Chapter Three

Maren

I never did ask Nina to give up her dream closet in exchange for me living with her. It's like the old Maren has died, and this new Maren is weak as shit. Seriously, I can't figure out what's wrong with me.

Actually, I can—I'm triggered. All of this brings me back to those days I had to survive on the street, all because my parents wouldn't take me back. When I'd go days at a time without eating. When I'd spend sleepless nights in my car. When the only thing that could take the edge off was a bottle of whiskey I'd swiped from a store and the Xannies in my pocket.

And now I'm here, facing the same situation—but sober—and I can't for the life of me put myself in a position to asking for help .

Because what if they say no?

I hate that this is even an issue, that something so small is keeping me from asking for help. I just don't know how to get past it.

I climb the stairs to my apartment, and that's when I see it. The envelope taped to my door. Looking down the line, I see I'm not the only one. We all have envelopes, and I know exactly what's in each one.

With shaky fingers, I take the envelope inside and lock the door behind me. I tear into it and pull out the letter, hoping for at least more time. Nope, it's still thirty days. That asshole Brock must have known about this for a while, and he only told me about it this morning.

Fuck that guy.

I look around the apartment. At my various plants around the room. At the modest couch and the simple kitchen. At how clean everything is and in its place. At my idols looking down at me from the walls.

"I guess it's really over," I say to Shirley, Hayley, and Chrissie. My guitar sits in the corner, and I instinctively move toward it so I can partake in a little musical therapy. But inside, there's this ache that won't go away, that needs something stronger than guitar strings to carry me through.

Which is why, an hour later, I find myself at Torches, a rooftop bar overlooking the city side of Sunset Bay, a glass of red wine in my hand and a million stars overhead as the ocean crashes in the distance. I see none of it, only the wine.

So far, I haven't had a sip. I know once I do, I'll give up seven years of sobriety—years I struggled through to make it to this day. But everything feels so stupid right now. Like, why was any of it worth it if I was just going to lose it all in the end? I've had to fight my whole life for everything. Nothing has come easy. I've watched kids I went to school with go out and make something of themselves and afford lives beyond anything I could imagine, all while I'm stuck making coffee for the elite masses of Sunset Bay.

My dreams don't even require much. A simple life funded by my music, with enough money so I can quit my day job. If I hadn't been kicked out, I would have been happy living in my small apartment forever.

Everything I touch turns to shit, though. I'm still playing the same venues to the same people. I'm still serving up coffee. And in thirty days, I will be living in my car because I can't ask my best friend to crash on her couch, I can't go back to my parents, and I can't ask Nina to give up her closet.

I lift the wine to my lips, the earthy scent traveling straight through my nose. Why I chose wine, I don't know. It had never been my drink of choice before. This is more Claire's style, not mine. I guess I didn't want something I'd go back to again. Tomorrow, I'll return to sober life. Today? I drink.

But I never get the chance. Someone bumps me from behind and wine sloshes down the front of my shirt. Today, of all days, I'm wearing white instead of my usual black. Now it's a deep shade of maroon, splattered across me like a gunshot wound.

"Watch it, asshole." I whip around to tear the offender a new one, but nothing prepares me for the man in front of me. And when I say man, I mean that all my life I've been surrounded by boys, and they don't even come close to the specimen I'm facing. He has long, wavy dark-blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, deep blue eyes, and his Viking-like beard is trimmed close on the sides and long in the front, reaching to the top of his solid chest. I mean, add some dirt and a few weapons, and he could be sailing off to pillage and plunder.

Holy hell, the things this man could do to me.

And he's tall! I stand 5'11" in my four-inch heels, and he towers over me like I'm a sapling and he's a redwood, his broad shoulders blocking my view of the rest of the room. He's doing things to my insides by just standing there, his eyes sweeping over me as if they alone could undress me.

"Sorry 'bout that. Can I get you another?" he asks.

He doesn't look sorry. He looks like he could devour me. I'm losing myself in his hooded eyes, swimming in the deepest blue of them while my fingers tingle, wanting to run my hands though his beard and then tug until his lips are on mine. Then his question registers and I realize I've been standing there like a shell-shocked lunatic, staring at him while he waits for me to respond. Even more, I realize my own lusty feelings are muddying my perception. This guy probably isn't into me. I just want him to be.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

"No, I don't drink," I stammer, feeling my cheeks go red as he glances at the stain. "I mean, I haven't for years. Tonight is just…" I look to the floor, noting some droplets of wine that have dried on my boots. "It's just been a bad day, and I almost made a terrible mistake."

