracked plasterboard in a kind of daze. ‘Why are you putting holes in the wall?’
Butch moves towards the hallway, stopping to catch my line of sight. His eyes are blue and full of fierce confidence, still managing to make me swallow even though he’s not intimidating right now. ‘I will leave you to it. You need anything. . .’ Nodding, he stares over at Max. ‘Nothing takes precedence over this.’
Butch strides down the hallway, flanked by a swaggering Bronson. Max tilts his head at me, making a show of lapping up the sight of my scantily covered body, toe to crown, his eyes somehow managing to stroke me until the sensation is palpable. My knees buckle. ‘Don’t wear that outside of our bedroom, little one.’
I glance at the wall. ‘What are you doing?’
His eyes fix onto mine and beneath their stormy-blue depths is something I haven’t seen since before the auction. Hope. ‘Making the room bigger.’
Feeling as though I already know the answer, because Max Butcher is all about telling me how he feels, what he wants, and what to expect with gestures and actions, I ask anyway, ‘Why?’
‘For us.’ He swings the mallet into the plaster to reveal more of the space on the other side. ‘And him,’ he states, glancing at my belly. Immediately, I press my palm between my hips, over the spot that has his attention. It’s the first time I’ve done this. Touched my belly, knowing someone else is forming on the other side. I don’t know why women do this when they’re pregnant, but here I am doing it.
It’s like a little hello – an acknowledgment. I know you’re there.
Hello, little baby.
Pin pricks hit the backs of my eyes, and tears quickly flood my face, but I think I’m smiling too – crying and smiling. That would be appropriate given my emotional state.
Max drops the mallet. The weight of it hitting the floor causes vibrations beneath my feet. ‘Don’t do that.’ He quickly envelops me in his arms, cloaking me in his manly scent that is all Max Butcher. All hot. Sweaty. Consuming.
As big hands move up into my hair, pressing me to him, I cuddle his waist.
‘This is a lot,’ I whisper.
He holds me still for a few moments in this room, which smells like paint, dust, and wood. After a few moments, he pushes me out in front of him, searching my confused – overly – ridiculously, emotional face. ‘You’re moving in-‘ He stops for a second, grumbling roughly at himself. ‘You should move in.’
I divert my gaze to the view from the window. It is just like the one in our old room, but with a better view of the canals to the south.
In our old room.
Glancing away from him, I look at the hole in the wall, then back to him again. I gather my thoughts. Channel my emotions. Is this really happening? A few months ago, the mere thought of this would have excited me to the point of frenzy. Now though, after Erik, after all the secrets, the excitement at the prospect of sharing my daily life with Max Butcher is also coiled with concern. Tainted with it.
‘I LOVE MAX. He didn’t choose his lifestyle.’
‘Yeah, but you still can.’
WORRY WINDS itself around my heart and lungs, making it hard to breathe. I want peace for him – burden free and open. The man I see smiling after a game of rugby. The one content in my arms after an intimate moment. The one with me.
My Max.
I seek out his gaze. ‘I want a normal life for us. For you.’
Those tempestuous deep-set eyes fix me with their intensity. ‘Tell me, what does that look like to you?’
I sigh, a little sad that he doesn’t already know what that means. I don’t really know what Max Butcher, son of Luca, heir to a corrupt empire, looks like after he leaves me alone in his bed. I’m not sure I want to. I do know, as clear and true as my love for him is, what my Max looks like. ‘A nine-to-five job. Home for dinner every night. Holding each other all night long. Rugby on the weekends. . . Bruises that can be explained.’ I touch the red-purple discolouration on his jaw. Wincing as if his pain were my own, I say, ‘I don’t want violence to be so trivial to you, Max.’
He threads his fingers through mine, lowering my hand. The tunnelling grey eyes of the man who consumes me soften further as they search my face. ‘The bruises are from boxing. I told you that.’
‘And the rest of what I said?’
‘That’s a fairy-tale.’
‘It doesn’t have to be,’ I state adamantly, thinking about how my parents have dinner together every night with fresh-cut flowers, settings and placemats on the table. Even when their children are too preoccupied or busy, they still spend dinner together. I think about how they still shower together every night. Still steal touches and kisses when they think no one is looking.
‘I’ll give you everything I have to give,’ he murmurs, stroking his palms down my cheeks.
I press into his firm, possessive touch, closing my eyes to feel the warmth of those hands. Suddenly, I’m fraught with the vision of Max and his brothers soaking in ice baths, beaten and bruised. My eyes bat open. He’s lived in a kind of emotional poverty. I’ll show him it’s possible. A real and sweet, however normal, existence. I’ll give Max Butcher the fairy-tale.
I’ll give him peace and placemats. ‘It is possible.’
Searching his eyes as they scan my face affectionately, I want to ask if he’s in danger, want reassurance he will come home at night in one piece because God, I won’t survive losing him. And this is it now. A big leap towards a forever with Max Butcher and oh my gawd, that sinks in. This isn’t life-changing news about someone else; this is our life-changing news. Life-sealing news. Life-fricking-cementing news. Instead of all that rambling, I simply agree, ‘I’ll move in.’
His lips curve, setting into that magnetic, yet menacing Max Butcher grin.
I smile back, unable to refuse him when he’s like this. When he’s calm. Relaxed. ‘You’re so happy right now, why?’
‘Wallabies won against the All Blacks,’ he states with a shrug, picking up the mallet and throwing it through the wall. When white clouds of dust fly around the room, Max’s eyes snap to me. ‘Leave until it’s clean in here, little one.’ When I giggle at that, he lets out a long, satisfied sigh. ‘I’ve missed that sound.’
‘Why are you so happy?’ I repeat.
He slowly runs his tongue along his lower lip. ‘I can still taste you.’
I bite back a nervous smile. ‘Max.’
‘You make me happy, Cassidy. Remember?’
