Chapter 10 Maddox
Maddox
Millie is beneath me, her skin flushed and glowing in the soft moonlight that filters through a window I don’t recognize.
Her hair, a cascade of silk spread across the pillow, and her eyes—those deep, knowing eyes—are locked on mine.
Her scent is everywhere, vanilla and something wild, like rain on summer earth. It wraps around me, pulls me under.
I’m moving inside her. Her nails drag down my back. It’s a sweet, sharp pleasure that makes me groan her name.
“Maddox,” she whispers, her voice a husky command. “Don’t stop.”
And I won’t. I would die here, in this moment, buried in her warmth, with her scent filling my lungs and her voice the only sound in my world. I lower my head, ready to claim her mouth, to taste the sigh I know is waiting for me—
A white-hot poker sears through my side, yanking me from the dream with such force I gasp, my eyes flying open. The pleasure evaporates, replaced by a blinding, sickening agony that radiates from my ribs, a fire of a completely different kind.
“Fuck!” The word tears from my throat. I curl onto my side, clutching my torso, my breath coming in short, sharp pants that do nothing to dull the pain. Sweat beads on my forehead, and the phantom scent of Millie is replaced by the sterile, coppery tang of my own misery.
I stay like that for a long minute, a pathetic heap tangled in my sheets, the dream’s warmth a cruel mockery of the cold reality.
My own damn fault. I pushed too hard yesterday, lifting those damn beams like I was still twenty and invincible.
Now my body is exacting its price. I force myself to uncurl, to sit on the edge of the bed, my muscles screaming in protest. The room is dark, the only light a sliver of pale gray from the window.
I drop my head into my hands, focusing on the simple act of breathing. In. Out. I force the pain down, compartmentalize it, shove it into a locked box in my mind the way I’ve been taught to do. It’s a trick, a lie I tell my own body, but slowly, the searing edge dulls to a throbbing ache.
Manageable.
My eyes flick to the digital clock on the nightstand. 4:30 a.m. Of course. The witching hour for regrets and physical torment. I push myself up, my body stiff and uncooperative, and pad silently to the bathroom. The floorboards are cool under my bare feet.
In the medicine cabinet, behind a tube of toothpaste and a bottle of expired cologne, is the orange prescription bottle.
My little secret. I shake two white pills into my palm, my hands not quite steady.
I don’t bother with water. I dry-swallow them, the bitterness coating my tongue, a familiar punishment.
Walking out of the bathroom, I head for the kitchen, needing a glass of water to wash away the taste. I round the corner into the living room and stop dead.
My couch is occupied.
A familiar mess of chestnut curls is splayed across my pillows, and a broad, tattooed back is facing me.
A fucking tattoo? Really, Liam?
He’s shirtless, the sheets pooled low on his hips. And in his arms, her head tucked into the crook of his shoulder, her copper hair a shocking splash of color against the dark gray of the couch cushion… is that Jessica?
A fresh wave of something hot and sharp, this time entirely emotional, spikes through me. What the ever-loving fuck?
I turn on my heel and stalk into the kitchen, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache.
I grab a glass from the drainboard, fill it with water from the tap, and drain it in three gulps.
Then I start making noise. I slam the cabinet door.
I drop the glass into the sink with a loud clatter.
I bang a pot onto the stove for good measure.
I’m not subtle. I don’t want to be.
A groan comes from the living room, followed by a soft, feminine murmur. “What time is it?”
“Too early,” Liam’s voice rumbles sleepily.
Good. I lean against the counter, arms crossed over my chest, and wait. A moment later, Jessica appears in the kitchen doorway, pulling down the hem of one of Liam’s band T-shirts. Her makeup is smudged, her hair a mess, but she still has the audacity to look bright-eyed.
“Hey, Maddox,” she says, a little too cheerfully.
“Jessica.” I nod, my voice flat. My gaze shifts past her to the living room, where Liam is now sitting up, running a hand through his chaotic curls. He looks like hell. He meets my eyes, and for a second, I see something—guilt, or perhaps defiance—before his expression goes blank.
“Can I talk to you for a sec?” I say, my gaze locked on Liam. “In private. Please.”
Jessica looks between us, her smile faltering. “Right. I’ll just… use the bathroom.” She scurries away, leaving me alone with my best friend.
