Rebounding (13 page)

He’s quiet the whole way up. Once inside the bathroom, he still doesn’t say a word. I search underneath the sink for the first aid kit, shuffling toiletries and cleaning products around. When I finally find it, I’m pleased to see it’s packed full of supplies.

“Can you, um, lower yourself?” I ask, taking in Max’s towering height.

He sits down on the edge of the tub, waiting for me to proceed.

I take out antiseptic and a Band-Aid, feeling nervous for some reason. Max is staring at the floor, resting his elbows on his knees, brows pinched together. I don’t press him for conversation, figuring it’s best just to get this over with.

After removing the antiseptic from the package, I reach for Max’s face. He catches me by my wrist. “I should probably do this,” he says.

“I won’t accidentally poke you in the eye.” I hope teasing him will ease some of the tension. “I can do it.”

“I didn’t think you couldn’t, it’s just,” he lets out a short breath, “Never mind, go ahead.”

Leaning down, I dab at the corner of his brow, wiping away the blood. He stiffens when I touch him. I try to be as gentle as possible, noticing how his shoulders and arms are strained. This must be bothering him more than he’s letting on.

“Oh, it can’t hurt that bad.”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

I rip open a Band-Aid. “Certainly
looks
like I’m hurting you.”

The moment I stick the Band-Aid on him, he reaches for my waist. “That’s not the problem.”

“Then what—”

He pulls me forward, his lips brushing against mine. I’m too shocked to move or do anything. He’s kissing me. Actually kissing me. By the time that hits me, I’m too caught up by the sensations he’s making me feel to form a coherent thought.

His lips are warm and gentle, prying mine apart with his velvety tongue. I like the way he kisses, the way he makes me feel connected to him through every little movement. I feel his heart racing inside his chest. I can almost hear the blood pumping through his veins. My heart is racing just as fast, my blood pumping just as quickly.

I’m still in shock, but I don’t want to think about what it means. I just want him to keep going. Because this feeling is…this feeling is…
everything
.

Without breaking the kiss he lifts me up, tugging my legs over his, leaving them to hang on the other side of the tub. I have no choice but to wrap my legs around his waist, my skirt rising up as I do. A small part of me thinks to pull it back down, but Max stops me by scooting me toward him, leaving no space between us.

He’s hard beneath his jeans. Every inch of that hardness presses against my panties; a wave of tingles spasm within my lower belly. “Oh, God,” I gasp out as Max’s lips move away from my lips, his tongue running down the side of my neck.

“You taste like heaven,” he whispers next to my ear. “Tell me to stop.”

I shake my head.

The last thing I want him to do is stop—is he crazy?

He brings his lips back to my mouth, and his tongue attacks mine, more frantic than before. I feel like I could lose it right here and now. I’m vaguely aware that this is happening in a bathroom—on the edge of a tub no less—but I don’t care. He could take me in here on the floor, and I would welcome him. I might even demand that he do it.

“Maximus Archer!” Trevor yells from the other side of the bathroom door. “You get your ass back here as soon as you’re patched up. This conversation is
not
over!”

Our lips break apart.

No.

It’s like the blaring alarm clock shattering the most beautiful of dreams.

Both of us are breathing heavily, staring into each other’s eyes. I think we’re both hoping we didn’t hear anything, or at least I know
I
am. I want to go back to sleep, back to my dream.

“Did you hear me?” Trevor shouts again, this time sounding closer than before.

Max groans. “I’m going to fucking kill him.” He stands, and I slide off of him.

I attempt to collect myself, pulling my skirt down and straightening my clothes. I look in the mirror, fixing my hair to do anything but look Max in the eye. The way he so easily maneuvered me is slightly embarrassing. My cheeks are red now because of it.

I’m wondering if what happened was an attempt for him to escape whatever he’s going through. But if it was, would I really care?

Max lightly touches my arm. “Charlotte, I—”

“Do
not
pretend you don’t hear me, Max!”

“Give me a fucking second, Trevor!”

Max turns to me again, but I still can’t manage to look at him. “Sorry about everything, Charlotte. It won’t happen again.”

