TONI DIDN’T STICK AROUND, and I feel a little embarrassed, but I’m sure he was rather impressed with Max’s stamina. If we’d been done in twenty minutes, he probably would have been disappointed.
‘How are you home so early?’ I ask and then stick my fingers in my ears and squeeze my eyes shut as one of the Butcher guards calls, ‘Pull.’ From across the yard, I watch Bronson cock the rifle and shoot at the flying target as it soars through the sky. That other worldly bang vibrates like a cymbal between my temples.
When I unplug my fingers, the sound of Max’s laugh moves over me like a warm blanket – it’s such a fricking amazing sound.
‘Why did you close your eyes, little one?’ He laughs again.
I beam at him. ‘It’s a reflex.’ My cheeks bunch high above my smile. ‘Is that even legal?’ I ask, pointing at Bronson as he drops the gun, heading over towards a tree to retrieve whatever it was he was shooting at.
‘Does it matter?’ he says with a smirk.
I scoot in close to him on the outdoor lounge, my legs making a pyramid over his lap. I rake in his expression while he looks out over the yard. His grin is relaxed, eyes gentle. His fingers draw little circles on my legs. He’s in such a good mood and after the concern he displayed towards our blob, I feel like maybe we can try to talk about the baby again. Last time it didn’t go too well. Max seemed more suspicious of our blob’s presence than excited by it. But right now, he’s laughing at Bronson, and loving me with his eyes every time they meet mine. Maybe today he’ll handle this conversation better. ‘Can we talk about the baby?’
His casual demeanour remains, but his brows tighten. ‘Sure.’
Swallowing down my hesitation, I proceed despite that tiny show of resistance. ‘Have you thought about names?’ I ask even though I know he hasn’t. I immediately feel like one of those girls who lead a conversation – manipulate one – and I hate it. I just. . . I just really want to talk about our blob. With him. I want to have this conversation with my best friend and my lover and the father of my unborn baby.
His eyes blink at the horizon and then he turns to meet my gaze. ‘You can name it.’
It. My heart fractures, a few little pieces crumbling to the pits of my being. ‘I don’t want to name it without you,’ I spit out, failing at stifling my growl. ‘I want us to name him.’
He eyes me with uncertainty. When his narrowed stare moves to my belly, it is as if he is looking to our baby for answers on how to deal with its hormonal mother.
Max glances back at me and says, ‘Little one, I’m going to be here. For you. For him. But naming him is not something I . . .Fuck. It just doesn’t matter. His name changes nothing. I’m sorry. That’s just not me.’
I divert my eyes from his because I have to. I have to hide my deep disappointment in him. Looking down at the fabric of the lounge, I whisper, ‘You named Xander.’
‘How did you know that-‘
My own words make me angry. ‘At some point in your life, you cared enough about a name that you named him,’ I cut in, grimacing up at Max.
He shifts his weight, turning his whole body to face me. ‘I was five.’
I stand, having to leave as heat hits the back of my eyes and my mind can’t form anything nice to say. It’s all aggressive. It’s all antagonistic. And I’m not that. My mum has often said, ‘If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say it at all’.
So I have to walk away while the pregnancy hormones make me want to yell at him.
Max catches my elbow, fingers clasping around me, freezing me in my tracks. ‘It takes imagining him to form the need to name him.’
I swallow hard and he pulls me back down to the lounge. He releases my elbow and grabs my neck, forcing me to stare at him even as I try not to. My eyes reluctantly meet his. . . which are soft with that love he won’t say aloud and scorching with that determination he has to show me through his actions.
‘I can’t afford to let my mind reach too far into the future,’ he says. ‘I’ve learned not to. It’s dangerous in my world. I don’t daydream our forever, little one. I live it. In the now. Every second. I’m here. With you. I’m always right fucking in the present.’
My heart collects all the pieces, some from him and some from me. I settle back down into the lounge and look across the yard at Bronson, who is now up the tree with a chainsaw. I tilt my head at him. Mad. They are all fricking mad.
Sighing, I turn back to my Max and acknowledge his truths. ‘I get it.’
He grins, the corner of his mouth ticking, revealing the dimple in his left cheek. I lift my hand and poke it. I poke it in a form of defiance against his cuteness and mockery and emotional ambiguity. His chin jolts to the side, and I gasp as he presses his bared teeth into my finger, his eyes menacing. This is my favourite kind of Max Butcher.
I glare playfully, feigning aggression as I climb on top of him. Swinging my leg over his lap, I pretend he can’t just throw me metres and metres away with little ease, pretend I am pinning his muscular body down as I poke his dimple over and over. He catches my wrists and pulls me until my cheek is pressed to his.
His lips meet my ear. ‘Put your fucking tongue in my mouth now.’
