Chapter Nineteen

Mac

"So, I get why you wanted me all to yourself in a crowded darkened room," she says, squeezing my hand. I can still taste her pussy, and it's taking all I have not to drag her back to my place and fuck her senseless. But I also want a proper date with her. Respectable. One where I exhibit a little bit of restraint.

But the honey of her essence is a taste I'll never grow tired of, and I know I'll fuck her before this night is over.

Emerging from the dimly lit cave, the parking lot seems like a whole other world. I glance at her, and the grin on her face is contagious. She does a quick spin on the asphalt, using my hand to twirl her. "Paramore? How did you know?"

I know exactly when I knew. Years ago, in her apartment. When I was invisible and she was everything. But I can't tell her that.

"You told me," I say, then remind her of the second first night we met…the night at the rooftop bar. "I'd never listened to Paramore, but after the way you gushed about the lead singer, Hayley whatshername, I looked up everything that band ever sang and listened to them nonstop."

"Hayley Williams," she says, "You did that, even though I walked out on you?"

"I did that because you walked out on me," I say, which is the truth, "It made me think of you." I pull her in under my arm then kiss her forehead. "I thought for sure you figured it out when you started singing in the car. It took everything in me not to ask you."

"Never in my life would I have figured this out," she assures me. "I wouldn't have taken you for a Paramore fan." She tilts her head up to mine. "What do you listen to, anyway?"

"Not Paramore, though I see why you're a fan. I'm into Radiohead, Muse, Pink Floyd, Nirvana, Foo Fighters… Bands like that."

"Solid retro choices." She grins, then pokes me in the ribs. "You should try some girl bands, though. Women kick ass in music too."

"I do," I say as we reach the car, "I spent a whole month listening to Paramore, and then there's this underground chick more people need to discover. Ever hear of Maren Huerta? She has a voice that won't quit, plays a mean guitar, and has a slamming body. I'd totally fuck her if she'd let me."

She hip checks me, then turns under my arm and pulls me close, her back against the car. I fall into her, my mouth landing on hers. The chill of the night is forgotten as I lose myself in the warmth of her kiss.

"She'd totally let you, especially after what you did to me in there," she murmurs against my mouth, her hand landing on my hardening cock. I can feel myself straining against my slacks, and I swear to god I want to take her right here, right now. But that's the exact moment her stomach rumbles, reminding me we still haven't had dinner.

"We should eat," I say, pushing off the car and taking her hand, "I know just the place."

The place is The Coastal Plate, which is more touristy and laid back than the stuffy restaurants I usually frequent. But Maren isn't one of those status-obsessed girls that keep landing in my path, and I have a feeling she's down for some real food, and The Coastal Plate has some choice options.

For me, it's a huge cheeseburger with avocado and bacon, ordered rare as fuck. For her, it's the salmon poke bowl with extra ginger.

"So," she says, folding her hands in front of her once the waiter leaves.

"So," I repeat, taking her hands in mine. Her hands are soft, her black as night fingernails shimmering as her fingers weave between mine. Her skin is a luscious ivory against mine, a rarity in this beach town. On her, it's elegant?—but it's also rebellious, as if she shuns the habits of all these sun worshippers.

"So, what's next?" she asks, "We're not casual, so you say. But what then? Are you my…"

I hear the word she falters on. Boyfriend . It's reminiscent of the other night, when she nearly slipped up and called herself my girlfriend. It worried me then, for all the right reasons. Tonight, I find myself not caring about anything but her.

But the word boyfriend also carries a lot of weight. I've never been that to anyone before. I've dated girls, some over the course of a few months. But the word boyfriend symbolizes something more. Exclusivity, sure. But also a kind of belonging—as in, she belongs to me, and I… I belong to her.

Boyfriend feels like too small of a word.

"Yours," I finish for her, "I am yours, and you are mine. It's that simple. If you want to call me your boyfriend, your lover, your man friend, whatever you want, I'm here for it. I don't care what you call me, as long as I get to be the one with your heart. Because Maren, I'm falling for you, and it's the most delicious feeling in the world."

