Chapter 8
Eight
Flynn
I’m still staring at the ocean, still obsessing over that awkward exchange with Max when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Pulling it free, I smile when I see Milo’s name scrolling across the top of the screen. We’ve been texting, so he knows I’m out of the country for a work thing and that I can’t really talk about it because of the nondisclosure agreement I signed.
“Hey, man. What’s up?” I ask when I answer the call and lift the phone to my ear.
“Bro. How’s it going? Is that the sound of waves crashing I hear in the background?”
“Yes,” I say on a sigh, “but I can’t tell you anything else. I told you, I signed an––”
“NDA. I know, I know,” he says. “Are you having fun, at least? ”
“I wouldn’t really call it fun, exactly, but I’ve only been here for a few hours.”
“Cool. Cool,” he says, a dead giveaway that he has something on his mind.
“Alright, what is it?” I ask.
“What is what?”
“Milo.”
“Fine,” he says, blowing a harsh breath directly into his phone’s microphone. “I talked to Max. I know she’s there with you.”
My head jerks back a couple of inches. “She’s here, but not ‘with me,’ as you put it. It was a total surprise to us both. And why the hell is she telling you anything? She signed the NDA, too.”
Anger blossoms in my gut. What is Max trying to do, get herself evicted before the competition has even begun? She’s smarter than that.
And why am I so upset over the idea of her getting booted?
Damn it.
“She didn’t tell me. I guessed. You both fed me the same info about leaving the country and not being able to talk about it. I connected the dots.”
“Oh,” I say, some of the steam rolling out of me.
“So, you and Max on a work trip together…”
The statement is leading, and damn if I don’t fall for it.
“I told you, we’re not together. She and I are two of a larger group of writers. And that’s all I can tell you about it, so don’t ask. And just so you know, I’ve barely said a word to her the entire time. ”
“That’s what she said, too,” he says in a low, thoughtful voice.
“So, why does it sound like you don’t believe either of us?” I pause as the truth hits me. “Oh, God. Milo, please tell me you don’t think we orchestrated this. That we’re sneaking around behind your back, or something. You know I haven’t talked to Max in five years.”
“I don’t. And I know,” he says, sounding guiltier than I’ve ever heard him.
Jesus. He did think it.
“Why are you so worried about it?”
And what’s so wrong with me that he doesn’t want his sister anywhere near me? We’re supposed to be best friends. He’s supposed to love me.
I don’t say any of that last bit out loud, but these dark thoughts have plagued me since the first time Milo warned me to keep things platonic with Max…long before the night that changed everything ever happened.
I always assumed it was just a brother thing, but come to think of it, I don’t remember hearing anything negative about any of the boyfriends Max has had over the years. He’s seemed perfectly content to let her lead her own life and make her own choices––except when it came to me.
“I’m not worried,” he says, pulling me out of my own head with his firm tone. “I’m sorry if I made it sound that way. I trust you both.”
“Okay, but––”
“Sorry, man. But I’ve got to go. Have fun, and I’ll talk to you soon.”
The call ends before I can even say goodbye. Furrowing my brow, I pull my phone away from my ear and shove it back into my pocket. That was so weird.
“Oh, hey. I didn’t know anyone was out here.”
I spin toward the sound of the voice, cringing inwardly when I see Lars Klein stepping out onto the veranda with a smug smile on his face. He’s one of the two experienced biographers in attendance, and I’m sure he thinks he has this whole thing in the bag. His book about a Hollywood starlet from the sixties sold like gangbusters last year, making him a household name. I read it, and it left a bitter taste on my tongue.
His inherent misogyny was made clear from the very first chapter, and rather than discussing the subject’s acting skill or business sense, he focused on her sex appeal and overtly suggested her success was a direct result of a few torrid affairs with various directors and producers––affairs that were never proven to have actually occurred and were based on speculation.
“Lars Klein,” he says, offering a handshake as he approaches.
His tone tells me he’s certain I already know who he is and that the introduction is unnecessary. What a douche.
“Flynn Nightingale,” I grit out, gripping his hand in the shortest handshake in recorded history before taking a small step back.
“You write for the L.A. Journal , right? I’ve read your column, man. It’s good.”
“Thanks,” I say, keeping my face blank.
There’s a definite pause as he waits, obviously expecting me to return the compliment. Maybe when hell freezes over, pal.
“It’s beautiful here, right?” he asks, filling the awkward silence as he moves to gaze out at the ocean.
“Yeah, it is,” I say, moving my own gaze to take in the view.
“Chicks dig this shit. Too bad that blogger got cut. She was hot. And her tits were amazing.”
And there he is .
I open my mouth to end this conversation so I can get away from him, but Lars beats me to the punch, swinging in my direction.
“That redhead is a smoke show, don’t you think? Wonder if she’d be down for a good dicking. Might as well have some fun in paradise, am I right?”
Somehow, I manage to restrain myself. Just barely. Cold-cocking this asshole and leaving him to sleep it off out here where anyone could find him would most certainly end my stay on Isle Halcyon.
Besides, if I know anything about Max, it’s that she can––and will ––take care of herself. I just hope I’m there to witness it when and if Lars Klein suggests she could use a “good dicking.” My lips tick upward at the mere thought, and Lars sees it.
Holding up a hand, he says, “I don’t want to step on any toes, man. If you’ve already started making inroads on that one, I’ll take a step back. We’ve got to stick together, right?”
“Right,” I murmur, unable to completely hide the sarcasm in my voice. “I was just headed up. Have a good night. ”
“Nice to meet you, dude,” he says with a wave.
I nod in response before I spin and walk away. The pleasure was definitely all his .
I make my way through the house to the stairs, then take them two at a time. I feel like I need a shower after that interaction. Why did Barnard include such a slime ball in this competition? If he read Lars’ book, or even a handful of its reviews, he’d know what kind of person Lars is. What kind of writer he is.
It doesn’t make any sense.
But then again, I don’t really know Barnard. Maybe he wants that misogynistic tone in his biography, using his existence as a man as a major reason for his success. God, if he does, I might have to decline should I win the gig. It would be hard to do, but the right choices are often the hardest to make.
Walking down the hall, my steps slow as I approach Max’s door. Biting my lip, I consider knocking so I can tell her about Lars and his attraction to her. Forewarned is forearmed, right?
Leaning closer, I hold my breath and listen for any sounds that would indicate she’s still up. It’s early, yet, so it’s unlikely she’s already asleep. I lift a hand to knock, pause, then drop my fist back to my side.
It’s just as unlikely she wants to be disturbed by the likes of me.
Shaking my head, I move to my own door and let myself inside. Like I said before, Max can handle herself. She doesn’t want or need my protection.
I figured that out a long, long time ago.