Make It Right (6 page)

She hugged Trish and smoothed her hair behind her ears. “He’ll be okay, all right?”

Trish nodded. “Thanks so much for being there for us.”

“Anytime.”

When Lea stepped outside of the room, her body sagged, her leg pulsing with pain from standing on it too long, keeping it tense and not stretching it.

But Max was there, like a silent, warm pillar. He didn’t pick her up, which she appreciated, but let her cling to him as she hobbled down the hall to the elevator. And then he carefully lowered her to a chair in the lobby of the hospital, whispered that he would be right back, and then sped off to get the truck. She saw his headlights and as she made it outside, he was already out of the truck, opening her door and helping her inside. He covered her with his filthy blanket, apologizing for it again, but she snuggled into it. Because it smelled like Max and was given to her with care.

And then, to a low country song and the hum of his engine, she curled up in a ball, closed her eyes, and floated where there was no pain and no cousins in hospital beds.

Chapter 6

W
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like a broken jet engine. It rattled from his throat on Max’s face, where the cat sat, licking Max’s hair while they both lay in bed.

Max tried to shove him off, but the cat probably weighed twenty pounds and didn’t like to be budged.

“Seriously, asshole, get off me,” he grumbled, pushing again, this time successfully rolling the cat onto his side on his pillow, his claws taking a chunk out of Max’s chin.

Max rolled his head to the side and looked into the yellow eyes. Wayne’s lids were half closed, and he licked his lips.

“You know that’s weird, right?”

Wayne blinked.

“It’s weird to eat my hair.”

Wayne heaved a sigh and looked away.

A chuckle came from the doorway and Max raised himself up on his elbows.

Cam stood with his arms crossed, a grin tugging at his lips. “That sounded like really sweet pillow talk.”

“Shut up,” Max said and flopped back onto the bed.

“Hey, Zuk and I were heading to the diner to get some breakfast, you wanna come?”

Max checked the time on his alarm clock. “Nah, can’t. Gotta head to my dad’s.”

Cam raised one dark eyebrow. “On a Friday?”

All the guys knew Max avoided his dad as much as possible. “Yeah, my brothers need some help clearing out a dead tree.”

And that was the last thing he felt like doing. He was exhausted after spending a large portion of the night at the hospital with Lea.

And then his body heated under his covers when he remembered how peaceful she looked sleeping in his truck. How right it felt to help her stumble groggily to her apartment.

How he wished he could have crawled into bed with her. He’d stroked her hair on the pillow like a weirdo, just to see how it felt as she blinked at him hazily, half asleep already.

“Hey, where were you last night?” Cam asked, bringing Max back to present.

“I took Lea to the hospital because her cousin . . . hey, did you know about the thefts and assaults happening on campus?”

Cam unfolded his arms and braced the heel of his palm on the door frame. The wings of his Air Force tattoo peeked out from the hem of his T-shirt sleeve on the inside of his bicep. “Yeah, man, it’s fucked up. The papers said one just happened last night on campus. Some dude got pretty beat.”

Max blew out a harsh breath. “Yeah, it was Lea’s cousin Nick.”

“Shit,” Cam said. “Who are these fuckers? Dare them to come at me.”

Max pointed at him. “Don’t start carrying your gun.”

Cam huffed. “Weapons aren’t allowed on campus. The only reason I don’t wear my holster. So why did you take Lea to the hospital? I didn’t think you two were buddy-buddy.”

Max didn’t know what they were. “We were talking at the gym when she got the call. She was upset so I offered to drive her.”

Cam looked skeptical. “You? Offered to give up workout time to drive some chick to the hospital?”

Max glared. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

Cam shrugged.

Max’s body heated again, but this time it was anger. “You know what? Fuck you, Cam.” His voice rose and he didn’t bother tempering it. “Can’t people change? I’m not an asshole all the time.”

Cam’s eyes were wide. A scuffling sounded behind him, and Alec poked his head in.

Great, now there was an audience. Kat was probably out there, too, because she and Alec were attached at the hip.

Alec took a step into the bedroom. “Sure, Max, people can change,” he said gently.

Max felt like a child but he held his tongue.

Cam cleared his throat. “Sorry, man.”

Max waved his hand. “Nah, it’s cool. Anyway, I need to get in the shower before I have to go to my dad’s, all right?”

Cam waited a beat. “Sure. Later, Max.”

