“Better than falling on my face in front of you.” I brushed the hair from my face. “But thank you. It’s appreciated.”
He nodded, jaw tight, before pulling the closet door open again. There was barely enough room for Max to stand in there, but whatever space there was available was filled with file boxes and old concert posters. A stack of pictures, some of them Polaroids, lay on one of the boxes. I recognized the one on top so quickly, I moved past Max to bend down and scoop them up.
“Oh my god,” I said. “That’s me.”
12
Max
Fiona flipped a slightly faded, slightly bent picture around for me to see. In the center of The Red Room’s stage stood Lou and Sandy, probably before a set. They wore leather vests, ripped shirts, hair spiked. They were posing for the camera, tongues out, instruments in hand. And beaming between the two of them like a fairy was Fiona in a pink tutu.
“What are you? Four?” I asked, not able to stop the smile from spreading across my face.
“Probably,” she said, biting her lip. “I’m sure they’d just picked me up from a recital. When I was that young, I loved dancing up on that stage while they were setting up.”
“Who took you home so you could go to bed?”
She took the picture back, staring at it mysteriously. “My parents would. They weren’t strict about much, but bedtime stories when I was young was one of their hard lines. Then a rotating group of friends and family would keep watch until they came home at four in the morning. Sounds weird, but it was normal for us.”
“Yeah,” I said. “After my mom moved out, Pop had a cot set up in that old office. I’d sleep there sometimes when there wasn’t someone to watch me. It felt normal to fall asleep to death metal.”
“Being the children of punks has its pros and cons. One of the biggest pros is I can fall asleep anywhere. Tour bus. Back stage. In the middle of band practice.”
She smiled at me—big, a little toothy. Cute. I immediately knocked over a stack of files and a cup of old ticket stubs. I cursed, dropped to the ground to scoop them up. Avoided making eye contact with Fiona. My limbs were heavy and clumsy. Also, my palms were sweating again.
“Are you okay?” Fiona’s voice sounded like a song. There was a hint of a smile in it.
“You’re makin’ me nervous over here, princess,” I drawled.
“I’m literally just standing here.”
Yeah, but you’re too fucking pretty, and I don’t know what to do with my hands. From the moment I greeted Fiona, out on the sidewalk, I’d been nothing but nerves. She looked so goddamn stunning in that pantsuit it made my head spin and my jaw ache from clenching it. From the bun in her hair to the pointed tips of her high heels, she was buttoned-up beauty. Apparently, I’d always had a secret sexy-office-lawyer fetish.
Or maybe it was that Fiona had turned me down last night and I was still stuck thinking about her. That must be why I’d lost any and all of my game.
“Just the no sleep thing, I guess.” I gathered everything I’d scattered and set it on the table next to her. She caught my eye—her cheeks were pink. “What?”
“I’m sorry I… kept you awake last night. Won’t happen again.”
I stepped back into the closet to avoid doing something stupid. Like kiss those sexy pursed lips. Or get down on my knees and beg her to reconsider my offer.
Or admit what I’d actually done last night when I couldn’t sleep. Which was jerk off—fucking twice—to a fantasy of her that felt so real I fell asleep after and then dreamed about it. One where she’d said yes, please, worship me, and then led me to her bed eagerly.
And then I’d shown her eager, I’d shown her hunger, I’d shown her what it was really like to have a man like me on his knees and my greedy tongue between her thighs. In my fantasy-dream, I fucked good girl Fiona until dawn and woke up still horny and a lot worried.
Because I wasn’t sure if this was normal.
“I’m sorry I kept you awake too,” I called over my shoulder. “Undeniable sexual chemistry will do that to a person.”
She hummed beneath her breath. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
I chuckled, stepping further into the office and staring up at a wall of shit that sent anxiety surging through me. Facing away from her, I finally scrubbed a hand down my face, hiding a massive sigh. She was such a lovely distraction right now, but the moment I dragged my eyes away, I remembered how deeply fucked up this situation was.
Fiona sifted through another file of paperwork while I hauled a massive cardboard box from where it was jammed under an old amp. Kicking it with my boot, I pushed it into the center of the room. “Think this is where that picture of you came from.”
“And I think I might have found your dad’s pile of rental agreements,” she murmured, still staring at the files. She looked up, then down at the box. “Holy shit, that’s an epic find.”
She dropped down, pulling out rolled up posters, stacks of pictures, rolls of tickets, and old calendars. She carefully laid them on the floor. It was a whole history of punk and rock music scattered around us. Pop had managed The Red Room for more than thirty-five years and had seen a ton of famous acts come through. As had the previous owner, who’d worked even more closely with CBGB, New York’s most famous music venue. When CBGB closed, a lot of musicians and fans gravitated to The Red Room full-time, and Pop had kept the doors open and the lights on through good financial times and bad.
Although this time went way past “bad.”
“The Sex Pistols,” Fiona said, pointing at each one. “The Clash. Bowie. Blondie. Joan and Patti. The Dead Kennedys. The Ramones.”
I pulled out a handful more, which included a host of beloved local bands, including Fiona’s parents. “Vintage Hand Grenades,” I said, showing her a red-and-black poster from twenty years ago. She eyed it, smiled. “My parents have that hanging in their upstairs bathroom.”
Beneath that, the stacks of photos showed similar images, though these were more daily life shots—the different folks who’d worked here over the years with Pop. A few old pictures of him with various musicians and bands. Some wild shots of Lou and Sandy.
She snatched up a picture with a bright laugh. “Bad bitches alert.” She tapped a photo of herself and Roxy backstage with their parents. Roxy had her arm looped around Fiona’s neck, her other raised in cheer. Fiona was smirking and pretty, arms around Roxy’s waist. They were polar opposites—fishnets versus sweater sets—but the affection in the picture made me smile.
“How old are you guys here?” I asked.
“Twenties, maybe? That’s definitely my I have class tomorrow face. You were probably on the road at that point, right?”
“I left at twenty-one,” I said, pulling through more pictures, setting aside ones of Pop and my mom. In a lot of ways, pictures of them had the same opposites energy as Fiona and her sister. Pop was always serious and gruff while my mom was sparkling charm. “If I hadn’t, I would have flirted your face off.”
“And I still would have turned you down,” she replied. “Easily.”