Chapter Twenty-Three

Maren

Days have passed since I read the article, and I've tried to let it go. I'm in my own home, the tiny house still empty due to my lack of belongings. I've held the first of many music lessons in my family room and done my best to make this space my own. I've poured myself into my music, letting myself dream once again of this becoming so much bigger than the Hillside stage.

But I'm angry. Angry at Benji for fucking things up for so many people, only concerned about his own ass in the end. Angry at Mac for going along with Benji's schemes and covering it up for as long as he did. Angry for being such a fool that I trusted this man when he screwed me over so thoroughly.

And the more time that passes, the angrier I get.

Tell that to my dreams, though. Mac has haunted almost every one of them, but in surprising ways—his chest flush against mine, claiming my with his mouth, my legs wrapped around his waist as he lowers me to the bed…

How can I hate this man so much during the day only to dream of him like this every night?

This morning, it took a few moments to remember my anger as I touched my lips, the ghost-like feel of him still lingering all over my body.

I can't keep doing this.

Swigging one last gulp of coffee, I grab my keys and the blasted newspaper—which I've almost memorized at this point—then head out the door. I have no plan as I plug Mac's office into my phone, and I let Siri lead the way. It takes fifteen minutes as I fantasize about running into some high-end lawyer and suing Mac for all he's worth…or maybe just kicking him in the balls.

I park my car between two identical Teslas and get out to a parking lot full of luxury vehicles. The housing market is apparently booming for all the assholes who work for Southshore Management Group.

"Can I help you?" the receptionist asks as I breeze past her.

"He's expecting me," I clip out, though I have no idea where I'm going. Luckily, a convenient chart on the wall shares the names of all agents and their office number, and Mac's name is at the very top.

"Miss!" the receptionist calls, but I take the stairs to save time. Even in platform heels, I can be surprisingly fast. I'm rounding the corner before I even hear her feet hit the stairwell.

Mac's name is on the door, and I have to hand it to him for making it so easy for me to find him. I burst through the door, interrupting Mac in the middle of some sort of presentation with a young couple, the mother holding a baby in his arms.

"Be sure to change the locks when you get your new home," I warn the couple, fueled by their shocked faces. "And get a good inspector, this guy will sell you a slum before he steals anything of value."

"Mr. Dermot, I'm sorry." The receptionist pushes past me. "She ran up here before I could catch her."

"It's okay, Tara. I can handle this," Mac says. I smirk at the receptionist, who glares at me in return as she leaves the office.

Mac offers his clients a warm smile.

"James, Anita, can we postpone the tour? I'm afraid I have a pressing matter to attend to."

He says it so calmly, as if this kind of thing can be explained away, and apparently his clients buy it.

"It's okay," the man says, shaking Mac's hand as his wife side-eyes me, "You gave us a great list of things to work on before we sell the house, so we'll start tackling that. Call me later and we can schedule another time."

I move out of the way as the couple leaves, shutting the door behind them. Once alone, I glare at Mac as he leans against his desk, arms folded across his chest, an infuriating half grin on his face.

"This isn't funny," I say, striding forward to slam the newspaper on his desk, "Explain this."

Mac doesn't pick up the paper, but the smile drops from his face.

"Which part?" he asks, "The part where they make Benji sound like a heartless bastard who laughed his way to the bank? The part where my brother acted like some innocent bystander while my name is plastered all over that article?"

"No, the part where I'm supposed to feel warm and cozy about your guardian because he took in two foster kids who needed guidance, when all he sounds like to me is a self-absorbed asshole who probably wouldn't save his own mother out of inconvenience. I'm sorry, I know he just died, but Benjamin Wright was only worried about his legacy in the end. He had no concern for those of us he fucked over, and you did everything you could to support his mission, even after you knew me."

"I know." Mac's eyes drop to the ground. "I wish I could take all of it back, but this was in motion long before I knew you."

"Was this before you were just some maintenance guy covering up the deeper issues in my apartment? Or after we met at Torches when you sold my fucking home?"

"Maren, he had dementia long before he was diagnosed with terminal cancer."

My hands remain clenched, but the admission gives me pause.

When I was young, before Lydia was born, my father's mother used to live with us because she could no longer take care of herself. Even though she probably would have done better in a nursing home, my dad cleared out my mother's craft room and set his mom up in there. At night, I'd hear Abuela pacing the house, unable to sleep, banging pots and pans in the kitchen while my dad pleaded with her to go to sleep.