He places his hand on my shoulder, and I am both thrilled and appalled that he is this close to me, touching me. Does he not know the effect he has on me? On anyone in this room? Is there even a room around us? What is life?

He studies me for a moment, and I find myself studying him right back. He feels familiar to me, even though I've never seen him before in my life. But I'm comfortable in his presence, in a way I've never felt with any man before. Like we knew each other in a past life. I note a question in his eyes, and I wonder if he's feeling the same way. But then his face breaks into a wide smile. Fuck me, that smile. If I thought he was gorgeous before, now I just want to wrap myself around him.

"I'm Mac," he says.

Mac. Such a simple name for someone who's suddenly bigger than the sky.

"Maren," I return.

He nods, his hand remaining on my shoulder as he looks me in the eyes. And when I say looking, I mean no one has looked at me this way. Not a single person. It's like he can see inside me, see my thoughts and feelings as if they were items to be treasured.

"Maren," he repeats, and my name in his mouth makes me feel a little weak-kneed.

This is not normal. I'm the queen of casual, usually the pursuer, and never one to swoon over anyone. And here I am, swooning.

He removes his hand from my shoulder, then tugs at the back of his neck. For a moment, I see the struggle in his face, like he's in two different places in me. Then his eyes return to mine, and his face softens.

"Well, Maren. I'm having a bad day too. I came here to forget, but then I ran into you. I don't think it was a mistake, and neither was your decision to be here."

"I almost fucked up my sobriety."

"But you didn't," he points out. "There aren't mistakes, there are choices. Today, both of us came here because of a choice. Just like years ago, you made a choice to not drink, and today you made that same choice."

"I think you made it for me." I breathe out a sarcastic laugh, waving my hands over my shirt. "If I weren't wearing this drink, I'd probably be three sheets to the wind by now."

He shrugs. "Maybe. But the Universe has a funny way of stepping in when we feel our weakest."

I snort at this, breaking the spell as I step away. The Universe steps in? Is that why I'm getting kicked out of my apartment?

"You're sweet," I say, "but also a little na?ve if you think there are magical forces looking out for my best interest. If what you're saying is true, I'd love to speak with this Universe and tell it to mind its own business, because my life is a mess."

"Fair," he says, but I note the amusement in his eyes. This guy is talking about the Universe and divine intervention, and he thinks I'm the one without a clue. "Can I get you a drink to replace the one I spilt on you?" he asks, then adds, "I'm getting myself a soda water with a lime and a splash of tonic. Would you like one, too?"

"I'd love one."

We end up talking all night in a private lounge area, even as the temperature drops and the people around us get more wasted by the hour. Even as my glass of soda water with a splash of tonic—delicious, by the way—stays empty in my hand. Even as he takes my glass and sets it aside, then smoothly slides his hand over mine and doesn't let go. I'm half in the conversation and half absorbed by the warmth of his hand and how it covers mine completely. I've never felt safer or more understood in my life.

We talk about everything and nothing. I share that my favorite band in the whole world is Paramore, I could eat sushi every day of my life and never grow sick of it, and I haven't seen my parents or sister since I was a teenager. He tells me he was vegan for a few years until he broke his meat fast with a cheeseburger, that the only movie that has ever made him cry was Gladiator , how his parents died in a car accident when he was young, and how he was in the foster system for years until he finally ran away. Then he found Benji.

"He was old when he took me in," Mac says, "but so was I. Fifteen, three years away from reaching adulthood, and not a clue about how to be an adult. And this old man saw something in this angry teen and decided to give me a home."

He smiles, but it's tinged with something somber. Suddenly it's clear why Mac believes in the Universe. But choices?

"You say there aren't mistakes, only choices. But what about your parents? I'm sure it wasn't your choice to never know them."

"True," he says, "and I was angry about that for a long time. But Benji taught me that sometimes the choice is what we do with circumstances, and how we'll move forward. My reality was that I spent years in the system, which meant shuffling from house to house, not all of them great. Then I lived on the streets, fighting my way to survival. My choice was to let that become my identity and remain angry, or to take what I'd learned from those years and change my present and future." Mac squeezes my hand. "I chose the latter, and it's a choice I have to make every day to keep from letting the demons win."

Despite the way my mind is cringing at all the woo-woo stuff about the Universe and company, my heart is becoming a believer.

I could remain bitter about my parents turning their back on me when I needed them most. I could chalk up my current eviction crisis as more proof that my life is fucked and that's just the way it will always be. I could stay in this dark place, white knuckle my addiction, give up control, and sabotage the seven years of sobriety under my belt.