“Later,” Alec echoed, and Max gave them a small smile.

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his dad’s cracked driveway and stared up at the house. The gutters needed cleaning and the winter hadn’t been kind to the roof. He heaved a sigh. More work for him and his brothers to do come spring. Even though his dad would bitch and be unappreciative.

What else was new?

He grabbed the container of cookies from the passenger seat and stepped out of his truck. He walked into the house, gaze lingering on the dusty picture frames lining the hallways. Max in his ice-hockey uniform. His older brother Calvin in his football pads. The middle brother, Brent, pulling on his soccer-goalie gloves. And his mind flashed back to all the times he spent in the hospital as a kid, as a patient or a concerned brother. That bench last night held a familiarity he hadn’t wanted to revisit.

Because they were always incurring injuries, especially because their dad encouraged the roughest play. Max had to check his opponent into the boards. Rip off his gloves and throw punches. Calvin had to tackle dirty. Brent had to slide cleats up or throw elbows.

That was what was expected of them by their dear old dad. The problem was, when you played dirty, others played dirty in return.

Which meant a lot of broken bones. Stitches. Concussions.

Max’s eyes lingered longer on a picture of him taking a shot on goal on the ice and then shook his head. He needed to quit fucking around. There was work to do.

He dropped the cookies off in the kitchen and then continued out the back door to the yard.

The week’s ice storm had wrecked the old, weakened tree in his dad’s backyard. A large branch near the top had cracked in half, taking out its bare comrades below.

Max cocked his head. From one side it looked like a whole tree, but take a couple of steps to one side and it was . . . half a tree.

His brothers stood in front of it, arms crossed over their chests, and glanced at Max as he approached them, boots crunching on the dry grass.

Calvin pulled his beanie down over his ears. “Hey bro. Thanks for coming. We gotta get this shit taken down before Dad gets home.” Cal was shorter than Max and wide, with a barrel chest he’d used to his advantage on the offensive line of the Tory High School football team. Like Brent, Calvin worked with their father at his automotive shop.

“Remind me why we’re doing this again?” said Brent, the tallest of the three, at a lean six-three.

Cal flexed his fingers in his work gloves. “You know he’d try to do this all himself, then he’d throw his back out, and it would be all our fault. I don’t want to have to be over here vacuuming his floors and making his meals and shit because he can’t get off the couch. Now haul ass.”

Brent grumbled as Cal fired up the chainsaw with a grin.

Hours later, Max was sweating buckets under his parka and his knees and hips were killing him from squatting to pick up fallen tree limbs. Cal had made it a game to try and drop branches on his head as he cut them off. Asshole.

The branches were bundled and the trunk lay in neatly sawed chunks on the grass.

Brent rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist, leaving behind a smear of dirt. “Good enough for now, right? He can deal with this or we’ll come back later.”

“I’m starving,” Cal said.

Both brothers looked at Max expectantly.

He sighed. “I’ll see what Dad has in the kitchen.”

He left his brothers outside to put away the work tools. He threw his coat over the back of the couch and rubbed his hands together. Funny how he could be damp with sweat but his fingers were still frozen.

He rummaged in the pantry and sighed. When he’d lived with his dad, he tried to keep the pantry full of ingredients easy to make into quick meals. Which his father ate with a grunt and then left the dishes on the table for Max to clean up.

Max pulled out a long-forgotten box of spaghetti and a jar of pasta sauce that was close to expired. In the freezer, he found a half-opened bag of meatballs. They looked a little freezer burned but the guys would never notice, so Max plopped them in a pot with some sauce and started water to boil for the pasta.

Then he leaned back on the counter and looked around. The kitchen floor could use a mopping and a thin film of grime coated the windows, but at least the house wasn’t covered in clutter. Cleaning had been Brent’s job when they all lived at home. Brent and Cal now lived together in an apartment. Max missed that sometimes—a full house with deep voices arguing or laughing. Someone to eat meals with. Someone to watch hockey with.

It’d just been the four of them then, their mother bailing on the family shortly after Max was born. It had changed every couple of years, but she lived in California now with her musician husband. She sent him Christmas cards signed
Love, Jill
. Which he always found funny and depressing at the same time.

The back door banged open as Max dumped the pasta into the boiling water, and his brothers barreled into the house.

Brent stuck his head in the fridge. “Who wants a beer?”