Then there was the night my grandmother left the house.

We didn't find out until morning—the latch my father had put out of her reach unclipped. He blamed my mother, but it could have been him. Hell, it could have been Abuela; she managed to get into more trouble than one old lady should be able to.

Lucky for all of us, our story had a happy ending. Late that evening, with dozens of people canvassing the neighborhood and posters everywhere, a McDonald's worker found her sitting in the restaurant, eating from an abandoned food tray.

My grandmother was moved into a nursing home by the next weekend, and by the next year, she'd passed away in her sleep.

I only have snippets of memories from before dementia took over. Afternoons when she'd let me roll the tortillas for dinner at her house. Overnight visits when she'd tell me fables and fairytales from memory. How she'd weave my long hair into beautiful double braids. The dresses she used to make me. How, even though she knew English, she only spoke to me in Spanish. How I couldn't speak Spanish, but I understood her every word, and together we'd share conversations in our native tongues, and it made perfect sense.

But the memories are like ghosts, ones I have to strain to recall. The grandmother I remember most is the one who couldn't be left alone. The one who forgot my name, and then my face, until she eventually forgot to speak at all.

I look at the newspaper, a younger picture of Benji on the front page under the "Slumlord" headline, his smiling mug next to my former home.

"How does dementia explain this," I say to Mac, gesturing to the headline on the newspaper.

"Because Benji was not always this man." He pinches the place between his eyebrows, taking a deep breath. Then he sits in a chair near the desk, gesturing for me to do the same. I hesitate, but eventually sink into the chair next to him.

"I didn't know what was happening at first," he says, "Benji was always so careful with his company. So careful with money. When he took me in, it wasn't for any other reason but to help turn my life around. He gave me a house to live in, security, and real life skills. I learned to trust him with everything in me, something that did not come easy because everyone in my life had let me down. So when Benji started snatching up land and building all these properties, I trusted he knew what he was doing. When I discovered they had some serious issues beyond my skills, I trusted him when he said he had someone lined up to fix it. By the time I figured out that Benji had lost all his money and was up to his eyeballs in debt, it was too late. I never saw the early signs when I was under his wing, and I definitely didn't notice when I was working on my own career."

Mac's eyes become moist, and it's so out of character, I'm not sure what to do. I want to take his hand in mine, to comfort him, but I keep my hands folded in my lap.

"It got to the point that Benji owed more than his properties were worth, and the bank was ready to foreclose on his house and take his cars to make up for his debt. But Benji knew that once that happened, it would become front page news."

Mac laughs, flicking the paper on his desk. "Ironic, huh?"

I don't laugh with him.

"Look, I know you won't understand this, but Benji was everything to me. He took me in when I had no one. I should have seen his deterioration, and it's my biggest regret. When I finally figured out what was happening, I tried to step in and fix everything. But Benji is nothing if not proud, and he couldn't admit he was losing his mind, or that he was in over his head. His so-called friends started to disappear. His businesses started falling apart. He tried to hold on to everything as long as he could, but when the bank started calling though, he knew he had to do something. To keep his name intact, he made me buy everything I could, and start selling them off. The Beale Street Apartments were last, and it took the lawsuit to make it happen."

Mac looks at me then, taking a deep breath. "Maren, it was my decision to sell the properties, though my hands were tied about the speed at which everything took place. With the condition of those apartments, it had to be a demolition company. Only one company made an offer, and they required a 30-day close. We were out of time, and all I could think of was keeping Benji's name clear." He winces, rubbing the back of his head. "I know that sounds horrible, and believe me, I was thinking of all of you as I signed that paper. But I owe Benji my life, whether he's a good man or not, and in that moment, that was what mattered the most."

It's not exactly a surprise. I know why he did it. But still, hearing the words makes every muscle in my body go tight. I start to get up, but he lays a hand on mine to stop me. I stay.

"I know I could have handled it so much better. I should have waited. But with the threat of a lawsuit—"

"You mean Molly," I interrupt, taking my hand out from under his. He grimaces, then nods.

"It should never have gone that far." He rubs the back of his neck, shaking his head.

"What, your benefactor getting sued?"

"No," he says, looking at me, "That her kids were suffering. The oldest was starting to get nosebleeds, and they were all sick. Their doctor pinpointed it to black mold, and they started adding up all the issues with the apartment and got a lawyer." He stops, picks up the paper and drops it. "I don't need to recap it. I know you read the article. I paid her off under the stipulation that she move and not say anything as long as Benji was still breathing."

