Chapter 12
MAX
A Bad Boy’s Reputation
Ikeep working side by side with Nora, but the library’s polished floor might as well be that climbing-gym mat, because my mind replays the moment Nora swung straight into me. The instant her cheek brushed my crotch, heat shot through me like live current.
No padding—thin spandex, thinner cotton—nothing that could mask how hard I went, fast.
My pulse slammed in my ears; adrenaline should’ve felt like pure panic, but it was edged with something raw, electric.
Even now, hours later, remembering her muffled “sorry” against me makes everything below my belt tighten again, a throb synced to the memory of her breath warming through fabric.
It’s equal parts mortifying and magnetic—impossible to ignore, even with the copier in the staff workroom spitting out sheet after sheet of melon-pink cardstock.
Each of the flyer shows Melody’s crooked ear in high-resolution glory under the headline “FOUND — Looking for My Person.” Nora stands beside the machine, scooping pages into neat stacks while I man the paper cutter, guillotine blade hissing through paired paw-print borders.
It feels strangely domestic—as if we’ve run away together to open a tiny print shop that serves lattes and lost-pet posters.
“You’re dangerous with that thing,” she teases, nudging my elbow. “Try not to take off any rockstar fingers; the fans will riot.”
“I need at least two for power chords,” I say, laying another sheet under the guide. “The rest are expendable if the flyers come out straight.”
She laughs, a sound that echoes gently off metal cabinets and reference shelves beyond the door. Late-day light filters through the narrow window over the sink, dust motes turning in lazy spirals.
When the final stack lands, she nods at an empty cart. “We can leave some here, then hit some shops, cafés and vet clinics tomorrow.” She sweeps a lock of hair behind her ear. “Thank you for doing this.”
“Sure thing.” I wipe stray paper fuzz from my hands. “Tell me where you are with the event, anyway. Vivienne keeps me on a strict diet of bullet points.”
Nora grabs a dry-erase marker and sweeps to the whiteboard on the back wall, sketching boxes like a general mapping a campaign.
“All right: headliner slot—Storm they’re thrilled you donated drum heads, by the way.
Sponsorship dollars still ten percent short of the roof-repair budget, but I’m chasing two corporate matches.
Silent-auction items in place, except I’m shy one big-ticket experience. ”
I tap my chin, pretending to think it over. “How about a one-on-one songwriting session with me?”
Her hand stalls mid- scribble. “That would close the gap, Max. People would pay for that.”
“Then it’s yours.” I pull my phone, shoot Vivienne a text to draft the legalese. “Now we just need to train Melody to draw raffle tickets with her paw.”
Nora snorts. “She’d shred them.”
“Adds mystique.”
We both laugh, but then her smile softens, the marker tapping against her lip. “When it rains, we have buckets in the reading room. That roof matters.”
"I step closer, twirling the edge of a loose page between my fingers. “We’ll fix it. Let the internet gossip—when the roof’s done and the literacy programs are running, they’ll see we turned the attention into something good.”
Her shoulders relax a notch. She sets the marker down, looks up at me—really looks, the way you study a rare first edition to make sure it’s authentic. “Thank you,” she says, voice quiet in the fluorescent half-light.
***
We step out of the library’s staff door into the cool, early-evening hush of Lexington Avenue.
Nora hugs a stack of flyers to her chest; I roll the extras into a thin tube and tap it against my thigh like a drumstick.
Melody’s crooked-ear photo stares up at me from every sheet—part guilty plea, part royal decree.
“Route?” I ask.
Nora consults her mental map the way I check setlists. “Three blocks north to the vet clinic, cut east to the coffee shop with the sad jazz playlists, then south to the laundromat that hosts the community board.”
“Copy that.” I offer her my elbow in mock formality. “Shall we, Ms. Davidson?”
She slips her arm through mine, warmth bleeding straight through her blazer into my skin.
First stop is Hudson Paws Veterinary; the waiting-room smells like antiseptic and wet dog.
The receptionist—purple hair, nose ring—recognizes me instantly, then pretends not to, clearly more excited about the kitten than the rockstar.
“Folded ear? Adorable,” she coos, pinning the flyer dead center on the cork board. “We’ll spread the word.”
Back outside, Nora exhales a relieved breath cloud. “One down.”
We tape another flyer to a lamppost—wind whips it sideways; Nora’s hair follows. I hold the paper while she smooths the tape, her fingers brushing mine. The contact is brief but my body records it like a permanent tattoo.
We duck into Mr. Morales’s corner bodega, the air heavy with fried plantains and scratch-off dust. He clocks the flyer in Nora’s hand and starts to wave her off—countertop space is sacred territory here.
I switch to Spanish, compliment his fresh conchas, and buy three before he can finish the first no.
By the time we’re done chatting about Guadalajara bakeries, Melody’s mug sits next to the Powerball numbers and Mr. Morales is forcing a tamarind soda into my hand “for the kitten’s abuelos. ”
Nora nudges me outside. “Smooth.”
“Sweet bread diplomacy,” I tell her, handing over a concha as proof.
At a bus stop, two elderly women—identical quilted coats, needlework swords flashing—perch on the bench like royal guards.