I don’t hesitate; my lips mash against his. His hands roam everywhere. Rolling on his lap, I cup his cheeks to deepen our connection, feeling him wanting me through the touch of his fingers and the demand behind his lips. Somehow, through the intoxicating sensation of his hands palming me and his tongue and mouth devouring me, I’m still drawn away by the feel of something vibrating in the back pocket of my denim shorts. And it isn’t what I’d like to be vibrating back there.
I pull away from him to retrieve my phone. The word Konnor flashes at me from the display. Max groans when he sees it. Moving his big, tattooed arms to the sides of the outdoor lounge, he looks at me with exasperation.
I smile sickeningly sweet at him. ‘Sorry, I have to get this.’ He frowns at me. ‘Don’t frown at me.’ I smooth the creases between his brown brows and lift the phone to my ear.
‘Hi,’ I answer. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ I catch Max’s scowl and giggle.
‘Cock blocker,’ Max says loud enough for Konnor to hear.
‘Fucking charming,’ Konnor snaps on the other end of the receiver.
‘Don’t fucking swear around your sister,’ Max growls.
I roll my eyes and attempt to climb off Max, but his palms come down on my thighs, locking me in position. ‘No,’ he admonishes gruffly.
Covering the speaker, I say, ‘Then play nice.’ I direct my attention to Konnor on the other end of the phone. ‘You okay, big brother?’
He pauses for a moment, but I can hear his sigh. ‘There is this charity thing in two weeks. And I’m going with Blesk and. . .’ His voice trails off with uncertainty. ‘It’s for me. Fuck. That sounds stupid. I mean, my bio mum created this charity for missing children. . . And I want to go. And I’d really like it if you-‘ He groans his displeasure. ‘And Max, I suppose, if he wants to, come with us. Dad bought us a table. It was something ridiculous, like, ten grand.’
Excitement over my favourite person inviting me to an event overwhelms everything else. I bounce and squeal on Max’s lap. ‘Yes! Of course. I’d love to.’
I remember Dad telling us about this charity. Konnor’s legacy. After he was kidnapped, his mother, Madeline, created this charity for young families who found themselves in the same situation. . .
I still.
I’m painfully aware of this stillness because the gentle brush of Max’s fingers on my thighs now feels like glass scoring down my skin.
Blinking over Max’s shoulder, I hardly even acknowledge the way he is now scanning my expression. The way the blue in his eyes is absorbed by his pitch-black pupils.
The charity. . . It’s called. . . Nerrock Missing and Beyond. . . Nerrock. . .
My thoughts freeze.
My mouth opens to exhale the name.
Dustin Nerrock.
It’s his charity. Konnor won’t be safe. I won’t be safe. I feel the frantic bat of my lashes before I even realise Max has taken my phone from my hand, hung up on Konnor, and stuffed it into the side pocket of his jeans.
Warm hands meet my cold cheeks. ‘What just happened?’
Max’s voice finds me in my haze of panic. ‘It was Konnor. He wants to go to this. . . charity event. It’s for missing children.’ I stare straight at Max. ‘It’s Dustin Nerrock’s charity.’
Max’s hands pulse against my cheeks at the mention of Dustin’s name, but no other part of him seems to respond. He leans in and kisses the tip of my nose. I smile softly at him.
‘It’s not,’ he assures me. ‘It’s his dead wife’s charity. He isn’t even in the District right now and from what I’ve seen and heard, Dustin has zero involvement in it.’
‘Konnor wants me to go,’ I breathe out the words, trying to ground myself, to draw myself back to the now. ‘I’m not sure I can though, not when Dustin has any association-‘
Annoyance flares in Max’s eyes. ‘It does things to me, knowing you are still afraid of him. I will know the exact moment Dustin arrives back in town. I have eyes on his every move, little one. That bastard can’t shit without me knowing about it.’
I didn’t expect that.
Swallowing hard, I say, ‘This is a really big step for Konnor. He’s never shown any interest in his biological mother before. Always kept her memory at arm’s length. But when he found out I was pregnant, he told me he was jealous. I think that by going to this charity, he’s really embracing his past. Finding a connection to her. I should be there for him.’ I should be there for him! ‘And you’re sure he has nothing to do with this charity?’ I confirm, seeking further reassurance.
Max frowns at that. ‘Nothing. Trust me.’
I nod to myself. ‘I should be there for Konnor then.’
‘Your brother is a pain in the arse. He stresses you out.’ Max clenches his teeth. ‘I don’t like that.’
‘If you just got to know him, you’d see just how wonderful he really is.’
He lets out a long exhale and stares at me contemplatively. ‘Fine. You can go then. I’ll go with you. Get to know him.’
My blonde brows rise. ‘You’ll come? And, like, be nice?’
A gentle grin spreads across his lips. ‘When am I not, like, nice?’
I giggle at that. Like all the time, Max. ‘Menace. You’re seriously coming to a family thing with me? With Konnor and Blesk?’
His grin transforms into a provocative curve. ‘I look fucking magnificent in a tuxedo.’