Liam sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. He stands up, grabbing his jeans from the floor and pulling them on. He doesn’t say a word as he walks past me into my bedroom. I follow, shutting the door behind us.
The silence is heavy with everything that hasn’t been said since the town meeting. He’d shown up at my door early the next morning with a duffel bag and asked if he could crash. I’d said yes, of course. What else was I supposed to do?
He sits on the edge of my bed, the same bed I was just writhing in pain on. He looks small. Defeated. I stay standing, my arms still crossed.
“What the hell are you doing, Liam?” I ask, my voice low and dangerous. “Sleeping with Jessica? Are you serious?”
He flinches, looking up at me. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Really? Because it looks a lot like you’re trying to fuck your way out of your feelings for Millie.”
He scoffs, shaking his head. “It’s not like I fucked her, okay? We just… we went to Bar 2.0. Got some shots. It got late, we took a cab here. She was tired. I let her crash.” He runs a hand through his hair again, a nervous tic. “That’s all it was.”
I grimace. I want to believe him, I do, but the timing is shit. It’s a distraction. A pathetic, transparent attempt to anesthetize himself. I keep those thoughts to myself, though. He’s not ready to hear them. Instead, I change the subject, hitting him where it really hurts.
“Millie came by the fire station yesterday.”
Liam’s entire body goes rigid. He looks away, his jaw working. “Yeah? So?”
“So, she was looking for you. She was worried. She’s not sure how you’re doing with the new sheriff in town so she wanted to check in on you.
You just upped and disappeared on both of us.
” I haven’t been talking to him either, not really.
We’ve been existing in the same space, orbiting each other in a tense, miserable silence.
But I’ve seen Millie. I’ve seen the hurt in her eyes.
“I’ve been busy,” he mumbles to the floor.
“Bullshit. You’ve been hiding. You’re ignoring her calls, you’re avoiding the café. What the hell is wrong with you?”
He finally looks at me, his eyes flashing with anger. “What’s wrong with me? Did you forget she fucked someone? I told her I was in love, and the first thing she does is fuck someone else. She just… she just moves on like it’s nothing. Like we’re nothing.”
The frustration inside me boils over. “We? There is no ‘we,’ Liam! Not for you and her, not the way you want there to be. And for the record, she’s not moving on like it’s nothing.
You have no idea what she’s feeling because you won’t even talk to her!
” I take a step closer, my voice dropping.
“You and I, we’re her friends. We have been for years.
This isn’t the first time she’s slept with someone else, so why are you being such a selfish asshole about it now? ”
His face twists. “It’s different this time.”
“How?”
“Because I was right there, Maddox!” he shouts, shooting to his feet. “I was living with her. I was right there, and she still went looking for someone else.”
The words hang in the air between us, sharp and ugly. I feel a pang of sympathy, but it’s quickly swallowed by my own anger. “She didn’t mean to hurt you. And you have to live with this, Liam. It’s what anyone who is claiming to be her friend would do.”
Liam lets out a bitter, broken laugh. It’s a horrible sound. “You wouldn’t know,” he sneers, his voice dripping with a venom that’s meant to wound. “You have no fucking idea what it’s like. You don’t have to deal with the knowledge that the love of your life does not love you back.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. The air rushes from my lungs. The pain in my ribs flares up, a dull echo of the fresh agony tearing through my chest. I stare at him, at the raw, self-pitying pain on his face, and I want to laugh.
Or scream.
He thinks he has the market cornered on this?
He thinks his unrequited love is some kind of special tragedy?
He has no fucking idea.
He has no fucking idea how wrong he is. He doesn’t know that every time I look at Millie, I feel the same gut-wrenching ache he does.
He doesn’t know that the reason I keep my distance, the reason I’ll never make a move, isn’t because I don’t feel it but because I feel it too much.
Because I thought she deserved someone better, someone like him.
And now he’s just another person who has hurt her. I’m standing here, my body a wreck from a fire I can barely talk about, my heart in pieces over a woman I’ll never have, and he’s telling me I don’t understand.
I just stand there, my face a mask of indifference, but inside, I’m screaming. He has no fucking idea. None.
Liam’s shoulders slump, the anger draining out of him as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind a hollowed-out shell. He sinks back onto the edge of my bed, his head in his hands.
“This is all just fucked up,” he mumbles into his palms. “All of it. I just… I wish I knew who she fucked. At least then I could… I don’t know. Picture it. Hate him properly.”
