MAX DRAGS me to a nearby car. A man I’ve never seen before is sitting in the driver’s seat.
‘Get in,’ Max orders, opening the door and guiding me onto the squeaky black seats. He leans across me, buckling my seatbelt in, and I’m so glad he did because I’m not sure my trembling hands would have managed. The driver’s eyes shift around, but when they meet mine, they cut back to the road ahead. ‘Keep your fucking eyes off her. Drive her straight home. Walk her inside. Bronson will be there.’
My shoulders rise and fall as I draw in shaky, shallow breaths.
Max goes to leave, so I lunge for him and wrap my fingers around his forearm. ‘Come with me,’ I beg.
‘I’ll be home soon.’ He leans back into the car, placing his hand on the leather seat to my side. That scent of his, whiskey and man and Max, soothes me. I know how I should feel. My concern should be with that woman and it is, and yet, it’s Max’s heart – his darkness – I am committed to understand. To lighten.
As I raise my chin to accept his lips, he freezes and scowls over my head. His whole mien turns steel-like. He crushes his teeth together and exhales angrily through his nose. He squeezes the seat, the leather protesting within his white-knuckled grip.
My pulse beats hard in my throat. Beats in my ears. Head. I twist around, following his death stare out the passenger side window to a parked black SUV. Two men sit inside, both sets of eyes drilling holes through our vehicle. Are they policemen? Jimmy’s men?
‘Fuck,’ he bites out, then glares at his driver. ‘You have never been given a more important job. Get her home.’ As I reach for Max again, he closes the door.
The absence of him sinks my heart. Is he in danger? I sit up as the car pulls away and watch as Max walks back towards the restaurant. I look down at my fingers, now scrunched into fists, shaking in my lap.
Trees and cars start to blur as we pass them, becoming formless streams of colour. The man driving does as he was instructed – never once peering back at me. I shuffle my feet around. Shift my weight. Pick at my nail polish.
Breathing methodically, I try to settle my nerves.
Closing my eyes, I take a big breath in. But then I’m fraught with the image of that elderly lady’s face. I open my eyes again and my leg starts to jiggle. What exactly just happened? That lady was looking for someone. His name is on my tongue and yet, I can’t seem to push it out. I remember her referring to him as hers – my . . .someone. A missing boy, perhaps. She was elderly, so if this person is her son, then he would be older than Max and more than capable of looking after himself. I find comfort in that thought.
I’m not sure why, but I nod. As if I’m compiling a case in my mind. A case for why I shouldn’t be concerned. But. . . Max’s response to her presence. . . So cold. So defensive. He shook her off like an insect climbing on his arm. And Carter, my gentle giant, pulled her away without hesitation. Where is he now? Where is Max now? He wouldn’t hurt her, would he? Surely not. And with that, I hold on to his words. I hold onto them with absolute desperation: he doesn’t hurt people like me, only people like him.
My fear for that lady lessens as I believe those words to be true.
