Her shoulders softened down. “Go for it.”
I held out my hand. “Pop needs this. And I can’t pull it off by myself. I need a friend with an organized brain and a skill for planning. I need… I need help.” I swallowed hard. “Will you help me?”
“As friends.” She said it like she’d never heard the word before. Hell, it was new to me too. I pursued women sexually. I didn’t have a ton that were my friends.
“Yeah. For Pop. For The Red Room.”
She let out a long breath. “And for my family.”
She stepped forward, took my hand, and shook it. Like earlier, when I’d stopped her from falling, an electric shock went through me at the points where our skin touched.
She let go fast. Ran her hands down her jacket and stepped far away from me. “Twelve days, one concert, fifty thousand dollars.” Her lips curved into a confident smile. “Easy as pie.”
“Plus, as your friend, that makes me free to help you meet your future husband,” I said. “I can call up some yacht clubs, see who’s single and ready to mingle?”
“Very true,” she said. “Twelve days is realistically all I have before securing my future husband becomes my priority. And you should have plenty of time to unleash your playboy ways on a hundred different women in this city, right?”
I gave her my most arrogant smile. “You’re goddamn right.”
And she was. Because for the next twelve days, Fiona was officially off-limits, and I could go have meaningless sex all over the place.
This was fine. Absolutely fine.
Totally, totally fucking fine.
Or whatever.
13
Max
I ducked my head into the office at The Red Room, surprised to see Pop sitting there with a chipper expression. It was only ten in the morning, early for him, but he was sitting in front of the desktop and slurping coffee from a mug.
“Take an extra,” I said, setting a cup of Blue Bottle coffee down for him. “I’m taking some to Mateo in a second.”
Pop turned around, grunted at the coffee. “He knows you’re coming?”
“Nope.” I grinned. “I’m gonna surprise him.”
I hadn’t seen him—or, actually, spoken to him—since leaving the city. And now he had a gallery and was engaged to Rafael, so he had a lot of stories I needed to hear.
I felt lighter today, a little more convinced that things were going to be okay. Part of that was Fiona, sneaking into my thoughts and providing me yet another night of hot, filthy fantasies. I was sexually frustrated but still happy knowing I’d keep seeing her.
Happy knowing another person was on my side.
And in the meantime, I probably needed to hit a bar and get myself laid.
Probably.
“So what do you think about what I told you last night? The concert?” I asked Pop, taking a sip of coffee.
“It’s good, Maxy. Real good.” He cleared his throat. “I knew you’d figure somethin’ out.”
“Well, half of that is Fiona,” I admitted. “She’s way smarter than both of us.”
“Oh yeah, that’s obvious.”
I chuckled, patted him on the shoulder. “When I get back later, let’s talk bands you think would play, and then I’ll start calling them.”
He was still looking at his screen. I peeked around him. Over 60 Match was up, displaying a blue-colored chat with Angela. The blinking message said: I would love to exchange email addresses.
I hit Pop’s shoulder again, harder this time. “Look at that, old man. She likes you.”
He was turning red. “Maybe. You’ll, you know, help me send something?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. When I get back, we’ll brainstorm.”
“I’ll pull a list of bands together too,” he said.
I grabbed both coffees, whistling beneath my breath. “We got this. I can feel it.”
Once outside, I slid on my sunglasses and smiled up at the clear blue sky. New York City in May was a beautiful thing.
Walking these streets made me re-live memories I hadn’t thought about in years. Running wild on skateboards or bikes, papering the block with concert posters for acts at The Red Room. Pop wasn’t the best at the school stuff, but Mateo’s parents were strict about grades. Most nights, Mrs. Rivera would lure us to her dinner table with the best empanadillas and tostones in the whole city. And then made sure we finished our homework before heading to The Red Room to catch whatever band was playing that night.
We were city kids, through and through. Went to the same public middle and high school, rode the same subway, stayed out much too late and always broke curfew. While I’d gotten on my motorcycle and ridden out of here, just like my mom, Mateo had stayed and gone to art school. He and Rafael had been together since we were seventeen, had been the high school sweethearts of our grade. They even won Homecoming Kings together—a ceremony I’d watched with Pop and Mateo’s parents. His mom had cried and applauded. His dad, always the quiet one, beamed with pride. Even Pop was a little teary-eyed.
I’d cheered for my best friends until my throat was hoarse, of course. And only later did I wonder why my mom never showed up to any of these school events. Even though she told me she was in the city sometimes, visiting friends, visiting her family. But being around Pop must have been hard, and those kinds of school spirit events were so against her nature.
My phone rang in my back pocket. Juggling the two coffees, I stopped to lean against a building. I slipped my phone out and secretly hoped it was Fiona.
The number wasn’t one I recognized.
“Yeah, Max Devlin speaking.” I squinted up into the spring sunshine.
“Hey, this is Charlie over at Rusty’s Shop in L.A. Is this the Max Devlin that used to work with John at Rebel Bikes in Denver?”
Well fuck again.
“It is, yeah. Sorry, did you say you’re calling from Rusty’s?”
L.A.’s most famous motorcycle repair shop had been around since 1955, and even though the Hollywood Hills had grown up around it, it was still old, greasy, and beloved in the bike community. If you don’t like it, get the fuck out was a common mantra at every shop I’d ever worked at. That had always been Rusty’s. The difference now being that some of the wealthiest celebrities in the world brought their bikes in there.
“Yeah,” Charlie grumbled. “You heard of us?”
I laughed a little, kicking my foot up against the wall. “Yes, sir. I’m sure you hear this all the time, but I’ve wanted to work at your shop since I got my first bike.”
There was the sound of a metal filing cabinet shutting and some disgruntled yelling in the background. Shop sounds—the heartbeat of every job I’d ever worked. “I do hear it all the time,” he said. “You ever been out here before to see it?”
“No, not yet, but I plan on it,” I said. Six months ago, after a pretty boozy night with a few guys from work, I’d gone back to my apartment and sent off my resume to Rusty’s. Hell, give me a torque wrench and a nice bike, and I was a happy son of a bitch. As long as the shop had a decent owner and treated customers right, I didn’t usually care where I worked, long as they were okay with me moving on whenever I wanted to.