I eye the newspaper, realizing the timing of all of this. "Was she the one who leaked the story?"

At this he shakes his head and he lowers his eyes .

"Was it…you?"

"It was the least I could do. I promised Benji I would take care of everything. But he's gone, and the people he screwed over are still picking up the pieces."

"The least you could do—"

"There's more," he says, cutting me off, "That was just the start. Benji left everything to Brock and me. I can't do anything about Brock's portion of the estate, but I can with mine, along with the money from the items I've been selling off."

"The Cartier brooch," I murmur.

"Yes, that and a few other things. Anyone who lived in Benji's apartments over the past five years will receive a portion of this fund once we've finished the paperwork. You should be hearing from my lawyer soon, who will present you with a check."

I'm not sure what to say. I came in here ready to rip him a new one, and now all the fight is out of me. Still, accepting the money feels wrong. Even more, I can't help but feel like there's another motive here.

"What's the catch?"

He leans back, crossing his arms in front of him. "No fooling you, huh?"

I cross my own arms, waiting for his answer.

"Yes, it comes with the stipulation that no lawsuit can come of this. My lawyer was very thorough. But we also ensured every former tenant would be compensated generously."

I eye him carefully. "How generously."

"Unofficially?"

I nod.

"You're receiving back everything you paid into rent over the past five years. I wanted to offer more, but this was the best I could do."

I do quick math in my head, and my heart races at the number. It's more than a hundred grand.

"Everyone gets that?"

He nods.

"You understand that I still hate that man," I say, even though I'm having a hard time staying angry right now. A hundred grand feels life changing to me.

He takes my hand back, and I let him. "You have every right," he says, "Benji had his good qualities, but he sure fucked over a lot of people. Including me." He squeezes my hand. "And including you. If I could change anything, I would have gone back to the day I met you the first time, that day in your apartment. I would have told you to move. I would have opened my eyes to see that Benji wasn't in his right mind and needed me to take over. But then none of this would have happened. I wouldn't have met you again."

I look at our hands. How perfectly they fit together. How safe I feel with him touching me, despite everything.

"It's taking everything in me not to show you how sorry I am," he whispers, and he starts to pull me toward him. I place my hand over his, not to stop him, but also not to start anything. I don't know what I want.

The truth is, I miss him. I haven't stopped missing him. Even though I've spent the past few months questioning everything I knew about him, I can't deny the fact that my life has been missing something since the day I walked away from him. He makes me feel things I've never felt before. He drives me crazy. He makes me so mad. But right now, our hands clasped, our bodies turned toward each other, I realize I'm done fighting this. I'm done being mad.

What is there to even be mad about, anyway?

The whole situation is shitty. But when it comes down to it, where my life is now, I can't complain. If I hadn't lost my home, I'd still be working at Insomniacs. I wouldn't have started giving music lessons. I probably would have burnt out on my dream of making it as a musician. Maybe I would have stopped making music. I don't know. All I know is that now, my life looks a lot closer to what I want it to look like, and I know a big part of that is because I was forced out of my comfort zone.

"Show me?" I ask. The corner of his mouth twitches as he stands, and this time when he pulls me toward him, I don't stop him. Our mouths meet in a tentative kiss, gentle at first, then all-consuming as he wraps his arms around me and picks me up in one swoop. He places me on the desk so that I'm sitting, and he rests his body between my spread legs, straining the tight skirt I put on this morning. But then he stops, pulling away from me.

"Do you want to take control?" he asks. It brings me back to the hotel room, when he turned the tables and dominated me. It had left me feeling raw and exposed. It also was the most intense thing I'd ever experienced.

I love being in control, but with Mac, I feel free with him calling the shots—in bed, that is. Out of bed, he has another thing coming.

"Take me," I say, "Do what you will with me. Tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it. Maybe then, I'll think about forgiving you."

If I were an artist, I would paint the look that crosses his face so that I'd never forget. It's somewhere between cunning and famished, and I cannot stop squirming as he crosses the office to lock the door.

"What's your safe word?" he asks, turning to face me. The way he slowly rolls up his sleeves makes me breathless, knowing he's about to get down to business. His thick forearms are marked with rigid muscle and black and white tattoos, and I lick my lips in anticipation.

"Safe word?" I ask, a small smile teasing my lips.

"Don't play, Maren. I have so little restraint, it's not even funny. If you don't have a way to put the brakes on, I'll obliterate you."