I take her hand closer, locking eyes with her as I brush my lips across her delicate skin. Her eyes fill with tears, and she starts to pull away in an effort to brush them aside. I hold firm, pulling her closer and kissing her damp face, tasting the sweet salt of her.

"Damnit," she laughs, "I seriously never cry. At least, I never used to. But you keep saying all the right things."

"I mean every one of them."

She's quiet for a moment. "You have my heart," she finally murmurs, "You're the first one to have it." She pauses, closing her eyes against the collected moisture. When she opens them again, her coffee eyes sparkle with something new. "And I hope you'll be the last."

The reason The Coastal Plate is such a hit with tourists is because it turns into a night club after dinner hours. The first song that comes on is a mix of Nirvana's "Teen Spirit," and she insists we have to stay and dance.

"It's your song!" she laughs, grabbing my hand and pulling me to my feet. I take off my jacket, and she lays her wrap over the chair before we join the throng of dancers. When I pull her against me, the curves of her body molds against my own like we're parts of the same puzzle.

I'm hers, and she's mine.

The energy in the room is high, and we're here for it. I join her in belting out the lyrics, mesmerized by the throaty nature of her voice. We're surrounded by people screaming the song, but I hear only her. I taste only the sweat of her body. I breathe only the honeysuckle of her hair.

I'm brought back to the night on the rooftop, the feel of holiness that had me remove my shoes so I could soak it all in. But I don't need to do that now. It's like the whole Universe has twisted into alignment, and we're at the very center of it.

But then I feel Maren stiffen, and I'm catapulted back to reality. I turn to see what's captured her attention, and that's when I see him.

My brother.

Former manager of the Beale Street apartments, and Maren's former fuck buddy.

Brock's eyes are on Maren as some barely legal Barbie sucks on his lip ring. But then the tool pushes her away, his face breaking into a shit eating grin when he notices I'm the one with my arm around Maren's shoulders.

"Let's get out of here," I growl, but Brock is already moving in our direction.

I haven't seen this dipshit since I handed him his last paycheck. We hadn't lived together in years, and I hardly considered him family. But because he was effectively out of work, I'd paid him a healthy severance on top of his salary. The fucker still had the audacity to throw Maren in my face.

"Too bad you never had a shot at #17," he'd said, referring to her apartment number as he tucked the paycheck in his wallet. "Probably the best fuck out of the whole building. I should have stepped aside to give you a taste, but that bitch is like a goddamn drug. You should see the way she takes my…"

"We're done here," I'd cut him off. But what I'd really wanted to do was cave his face in.

This fucker has been busting my balls from day-one—from the day he moved into Benji's house, to the day he was made office manager while I did Benji's grunt work. I flash back to the first day I saw him walk out of Maren's apartment at the exact time I started my shift. This fuckhead laughed in my face for not making a move, and then he swooped in. All for a good lay, he'd brag.

Now here he is striding toward us looking like the cat who caught the canary.

This fuckhead could ruin everything.

"Maren, babe, where've you been?" Brock asks. He looks from Maren to me, and his grin widens. "Man, you don't waste any time, do you? I'm happy to see you haven't lost your touch. Well, good for you, going for the big dog."

"Can it, Brock." His name is out of my mouth before I can pull it back in, and I feel Maren shift beside me. I don't have to look to know that she's staring at me, probably wondering how I know his name. Well, she's about to get a shit load of information—things I should have told her a long time ago. Fucking coward. I should have said something sooner, and now it's all going to come crashing down.

"Don't get jealous, Brock," Maren says, slipping out from under my arm to put her hands on her hips, "You knew we weren't serious."

"Jealous?" Brock laughs, "Maren, I knew my place. You fucked me because you thought I had rent control, but the only one who could control it was this guy." He nods to me, his grin widening as I feel my stomach plummeting. "Guess you knew how to get housing. What's this guy doing for you now that he's not keeping your rent low? Did he put you up in the penthouse? Buy you your own house? Because Maren, that pussy is good, but goddamn if I'm amazed at the power you wield. Well done, babe."

The words are barely out of his mouth when my fist meets his jaw.

"Hey!" The little blonde chick squeals as she jumps out of the way. I ignore her, landing one more punch in his gut. Brock grunts, dropping to his knees. He was never much of a fighter. It's kind of unfair for me to continue, but ask me if I care.