Or, I could make the choice to move forward and figure out what to do with my circumstances.

And suddenly, I feel a million pounds lighter. I don't have a solution to my problem yet, but I do have choices. I just need to let go of my ego and ask for help. It's so simple that I laugh, tilting my head up toward the stars, and I swear the sky is so brilliant it's maroon.

"Something just happened, didn't it?" Mac murmurs. Then, before I can answer, he's unlacing my boots.

"Uh, Mac?"

"Maren, do you trust me?"

Trust him? I barely know him. And yet, when I look into his eyes and see the intensity of his expression and feel the way he sees me—truly sees me—I know my answer.

"Yes," I whisper.

He removes one boot and then my sock, his hand lingering on the sole of my naked foot before he sets it on the cold ground of the rooftop bar. He does the same to the other, his eyes on mine the whole time. Never has anything felt more erotic, more tantalizing, more intense.

He takes his own shoes and socks off, then stands. He holds out his hand, and I place mine in it, allowing him to pull me to my feet.

I'm struck by how things have changed in a matter of moments. How I came here to forget, to step off the treadmill by undoing everything I worked so hard to achieve. But now I'm here, all my senses absorbing the intoxicating scent of this man, my mouth watering as my eyes glance off his lips, my body straining to move closer to him, my fingers aching to feel the silky cotton of his shirt, the solid smoothness of his chest, and the thick roughness of his beard.

"We're standing on holy ground," Mac says, looking down at me as he moves closer, resting a cautious hand at my hip. He raises an eyebrow, almost like he's asking permission. I nod, just slightly, and his hand tightens. It's subtle, but the message passed between us is loud and clear. This man could own me, but only if I let him.

Mac sways slightly, his firm hand moving to my back, guiding me to move with him, dancing with no shoes under a burgundy sky.

"To hold on to an experience, I like to get as close to the earth as I can, no barriers." He looks down at our feet, and I do too.

"But we're on the rooftop of a seven-story building," I remind him, looking back into his blue eyes.

He smiles, then nods in agreement. "Yes, but by taking off our shoes, we're asking the earth to meet us where we are. And for what I'm about to do, I want the earth as my witness."

I brace my bare feet on the cool surface of the rooftop, feeling his feet slide around mine as he comes even closer. He rests his hand behind my neck, his fingers curling into my hair as I tilt my head toward his.

"Can I… "

But he doesn't finish the question because his mouth is on mine, hands in my hair as he draws me in.

And me? I'm consumed. It's apparent I have never been kissed before, because it's never felt like this. Mac kisses me with fire, pouring lava into my veins, burning me sweetly as I slowly turn to ash. The whole world disappears, and it's just us and the earth under the building, rising to meet our feet.

His mouth lifts from mine, and he cups my face, his thumb brushing over the lips he just kissed. And even though I've just met him, and there's so much I don't know about him yet, I am thoroughly aware that I am now ruined for anyone else.

"I'm a selfish man," he whispers, still holding my face. "I just had to be a part of whatever you experienced."

"Mac, you are an experience," I laugh. But inside, I'm dying. Deceased. Obliterated. How the fuck did I breathe before this man?

He looks at his watch—a Salvatore Ferragamo that I know costs close to $2,000 because Nina told me about some guy she dated who flashed his money through unaffordable fashion, including expensive timepieces.

It brings me back to reality.

Despite the fact that I'm still reeling from that kiss, from our connection, and every single way Mac makes me feel, I realize I still don't know him. The fact that he's wearing a watch that costs more than my soon-to-be defunct rent proves that we're from vastly different worlds. I take a split-second to gather information about this former runaway foster kid based on his attire, and notice for the first time that he's dressed in a suit that probably costs five times the watch on his wrist.

This guy is way out of my league, and I'm a fool to think I belong in his world.

"It's getting late," Mac says, snapping me out of my thoughts, "but I don't want this night to end. Can I get you another soda water? Maybe something to eat? Or we could go back to my place where it's a little warmer than a rooftop bar."

I know what he's suggesting—and oh goddess, do I want to take him up on this offer. If he looks this good in a suit, I can only imagine what he looks like without the expensive threads. If he's dressed like this, his place is probably unlike any home I've ever entered.

Yes, I'm embarrassed that he probably makes seven figures while I scrimp on the groceries to survive the month. But honestly, that's not what matters or what I even care about. I never have cared about wealth, and in this moment, I realize I still don't.

What I care about is the fact that I've finally met a man I can relate with on a human level.