Nora starts the pitch, but I kneel so I’m level with their knitting.
“Ladies, can you serve on the grand jury of cuteness?” I lay the flyer on yarn the color of spring grass.
They ooh, ask if I’m “that loud singer.” I admit guilt, praise their cable stitches, and leave with a promise they’ll trumpet Melody’s face at Sunday bridge.
One slips me a butterscotch “for your lovely voice, dear.” My ears actually burn.
On 5th Street Vinyl a bearded clerk freezes mid-inventory when I walk in—eyes saucer-wide. Instead of signing sleeves, I wander to an unplugged Fender Twin, talk tube warmth and Hendrix bootlegs. Five minutes later the guy’s framing Melody’s flyer like it’s a platinum record.
Our stack of flyers disappears fast.
Outside a bakery, three middle-school girls vibrate at frequencies bats can probably hear.
Selfie, phone-case autograph, the usual.
I hand them each a flyer and ask for hashtag help.
They chant #FindMelody, promise global domination, and I reward the ringleader with the last concha from my bag. Sugar diplomacy works on every age.
We round the corner toward the subway; Nora shakes her head, half laugh, half disbelief. “Professional charmer.”
“People are nice if you give them a reason,” I shrug—feeling a little shy at the praise.
“And free pastries,” she adds.
“Strategic carbs,” I correct, slipping our final flyer into her tote. “One left—let’s find a good spot for it.”
She salutes with a roll of tape and we find the perfect spot at a nearby tree.
Walking back toward the subway, Nora’s stride slows. “Think it’ll work?”
“Somebody will see that ear,” I promise, lifting the empty roll like a mic. “And then Melody will have to find a new scratching post.”
“And you’ll get your jacket back,” she adds.
“Yeah,” I agree half-heartedly, and something seizes in my chest at the thought. I’m not even sure I want it back.
Nora tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and glances up at me. “Can I ask you something if you promise not to dodge with a joke?”
“Of course.” I sober, adrenaline cooling under my leather collar.
“Where’s the bad boy?” she asks softly. “The guy I keep reading about in the papers? Because I just watched you sweet-talk a bodega owner, kneel for elderly knitters, and sign scuffed phone cases like it was your day job. It doesn’t add up.”
Cold wind sneaks down Ninth; I shove my hands into jacket pockets, shoulders instinctively bracing. “There was a time I thought chaos was a lifestyle requirement. Rehab tore that poster off the wall.”
We pause by a subway grate blowing radiator breath into the night. Nora faces me, brow creased in curious sympathy.
“I hurt people,” I blurt, voice too loud. I clear my throat, start again softer. “Back when chaos was the brand—I wasn’t just trashing hotel rooms. I trashed trust.”
Her gaze finds me—steady, patient—but doesn’t try to smooth the confession.
“I used to think everything was owed to me because I’d survived shitty bars and sleeping in vans,” I continue.
“So if a tour manager pulled eighteen-hour days, that was ‘the job.’ If Lucas missed his sister’s wedding for a festival slot I demanded, well, that was ‘the gig.’ I took loyalty like it was air. ”
“I dated people knowing I’d disappear the next morning,” I add, jaw tightening. “Promised nothing, gave even less, and still managed to leave dents. You don’t have to lie to break someone—you just have to be selfish long enough.”
Nora shifts, not away but closer, her hand brushing mine. The touch loosens the knot in my chest just enough to keep talking.
“Rehab made me sober, but the twelve-step amends list? That’s the part that gutted me.
Calling my mother, hearing her pause because she was bracing for bad news.
Listening to Lucas say, ‘Man, I love you, but I didn’t know if you loved anyone.
’” I scrub a hand over my face. “You can’t blame pills for that. That was me being an asshole.”
Silence stretches. I half expect judgment, maybe gentle consolation, but she gives me neither: just presence. It’s strangely more forgiving than words.
“I’m terrified I’ll slip,” I admit, softer now. “Not back to pills—back to thinking my needs outrank everyone else’s. Sometimes the stage lights flip on and I feel that old version of me stretching, looking for a crack.”
Nora folds her hand over mine, her palm cool and firm. “You’re not that man now,” she says, certainty threading each syllable.
I shake my head. “It’s true, but it doesn’t headline well. Chaos and selfish rockstars are a better sell.”
Nora’s voice gentles, but her eyes spark. “If that old selfish reflex tries to crawl back, I’ll slap it straight out of you.”
I huff a real laugh this time, tension easing from my shoulders. I’m still learning that redemption isn’t a finish line—more like a series of small, stubborn choices. If I keep choosing right, maybe the dents I left in people’s hearts start to smooth, one repaired trust at a time.
I glance at her. “Speaking of small choices… are you ready for our final fake date?”
Her brows lift. “Final?”
“Third and final,” I say, trying for lightness. “Gavin suggested something more ‘intimate’ this time. So I thought… my place. Unless that’s too weird.”
Nora studies me for a beat, then nods. “Your place sounds good.”
Something flickers in my chest—hope or danger, I’m not sure.
“Well then,” I say, forcing a grin. “One more date, and you’ll be rid of me for good.”
She doesn’t laugh. Just looks at me a little too long, like she’s deciding whether she actually wants that.