I let out a short, harsh breath that isn’t quite a laugh.
“It wouldn’t matter at all now, Liam. The knowing wouldn’t change a damn thing.
” It wouldn’t. Knowing doesn’t give him any power, just a specific target to fixate on.
The problem was never the guy. It was always Liam’s inability to see Millie as a separate person from his own desires.
My gaze drifts over his shoulder, to the fresh, dark ink peeking out from the side of his T-shirt.
“Now, can we talk about what’s that on your back?” I ask, my voice flat, changing the subject.
He stiffens, twisting slightly as if trying to see it himself.
“Oh. That.” He doesn’t sound proud. He sounds ashamed.
“I was drunk. I was sad. So I did something dumb.” He pulls the collar of his shirt, revealing more of the design.
It’s a mess of jagged lines, a broken circle with what looks like flames licking at the edges.
In the center, a single, stark letter ‘M.’ It’s ugly.
It’s a brand. A permanent, drunken reminder of his pain.
I sigh, the sound heavy in the quiet room. It’s the most Millie-like thing he could have done, a grand, dramatic gesture that solves nothing but leaves a permanent scar.
He lets his shirt fall back into place. “I really am sorry I brought a woman to the house without asking,” he says, his voice low. “That was out of line.”
“I don’t care about that, Liam,” I say, and I mean it. Jessica is irrelevant. She’s a symptom, not the disease. “I just want you and me to fix our shit. And you need to fix your shit with Millie.” My voice softens. “We’re all we’ve got, man. This is tearing us apart.”
He nods, his gaze fixed on the floorboards. “I know.”
I watch him for a moment, my anger slowly receding, leaving behind the familiar, dull ache of concern. “Where have you even been sleeping?” I ask. “Since you’ve been avoiding my couch.”
He looks up, a wry, humorless smile touching his lips. “Oh, I bought Mr. Jackson’s old truck. Parked down by the old pier. He shrugs. “It’s not so bad.”
It’s exactly as bad as it sounds. My chest tightens. He’s been living like a vagrant because he’s too proud to face any of us.
He pushes himself to his feet, a new resolve in his eyes. “I’ll drop Jessica home, then maybe we can get breakfast together. Just us.”
I scratch at the side of my throat, a nervous habit I can’t seem to shake. “I kind of promised Millie that we would have breakfast together,” I say, watching his face carefully.
The change is instantaneous. The fragile truce we’d built shatters. His jaw clenches, a muscle jumping in his cheek. His eyes, which had finally lost some of their frantic edge, harden into chips of flint.
The thought of what would happen if he knew—if he had any inkling that I’ve dreamed of Millie more times than I would ever want to admit, that my own feelings for her were a locked box buried so deep even I was afraid to look at it—crosses my mind again.
It would be an inferno. It would burn what’s left of our friendship to the ground.
“How is she?” Liam asks, his voice clipped, pulling me from my reverie.
“Upset,” I say, choosing my words with care. “She thinks she did something wrong.”
He nods blankly. “Right. I’ll… I’ll go out there and talk to Jessica so she’s not wondering why we were in the bedroom.” He turns and walks out of the room, his posture rigid.
I remain where I am, listening. I hear their muffled voices, a soft laugh from Jessica, the low rumble of Liam’s reply. A minute later, the front door clicks shut, and then the silence of my apartment rushes back in.
Alone. Finally alone. The adrenaline from the confrontation, the anger, the worry—it all drains away, and the pain in my side comes roaring back to the forefront.
I move to my closet, digging through a stack of old sweaters until I find the small blue tub of salve the doctor gave me.
I unscrew the cap and the sharp, medicinal scent fills the air.
I sit back on the edge of my bed, lifting my shirt.
The skin over my ribs is a mottled canvas of purple and yellow, the bruise spreading wider each day.
I scoop a bit of the greasy ointment onto my fingers and begin to work it into the sore muscles.
I hiss as my pressure hits a particularly tender spot.
It’s like I’m discovering new injuries every day, a fresh ache in my shoulder, a sharp pull in my lower back.
My body is a map of the fire, a topography of pain I keep hidden from everyone. I hate this. I hate being weak. I hate the secret.
I squeeze my eyes shut, praying this passes. Praying I can go back to being the man everyone thinks I am.