“Spaghetti and meatballs?” Cal asked, dipping his finger into the sauce and then sticking it into his mouth. “Any garlic bread or salad or anything?”

“Seriously?” Max said. “You two probably live on pizza and chicken wings at your apartment. Don’t get all uppity and demand garlic bread.”

“Well, no beer for you, Mr. Touchy,” Brent said, popping the cap on two bottles and handing one to Cal.

Max rolled his eyes and retrieved his own beer.

Once the pasta was cooked, he dumped in the meatballs and sauce, mixed it around, and then scooped the mess onto three plates.

“Thanks, Max,” Cal said. Brent grunted his gratitude.

While they ate at the kitchen table, the only sound the clinking of forks on plates and slurping of noodles, the engine of a truck rumbled into the driveway.

“Old man’s home,” Cal said.

“How is he?” Max asked.

Brent shrugged. “A downright bastard.”

Heavy footfalls sounded up the stairs from the garage to the living room and then the door creaked open. “Hello?” a voice called out.

“Hey Dad,” Brent and Cal answered right away.

Max grunted and swirled the remaining sauce on his plate.

Jack Payton strode into the kitchen, greasy overalls covered by a heavy Carhartt jacket.

He threw his keys on the kitchen table and crossed his arms over his chest, widening his stance. “Saw your cars outside. Now you’re in here eating my food. What’s that about?”

Cal jerked his chin toward the back door. “You said the ice storm brought down your tree. We took care of it.”

Jack’s eyes flitted over his two older sons before landing on Max. “What are you doing here?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Cal just answered that, Dad.”

“Don’t give me attitude,” he grunted, taking off his coat. He grabbed a plate from his cabinets and filled it with spaghetti and meatballs. He took a seat across from Max at the table.

Jack was a big man, six feet, twenty thousand inches tall. He smoked about a pack and a half a day, so his teeth were stained and the smell had likely seeped into his bones. Sometimes Max thought Jack’s organs were nicotine ash by now.

As soon as his plate was clear, his dad pulled a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit up at the table. On his first exhale, he said, “Where’d you get the food?”

“Your kitchen,” Max answered.

“You’re welcome,” his dad said.

Max didn’t answer. He didn’t expect his father to thank him for cooking dinner.

When Jack was finished with his cigarette, he rose from the table. “Clean this up,” he said to no son in particular. When he passed by Max’s chair, he tapped him on the shoulder with two fingers. “Cooking was good.” Then retreated into the den with a beer.

Brent and Cal rose to take care of the dishes but Max sat frozen, the tap of those fingers echoing through his body. A weird sensation flitted over his skin and it took him a minute to realize the cause of it was his dad’s compliment.

After the kitchen was clean, his brothers followed their dad into the den. Max didn’t want to. He wanted to go back to his town house. Hell, writing a paper was better than this. But that would be awkward—to leave when his brothers didn’t—so he sucked it up and joined his family.

The news blared from the TV and as Max sank into the couch, the anchor began to talk about the assaults on campus. A reporter stood outside the hospital, “reporting live” and Max zeroed in on the same doors he walked through last night.

Max fidgeted with a tear in the microsuede of the couch as the report centered on the injuries of the victims.

When it was over, his dad turned to him. “If those guys tried that with me, I’d take ’em all out.”

There was no
Do you know anyone affected
? or
Be safe out there
, or
Watch your back
. Nope, his fifty-two-year-old dad just professed the ability to take on three young guys at once. “Sure, Dad.”

“You have to fight back,” he continued. “I think if I’ve taught you boys anything, it’s that. Fight back.”

That was the truth. It was ingrained in Max’s brain. Like second nature to hit back when he was hit.

“Oh, and I don’t need you Sunday,” Jack said to the TV.

Max glanced at Cal and Brent. They looked back at him and shrugged.

“Who are you talking to, Dad?” Cal asked.

“All three of you,” he grunted.

Max stared. He worked every weekend for his dad at his mechanic’s shop. He hated it and he hated knowing he’d be working there after graduation. But his dad paid half his tuition and said he needed him to get his business degree so he could take care of the books. His brothers had never gone to college, so Max considered himself lucky he’d even had the opportunity.

Too bad his degree wasn’t anywhere near what he wanted to do.

And a Sunday off? Unheard of.

“You sure?” Max asked, know as soon as he did, Jack would like to be questioned.