Eric #2
Somewhere inside, the building’s security guy may or may not be eyeing the camera that’s right above this door.
If he is watching, he sees Max wave this card past the scanner.
And since the card is so reflective, the security man won’t notice that it isn’t the right color and style for the building.
And now the door swings open right on cue. Scout, wearing a cap that says Ben’s Buns, exits to the street without a glance at us. It will look like pure coincidence to the security guy’s eye.
Max pockets his card casually, touching me on the shoulder as if we’re deep in conversation. “Sixth floor," he says mildly as we stroll past a bank of mailboxes. We reach the elevators without anyone glancing our way.
Nobody stops us on the way to Tatum’s door. I step out of sight while Max knocks.
Max doesn’t even have to sweet talk him, because the idiot opens the door without a question. “Yes?” He’s wearing a Duke T-shirt and flannel pants. I can hear the TV in the background.
My brother pushes the door open with a cool authority that he’s possessed since, oh, the age of four. “Tatum. Let’s talk.”
“Excuse me? And you would be…?”
I step into the room, and Tatum’s face drops.
“Remember me?”
“Well…”
I grab him and push him roughly against the wall. “Do you remember me? Because I remember you. You’re the asswipe who gave her a black eye. Every time I punch the heavy bag, I picture your face. Did you know that?”
Tatum gapes at me just in time for me to slam him against the wall a second time. I hear his teeth click hard together from the impact.
“Eric,” Max says in a low voice. “Make your point nicely.”
“Are you scared right now?” I spit. “Because I need you to remember this feeling. Did you punch her face right here by the front door? Is this the spot?”
His eyes are wide with terror, and it only feeds my anger. Tatum’s face is bright red, and his eyes are begging. But I want him to feel pain, too. I want it so badly.
If you lose control, you’ll be just like him.
It almost kills me to release him. But I do it suddenly, and he sags against the wall.
My heart thumps, and my fists still clench.
But I make myself step back. “Every time she hears your name, that’s what she remembers,” I tell him.
“Every time your name pops up on her cell phone, she sees your fist.”
Tatum slides out of my reach and sort of staggers over to his leather couch, where he sits down heavily. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes, okay? I know it.”
“How many, exactly?” Max asks, as calm as ever. “Was one of them sending people to intimidate Alex last night?”
Tatum’s chin jerks upward. “What? No! Is she okay?”
Max is stock still, watching our guy’s reaction carefully. “She’s fine,” he says eventually. “We took care of it.”
“Jesus, I hope so.” He flops back against the sofa. “Why are you really here? Just to scare me? Like it’s not enough to make me sign that affidavit? If that thing ever leaks…”
The fact that his reputation is his biggest concern says a lot.
“We’re here,” I tell him, “to make sure you understand how serious we are about protecting Alex and her child. It’s his full-time job,” I point to my brother. “And it’s also my personal hobby.”
Tatum eyes me with a blend of fear and distaste. Not that I blame him. “Alex has nothing to fear from me.”
“Yet the evidence suggests otherwise,” Max clips.
“I lost my shit that one time.” He shakes his head. “Tell me what to do, okay? How can I apologize to her? I want to meet my kid someday.”
“You have two choices,” Max says. “Take her to court. She’ll tell a room full of people what you did, and show them the photo of her eye swelled shut. You’ll probably lose, though.”
Tatum puts his head in his hands.
“Or you can sign the papers, so that Alex feels safe. And you can get therapy and accept what an asshole you’ve been. And try to make your case to Alex, through her lawyers.”
Tatum rises off the sofa, a beaten man. “You want both documents signed? Fine.” He brushes past Max, slouching over to a desk in a corner.
There’s a folder on it, which he flips open.
He grabs a pen out of a polished brass pencil cup and hastily signs his name on two different pages.
“Here.” He shoves the paper back into the folder.
In three paces he’s thrusting it at Max.
“Take it. Full custody. You win. But she can keep her fucking money.”
“Wasn’t that the whole point of dating Alex?” Max asks. “To get your company funded?”
“No! And fuck you for saying so. We were supposed to be a team. A power couple. Sure, I wanted her family’s support. But not like this.” He shoves the folder into Max’s abs. “I don’t want her blood money. But I do want to meet my kid. You tell her that.”
“This says you can’t.” I reach over and take the folder from him, flipping it open to make sure he signed the affidavit, too. “Hey, it’s supposed to be notarized.”
“I’m a notary,” Max says. “I got it.”
“A rubber stamp doesn’t mean shit anyway,” Tatum snarls. “Just like signing that thing doesn’t mean I’ll forget my kid exists. I will always be that baby’s father. You can’t change that with money or visits from the goon squad.”
I wish he weren’t right. “Stay away from Alex.”
“You call her lawyer if there’s something you want to say,” Max adds.
He deflates. “Message received. You got what you wanted. So now you can get the hell out of my apartment.”
“Don’t call,” I say quietly. “If you do, I’m the one who’s going to answer.”
Tatum just gives me the kind of glare that would be fatal if laser eyes were a real thing.
Max takes the folder out of my hands. “All right. Thank you for this. Alex appreciates your cooperation. Just out of curiosity, where were you last night?”
“At a restaurant in the east twenties,” he says. “NoMad on twenty-eighth.”
“What time did you leave?”
“Ten?” he shrugs. “Then I came home.”
“Okay,” Max says quietly. “I hope for your sake that’s true.”
And that’s the last thing anybody says until Max and I show ourselves out.
We leave by the back door of the building, walking toward Max’s sports car. “Good job in there,” Max says. “Do you believe him about last night?”
“Yup,” I say tightly. “So who the fuck was on that motorcycle? And who broke in?”
Max just shakes his head.