I bite my lip. My skin is on fire at the mere suggestion of his punishment. I want all of it.

"There are no brakes," I say.

"Maren."

"Mustard," I blurt out, laughing lightly at the absurdity of the word in this moment. But Mac isn't laughing.

"You have exactly five seconds to change your mind," he growls.

I don't move from the top of his desk. Instead, I watch him and wait for whatever happens next.

My clothes are off before I can blink, save for my heels. He has me positioned so that I face the desk, my hands splayed out in front of me, my ass up in the air. I can see across the city and out to the ocean from his floor to ceiling windows as he strips off his belt in one move, and then lands the leather strap against my flesh. It's hard enough to make me hiss, but not enough to mark me. I feel him hesitate, waiting for me to stop him. I won't. I push my ass toward him until he gives me a few more swats.

"I'm sorry," he then murmurs, running his hand over my heated skin, and then slapping his hand against the tender area. I groan, lowering my head, but not losing my position.

"I'm so fucking sorry." He traces a finger down my slit before sliding it in. I'm already slick, and I inch my heels further apart as he adds another finger, then another.

"Let me show you how sorry I am."

My knees buckle as he moves his fingers in and out of me, and I drop to my elbows on the desk to stabilize my body. Mac grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls my head back, and then his mouth is on mine. My pussy throbs around his hand as I fervently search his mouth, unable to get enough of this man.

Did I really think I was getting out of here without getting fucked? Silly, silly girl.

"Please," I whisper against his mouth. I feel his mouth curve into a smile, his whiskers like tiny electric bolts against my skin. The fact that I'm here, butt naked, while he remains fully clothed is wholly unfair.

"Stay where you are," he says, slipping his fingers from me as I whimper. He backs away, and I hear the thud of his shoes, the hiss of his zipper, and the sound of his clothes hitting the floor. When I glance over my shoulder, he is completely bare, his broad body positioning himself behind me. He pulls me flush against him, my back to his front. Then he runs his hand over my body. It's so intimate the way he's touching me, like he's memorizing every inch of my body. But then he turns me around to face him.

"I want to take my time with you," he says, brushing his lips over mine, "But I'm afraid if I don't fuck you, I'm going to lose my mind."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

The words are barely out of my mouth before he has me lying flat on the desk, his cock nudging my entrance.

And then he's inside me. He moves as if we're each other's air, as if we're only alive for this moment. The way he takes me is as if he's always owned me, and it's hard to remember why we were ever apart, why I would deny myself this.

Mac is anything but gentle in the way he fucks me. But his hands cradle the back of my head, his fingers tangled in my hair as he keeps my head and neck safe. Our breath comes hot and heavy, moving in unison with the pace of our bodies. I wrap my legs around him, my heels glancing off his back as he thrusts harder inside me. His beard brushes against my skin, sending electric shocks throughout my body.

I don't care that we're here in his office, where someone could knock on the door at any moment. Nor do I care that his office window faces another, and all anyone would have to do is look outside to see him taking me on his desk. I don't care about the papers falling to the ground, or how my rigid stance has also fallen to the wayside. All I care about is that I am finally as close to him as I can humanly get, and it still doesn't feel close enough.

"Don't lose me again," I whisper in between hungry kisses.

"Maren Huerta," he says, his mouth never leaving mine, "I am never letting you go."

The words should scare me. Anything close to this kind of claiming would have me running for the hills in the past. This time, I'm met with the most delicious orgasm stemming from his words and the way he's throbbing inside me, washing over my whole body, and leaving me clinging to him as I mewl against his chest. His movements slow to a purposed rhythm. I feel him swell before he growls into my hair, thrusting hard as he milks the orgasm for all it's worth.

When it's over, he collapses on top of me, our bodies shining with sweat. I taste the salt on his skin, feeling him still inside me and dreading the moment he slips out. He stays for a few minutes, as if he also doesn't want to part. But when he does, he lifts me into his arms, then carries me to the oversized leather chair in the corner. He sits, cradling me in his lap, smoothing his hand over my hair as I lay my head against his chest. I can feel the thrum of his heart, and I remain still as I listen to it slow from its racing pace.

I love the way my body feels against his. I love how safe I feel in his arms. If he'll let me, I know I could fall in love with him.

"Do you forgive me?" he asks, still stroking my hair as if I need comfort. And I do. I need everything he has to give me. I need him.

"I forgive you."