"Don't fucking talk to her," I say, kicking at him as he remains on the ground. A circle has formed around us, and I'm pretty sure we're about to get booted. "Don't even look at her."

"Hey, you got her, man," Brock says, then spits blood on the ground beside him. He gets to his feet but takes a few steps back out of swinging range. "That's what you wanted, right? Maren's golden pussy. It's yours. You won."

This time, I do look at Maren. There's confusion on her face as she studies both of us. I can see security carving their way through the crowd, and I'm fired up enough that I could take all of them on if they so much as touch me. But it's Maren's touch that brings me back down.

"Come on," she says quietly. When I peer down at her, there's a plea in her expression. I realize this must have been just as uncomfortable for her. I also know she must have a million questions I'm not ready to answer, but that she deserves to know.

"We're leaving," I say as the security guards reach us. I raise my hands as they push us toward the door, willing my adrenaline to subside so I don't sucker punch one of the guards. Maren grabs our jackets, and we make our way outside, followed by Brock and his girlfriend. "Come on, let's go," I murmur, my hand at her back as I try to guide her toward the car. It doesn't work, as she moves out of my reach and faces both of us, her hands on her hips.

"Not until you tell me what the fuck is going on." Maren narrows her eyes, staring us down as she waits for an explanation. My wonder is where to start. With the fact that Brock is my brother? That she and I have met before? Or how about the fact that I owned the apartments she was kicked out of—that I'm the one who fucked her out of housing?

Brock only laughs, then shakes his head.

"I have nothing else to say," he says, "See ya, bro." He tips his head at me, then nods his chin at Maren. "Maren, always a pleasure."

Even with Barbie's hand in his, he looks Maren up and down, a smirk as his eyes land on her chest before he walks away.

I start moving toward him, the heat rising in my chest as I clench my fists, but Maren grabs hold of my bicep and yanks me back. My whole body is aching to shake her off and go after him, but Maren holds on. I feel the sparks in my veins as I turn from Brock and glare down at Maren. I'm not mad at her, but I'm furious in general, and frustrated that I can't relieve it on Brock's puny ass.

But Maren's flashing eyes disarm me.

"You don't get to be mad," she says, "not now. Tell me what's going on, or I'll go find my own ride home."

My jaw pulses, but the fire is simmering. It's now or never. I try to come up with the words that will absolve me, the ones that will result in her leaving here with me. But when they don't come. I shake my head, closing my eyes as I take a deep breath.

"I should have told you," I say. I look past her, unable to look her in the eye.

"Told me what?"

"Maren." I take another breath, a step forward and reach for her hand. She doesn't pull away, but her hand remains limp in mine.

"Mac, out with it."

I wince, but finally blurt it out.

"The Beale Street apartments, I'm the one who sold them."

Maren exhales, and I can almost see the relief rolling over her like fog on the hillside. The reaction confuses me. "I know," she says.

"You do?" I feel the weight lifting from my shoulders as she smiles.

"Yeah, you were the broker. I already knew."

The weight returns. This is not going to be an easy fix after all.

"I'm not done."

Maren studies me, and it's as if a light bulb goes off. I can practically see the clarity washing over her.

"What are you not telling me?"

I think of the way she looked when I saw her standing on that rooftop bar. The glass of wine in her hand, the wind blowing through her hair, the look of hopelessness on her face. The way it felt to know that I was the one who did that to her.

"That night we met," I begin, "it wasn't by accident. I saw you there, and I felt like shit because I knew why you were there and why that drink was in your hand, and that it was all my fault. I knew you didn't drink, and I bumped you so that you'd spill it. I was just going to walk away, but as soon as you turned around, I couldn't."

The cloud of confusion is swirling around her now. "You knew…me? You knew I didn't drink?"

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I move toward her, but she pulls away, clutching her stomach. She's looking at me now like I'm a stranger, like I'm a predator.

"Please, let me just start from the beginning."

I do, starting with all those years ago around the time I started working for Benji, when she was one of his newest tenants.

"Benji, my guardian, owned your building; well, at the end, I did. But back then, it was Benji's, and I worked for him in maintenance."

