Chapter Twenty-Eight
November 6th, 6:10 p.m.
Max sat in his office, gazing at the setting sun through the window, his phone ringing. He didn’t expect Paloma to answer. She’d been avoiding him since she’d run from his house.
He’d given her space, but that ended today. There was a fine line between understanding and patient and accepting the role as her rainy-day entertainment.
The call answered, and when he jolted upright, the springs of his favorite ancient chair whined. “Hello,” she said, her voice as hollow as a long-abandoned echo.
All this anger and demand fell away, replaced with worry. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m not sure,” she replied. “Can we meet today? We might have an issue.”
He glanced at his computer screen. It was after six. “With what?
“The Thompsons. They propositioned me. Well, us.”
“What the fuck,” he choked. It was a damn good thing he was sitting in his father’s monstrous antique office chair. It was probably the only thing keeping him from keeling over onto the floor in shock.
She laugh ed, but there wasn’t humor in it. “That’s what screamed through my head the whole walk-through.”
Rage boiled inside him. From what little he knew, people in that lifestyle were usually protective of their community and respectful of boundaries. Yet these two had the audacity to proposition her before the ink was even dry on their contract. And when she was alone in their home.
“Did they seriously think that was appropriate?” He kept his voice low, fighting the urge to shout.” He should have been with her. “Why in the hell would they think you’d be interested?”
“They knew about your adventure in Chicago.”
Her words punch him in the stomach. Why did his impulsive choices cause others so much collateral damage? “It was one damn time,” he groaned, rubbing a hand down his face, pulling his beard until it stung. “I’m so sorry, Paloma.”
“It’s not your fault,” she said, but he disagreed. She sighed, and his guilt was heavy. “That was only one tiny part. I think it’s how we acted around each other had them looking through security footage.”
He froze. Cold and heavy regret settled in his gut. “Security footage?” he echoed.
“Security cameras. Max,” Her voice dropped so low he had to strain to hear it. “They have footage of us. On their coffee table.”
“Christ,” he choked. The phone nearly slipped from his numb fingers.
He shouldn’t have been so reckless. His mother’s words from their last conversation shouted at him, asking when he’d stop being so impulsive.
“Paloma,” he finally said, his voice low and rough. “I . . .” He didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
“Can we meet today?” she repeated. “Discuss damage control.”
“Damage? Are we talking blackmail? Coercion?” His mouth went dry, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm against his desk.
His ex ha d told him the swinging community protected their own, valued consent and boundaries. But the Thompsons had propositioned Paloma during their final business meeting. The timing couldn’t be coincidental. A power play? Or did they think a nearly-sealed contract made it fair game?
“So far, neither,” she said. “They seemed fine with me turning them down. I’ll give you the full story when we’re together. See what you think.”
He stilled his restless, nervous tapping and checked the time. His eyeballs burned from exhaustion, but he needed to help her. “I’m still at the office and need to discuss a few loose ends with Grace. It might take a while. Would tomorrow morning be better?”
“No. I’m leaving for the Sterlings’ first thing in the morning.”
“Tomorrow? I thought we were going together next week?” The last of his selected plants were due to arrive the following Wednesday.
“There’s a few big things arriving tomorrow afternoon. I need to be there and ensure the installation is correct,” she replied. “It’s a quick overnight before we return for the final phase together.”
It was ridiculous that her going without him bothered him. He ignored his worthless reaction and asked, “Where do you want to meet?”
“Do you mind coming to my place?”
Grace walked into his office. He held up his index finger. She nodded, taking the seat across from his desk. “Yeah,” he told Paloma. “I shouldn’t be more than an hour or two.”
They hung up, and he focused on Grace. “Ready to go over those reports?” he asked, rubbing the sleepiness from his eyes.
“Are you?” She tilted her head, meaning she’d already figured out more than he wanted her to know. “We can do this tomorrow if you need to. You’ve got that thousand-yard stare going.”
“No, so me of this can’t wait.” He shuffled the papers on his desk, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. “But if possible, let’s focus on the urgent stuff now. I need to head out after to see Paloma. There’s an . . . issue.”
“Work or personal?”
His pen clattered against the desk. “Why would you assume personal?”
Grace settled into the chair and gave him a come-on look that made his neck heat. “I’m not blind. I’ve seen you two when she stops by.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “The way you look at each other and gravitate toward one another in meetings. It’s nice, actually. You smile more.”
Her words, meant to be supportive, only intensified the acid churning in his gut. His impulsiveness could hurt not just him and Paloma but the company’s reputation. “Grace—”
She held up a hand. “Don’t overthink it, Max.”
He wanted to laugh, but his sense of humor was buried under his stress. “Do you even know me?”
She smiled. “Whatever’s going on, you’ll figure it out. You always do.” Opening her tablet, she asked, “Now, shall we tackle these reports?”
He nodded, forcing himself to compartmentalize. “Let’s get started,” he said.
The meeting stretched on, each topic bleeding into the next. His eyes grew heavy, his responses becoming more automatic as fatigue set in. By the time Grace gathered her things to leave, they were the only two left. Even the cleaning person had come and gone, the lemon-scented disinfectant hanging in the air.
Grace paused at the door. “Text me when you get home? You look exhausted.”
He managed a tired smile. “Yes, Mom.”
But she wasn’t wrong, and with leaden feet, he made his way through the now-quiet office. In the break room, the coffee maker sputtered to life, fillin g the air with the aroma of fresh brew. He leaned against the counter and waited for his much-needed caffeine fix. His mind was a fog of exhaustion and unresolved worries about the impending conversation.
Coffee in hand, he shuffled toward the exit. In the parking lot, his footsteps dragged in the broken concrete. Sliding into the driver’s seat of his truck, he took a long slug from his to-go mug, wincing at the scalding heat.
The gentle hum of the truck’s engine and the passing landscape, shrouded in darkness, did little to keep his attention. He drifted to the Thompsons, their cleverness in extracting information, and the complications this could cause him and Paloma.
His body ached from the long hours and stress of the past few days. His eyelids grew heavier with each passing mile, exhaustion pressing down on him. The road ahead blurred slightly, and he blinked hard, clearing his vision.
He shook his head like a wet dog, attempting to jolt himself awake. He cranked up the radio volume, letting the pulsing beat of the music fill the cab. But even as the chorus reached its peak, his focus slipped again.
He needed a better distraction and told the car’s Bluetooth, “Call Jackson.”
The phone rang once, twice, three times. His fingers drummed on the steering whe el. After the fourth ring, Jackson’s voicemail picked up. He disconnected the call.
He considered ringing Asher or Wyatt, but he was less than ten minutes from Paloma’s house. He could power through the last little bit.
The road stretched before him, a dark ribbon cutting through the night. Streetlights flashed by in a hypnotic rhythm, their glow blurring into streaks of amber. His eyelids grew heavier, each blink lasting a fraction longer than the last.
He shook his head again, trying to clear the fog that seemed to be settling over his mind. The radio continued to play, but the music had become a distant, muffled sound as if coming from underwater. He rolled down the window, cold air cutting through the muddle.
Images flashed through his mind—the Thompsons’ knowing smiles, Paloma’s voice laced with tension. Each thought pulled at him, dragging him further into a fog of worry and fatigue.
His chin dipped toward his chest. He jerked upright, his heart racing, and forced his heavy eyelids open. The road swam before him, yellow lines twisting like snakes. He blinked hard, but his eyelids were weighted, and each lift was a monumental effort.
Paloma’s house was right around the corner. Five minutes away, tops. He could make it. He had to make it.
His eyes slid shut, the darkness a welcome respite. Just for a moment, he thought. Just one more blink.