I'm all about a good fuck. Relationships? No. But a good, meaningless fling can be a great thing. No strings attached. No messy feelings. No promises, no rules. Sure, I've come close to caring about the guys I've been with, but never enough to want something permanent.

This is different, though. As much as I want to see what's under that ten-thousand-dollar suit, I'm also craving more of the connection we've shared. For the first time, I'm thinking about what tomorrow will bring. In just a short amount of time, Mac has not only stimulated my body, but he's stimulated my mind. He's made me curious about the future, and if I go back to his place, it's possible the fire we've started will burn out before anything can come of this.

I want something to come of this.

"Let's stay here," I say, and immediately recognize the flash of disappointment. But it's gone as quickly as it came, and he smiles as he stands.

"Then let me get you a refill," he says, leaning down to kiss my cheek. He lingers, and I feel the whisper of his beard against my skin as I inhale his intoxicating scent—a blend of leather and pine that sends a ripple straight to my core. Fuck me, this man is going to tear me apart. And damn, if I don't want him to.

"I'm going to use the bathroom, meet me back here," I order. I move to retrieve my shoes, but he pulls me close again, our bodies fitting like they are each other's missing piece. I feel small pressed against his solid chest, like he could shatter me with just the tip of his finger. He looks down at me, then shakes his head.

"Maren, what the fuck am I going to do with you?" he murmurs, then brushes his lips against mine. Then he's gone, disappearing into the crowd while my body chills at the absence of his heat.

Fuck me.

According to Mac's $2,000 watch, it's nearly two in the morning, and after not sleeping at all last night, I'm starting to feel it. Boots on and now in the bathroom, I take a look at my face in the mirror and realize I look it, too. I don't have to work tomorrow, so at least I can sleep in before my pastry date with Claire. Wait till she hears about Mac.

I glance again in the mirror, looking past the dark shadows forming under my eyes to see what Mac sees. A white shirt with a burgundy stain across the front that I'm just pretending looks natural. Makeup slightly smeared, but still effective at adding drama to my dark eyes and pale skin. Long black hair, a little messy but free of frizz. Lips still holding a light scarlet stain.

Not bad, Maren. Not my best, but not my worst.

I duck into a stall to do my business when someone else enters the shared bathroom. By the volume of their voices, I'd say they should probably be cut off.

"I don't think he came here with her, but he was definitely into her," one of the girls says. I can see them through the crack of the door, both dressed in tiny skirts and high heels. I keep quiet, unsure if they know someone else is in here.

"It probably means nothing. Women throw themselves at him all the time. You still have a shot at him."

"Shut up," the first girl laughs. "I like my guys with a little less money, thank you very much."

"You're joking, right?"

Yes, dumbass, she's joking.

"Yes, Courtney, I'm joking. He's just been occupied with that chick who apparently can't hold her liquor. Did you see the wine stain all over her shirt?"

Well, shit. They're talking about Mac and me. I'm definitely not exiting this stall now.

"Obviously you have a better shot than she does, Brittany. Just slip your number to him when she's not looking. He'll call, I know it."

"I don't know," Brittany says. She's fixing her lipstick, then turns to her friend who is now out of view. "But it would be a shame to use these perfect lips on anyone but Mac Dermot. By the way, did you hear he's been selling off properties right and left? The guy is probably getting ready to buy an island or something. The latest was that huge apartment complex over on Beale Street."

My heart drops at the mention of the street I live on. Of my apartment building I was just kicked out of.

"I mean, his face is plastered on that billboard across town, of course he'd be the agent who sold it. I bet his commission was huge."

So that's where I've seen his face before.

I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing he's not the owner. He's just the agent. But still, just knowing he had a hand in yanking the home out from under me changes everything.

"That place isn't bad," Courtney says. "I once knew someone who lived there, said it was the only place in town with reasonable rent. But I guess Mac Dermot sold it to someone who plans to tear the place down and make it a parking lot."

That fucker. I feel like a fool. This whole night, I've been falling for the man who just sabotaged my whole life. While he was talking to me about choices and moving forward and holy ground, he was celebrating a big fat commission—with the money he got for the Beale Street apartment. He probably has enough for a dozen Salvatore Ferragamo watches to wear on his fancy yacht. And in a month, while I'm packing up to leave my house, he probably won't even remember who I am.

I flush, then leave the stall, entering the sudden hush of the girls who have paused their preening to stare wide- eyed at me. I wash my hands, check my makeup, and give each of them a pointed look.

"He's all yours," I tell them, then exit the restroom, leaving their audible gasps in my wake.

I don't confront him. I don't even want to speak to him. As far as I'm concerned, Mac Dermot can rot in hell.