She's digesting what I say, her eyes shifting as she tries to make sense of all of this.

"But it said Malcolm D. Anderson on the last lease I signed," she says, "I saw it, noticing it changed." Her eyes narrow. "You lied about your name?"

"My name is Mac Dermot, but my birth name is Malcolm Dermot Anderson." I pull my wallet out, flipping to my ID. She glances at the card as if she can't bear to look at it. But then her eyes widen, and she grabs the wallet from my hands.

"I knew you," she says, running her hand over the face on my ID. I'm clean shaven in the photo, and a lot leaner.

"You did.

"You worked maintenance," she continues. I nod.

"I did. It was kind of a family affair. Benji used me to do the manual labor because I could. He put Brock at the front desk because he wasn't worth a shit."

"And Brock was…"

"My brother." Her eyes widen, but I continue before she can speak. "My foster brother. He was a runaway, like me, and came to live with Benji and me a short time after I got there. He got the best of everything. The best room. The best job. Better pay. But all of that didn't matter as much as him getting you." I shake my head, biting back my jealousy. Maren didn't need this right now.

"He didn't have me," she says, rolling her eyes.

I look away. I want to tell her all of it, how I wanted her for years, and she was always out of reach. But when I look back at her, I can see this isn't the time.

"Tell me about the apartments," she says, "Tell me exactly how you came to own the building only to kick all of us to the curb with only thirty days to gather our lives and find somewhere else to live. Tell me how we were supposed to do that when there wasn't a place in town that would come close to matching the rent we were paying."

"I'm sorry." I hang my head, but she shoves me with open palms.

"Tell me! I'd love to know all the ways you screwed me out of a home just so you could line your pockets. Tell me, Mac, how many fancy cars do you own? How many suits? How many expensive watches?" She leans in close. "How many more Cartier brooches?"

"It's not like that," I say, but I might as well say nothing at all, because she's not buying it. "Benji bought the lot years ago," I start, "He's had this vision to make these high-end apartments, much like the ones he's made all over Southern California. But when it came time to build, he got involved with a few other projects that took up most of his time. So he took a bunch of shortcuts with the Beale Street Apartments. He hired the cheapest contractor he could find, bought his way through permits, and had that apartment building standing in just a couple months."

"That doesn't explain how you—"

"Hold on, I'm getting there," I interrupt, "Brock and I had been living with Benji a few years, doing odd jobs to earn our keep. This is what he did, apparently. He called it mentorship, but I now realize it was child labor."

The guilt gnaws at me for saying the words out loud. Benji, who kept me from a life in prison, who gave me a roof over my head and three squares a day. Benji, who gave me a steppingstone into a world of wealth I never would have known before.

But also Benji, who whipped Brock and me if we ever half-assed our work, or if we complained about being tired, or if we so much as looked at him wrong. Benji, who dictated our every move so that, even now as I clean up his mess while he lays dying in his home, I cannot speak against him without believing I am biting the hand that fed me.

Benji, who let me know that I was nothing without him—and I came to believe it, to the point that when he does finally die, I'm not sure if I will mourn or feel relief. Right now, I feel numb.

"I realized right away what a shitty build the Beale Street Apartments were," I continued, "I was working maintenance while taking real estate courses, and we were taught to look for things that add value to an apartment. That's when I started to see the things Benji was ignoring." I peer at Maren. "Didn't you notice anything weird in your unit? Any smells? Dark patches?"

Her face gives away that she had.

"How about headaches?" I continue, and she looks at me sharply.

"That was connected?"

"It was black mold. It was deep in your walls, the ceiling, the floorboards. When I came to your apartment, I could tell right away. I couldn't do anything about it back then because my hands were tied. Benji wouldn't…" I stop, unable to throw him under the bus any more than I had. "That was only the start of what was wrong. Once I started my own brokerage and it began making money, I tried to buy the apartments off Benji just so I could fix what he wasn't. But he wouldn't sell. Then there was the lawsuit, and then…"

"Lawsuit?" Maren tilts her head and her eyes widen. "It was Molly's family, wasn't it? She was in and out of the hospital with that boy of hers. Then they moved without any notice. You paid them off, didn't you?"

I nod, eyes trained on the ground. It was probably the lowest moment of this whole nightmare. It was the air conditioner. Every time they ran the unit, they were spreading the mold around the house. I didn't learn about the extent of the issue until Benji slapped the lawsuit on my desk.

"Buy the apartments," he'd said, pausing only to cough from the forcefulness of this words. By this time, Benji knew he was terminal. But it took legal action for him to finally let go of the apartments. "Buy them and take care of this mess."

"I paid them off, then I bought the apartments from Benji," I tell Maren now, "Benji had an inspector in his back pocket who wouldn't turn us in, but he leveled with me on the true value of the place. He said the cost of fixing the issues would be more than I purchased the apartments for, which I was willing to pay. But then he pointed out that we were lucky to only have one lawsuit, that if we took the time to fix everything, the other tenants would become aware of the issues and we'd have more lawsuits on our hands."

"So you tore it down to save your ass," Maren says.

I exhale sharply, and I nod.

"That's a simple way to put it," I say.

"It's not that simple," she retorts, "After all, dozens of us had to scramble for new places to live while you slept cozy in your bed."

Hundreds, really. The Beale Street Apartments were only the last of Benji's properties to go .

"And to make things all the better," Maren continues, "you saw me at that bar and actually thought it would be a great idea to get to know me better."

"It's not like that—"

"Really? Because it seems that way. You see me there about to throw away my sobriety, and you knew exactly why I was drinking in the first place. So, what? Did you have a good laugh that night? Have you been laughing this whole time?"

"Maren, you know that's not true."

"I don't know what to believe anymore, Mac!"

I take her shoulders, and she struggles to be free, but I hold firm.

"Believe that I made a lot of missteps in all of this, and it's a lot more complicated than you think. But also believe that I am in love with you, and none of this has been a joke."

The words slip out of my mouth, and I'm surprised at how easy I say them. I'm also surprised that I mean them. I notice the hitch in her anger, as if I chipped my way into her stony heart. But the fire is still there, and I know I have a long way to go to regain her trust.

"If I could take it all back, I would," I continue, "but if I did, I don't know that we would have met, and for that alone, I'm glad it all happened."

I search her eyes, looking for something I can hold onto. All I see is rage. She yanks herself out of my reach .

"You're fucking delusional," she says, "Love me? How? Our whole relationship is built on lies. You could have told me everything from the beginning, starting with how we really knew each other."

"Right," I say. I huff a laugh. "You never even gave me the time of day. I came into your apartment to fix that leak under your sink, and you just strummed your guitar with Paramore on blast, ignoring me the whole time. So, why would I start with that?"

"Paramore," Maren whispers. She points an accusatory finger at me. "I didn't ignore you at all," she continues. "You asked me about the posters on my wall, and then stayed an hour after you fixed that leak to listen to Riot! from beginning to end." She pauses, then gives me a curious look. "Did you…like me?"

"I was fucking crazy about you."

A half smile forms on her face, but she quickly brushes it away. She shakes her head, as if shaking away any kind of reasoning.

"Crazy about me? You didn't even know me!"

"I didn't have to. You made a big impression." I dare a step closer, and when she doesn't move away, I take another step. "But when I saw you at Torches, a glass of wine in your hand, I knew I was the one who put it there. When I realized you had no idea who I was, I couldn't bring myself to tell you because then everything would come out, and I'd never get the chance to know you."

"And when I left?"

"I thought you figured it out."

"I didn't," she says, "I mean, not exactly. I found out you were the agent who sold it. I didn't know you were the owner or anything else. That night, it was enough to know you had a part in it, and I didn't want to have anything to do with you."

"And yet, here we are." I offer a small smile and my hand.

She looks away, leaving my hand in the air. I pull it back in, feeling the cold return between us.

"I need time to think," she finally says. She pulls her wrap around her. The look on her face is…defeated. I realize there's nothing else to say. I may have lost her for good.

"Maren, I…"

She stops me with a hand on my chest. I can feel the warmth of her skin radiating through my shirt. When I look in her eyes, I can see them glistening in the glow of the streetlamp.

I cover her hand with mine and close my eyes. Then I nod.

"Let me drive you home."