With that said, he leaves. Almost as soon as he’s out the door, I hear him and Trevor arguing. Their voices are too low for me to hear what they’re saying.

It won’t happen again.

Those words ring loudly in my ears, replaying over and over.

First, the guy manages to make me feel like I could melt in his arms, playing me like some helpless damned instrument, and now he’s telling me that we’re suppose to adhere to
his
rules? That it won’t happen again, because that’s the way
he
wants it to be.

I don’t think so.

That’s not how this works. I look at my reflection, noticing the smug grin growing on my lips. I was wrong when I told my brother Max wasn’t interested in me. He was trying hard to resist me on the beach, just like he was trying hard to resist me in here. And yeah, he was using me as a way to avoid the situation out there with Trevor and Stephanie. But he can’t deny that he wants me.

Now that I know that, everything’s becoming clearer.

Oh, it will definitely happen again, Max. You’ll see.

SEVENTEEN

Max

Trevor starts in on me the moment I step out of the bathroom, giving me no time to think straight. “Did you tell
her
what a stupid ass you are?”

I head back down the stairs, Trevor fast on my heels. As much as I wish he’d leave me alone, he hasn’t had sufficient time to get everything off his chest.

Which is a problem.

Because I haven’t had enough time to digest what just happened.

What I
made
happen.

Trevor’s right. I am a stupid ass. And I have no idea how I’m going to fix this.

“Don’t act like I’m not here, Max.”

“Why do you care what Charlotte does or doesn’t know?”

“Stephanie told me she was the one who helped you the night you were mugged. I don’t want her thinking she went through all that trouble for someone who regularly tries to get themselves killed.”

“Doesn’t matter what she thinks anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Because in case you’ve forgotten, I’m in the process of repaying her. We’ll be even soon.”

Sooner, hopefully, than later. I don’t know how much more I can handle living in the same house with Charlotte.

“If you believe that, you’re dumber than I thought. There is no repaying someone for saving your life.”

He’s probably right, but I don’t want to believe him. Breaking the connection I have with Charlotte is something I need to believe is possible.

Raking my hands through my hair, I wince, still unable to get my mind out of that bathroom. There’s no denying it’s my fault. Things were going good, and I might have fucked them up. I don’t know why I do this, why I sabotage the few good relationships I have.

“Max, you put yourself in danger again.”

“A tip came in,” I explain for the millionth time. “I needed to check it out.”

“You
swore
you weren’t going to do this anymore. You promised me and Steph.”

“Only to keep the two of you off my back. You guys act like my fucking parents. Just because they’re dead doesn’t mean you get the job.”

Trevor stops in his tracks. To make things worse, Steph comes around the corner at that exact moment, giving me a heartbreaking look.

“Look, the tip was legit,” I tell the two of them, then let out a sigh. “Why else would there be guards surrounding a garage in one of the poorest neighborhoods in the city? I admit I should’ve come up with a better plan before going there to snoop around, but how else was I supposed to verify it?”

“Did it ever cross your mind to pass along this tip to the police?”

“Because that worked
so
well in the past?” My tone drips of sarcasm, just in case he didn’t get that part.

Aside from Dean, going to the cops has never been helpful. The only thing they’re good at is filling out reports that get filed in the bottom of some forgotten folder. Besides, both Dean and I have suspected more than once that Garcia may have a few cops in his pocket—which reminds me. I pull my phone out of my back pocket, so I can let Dean know about the garage.

“What if they’d done something worse, Max?” Stephanie asks, crossing her arms over her chest. “This time they beat you up a little, but what happens next time they catch you snooping around?”

“I won’t get caught next time.”

“You can’t be sure of that!”

I pause in the middle of my text, knowing this is what it’s really about. The reason they’re both so upset. They think they’re gonna lose me. For that reason, I go quiet and allow them to have it out. I’m not happy about it though, which is why I don’t feel guilty for only pretending like I’m paying attention.

The two of them have been at me for several minutes, going on and on about me breaking into the garage, and how stupid it was. I nod my head every now and then. The truth is, I can’t focus on what they’re saying to save my life.

All I can think about is Charlotte. The way she tasted. How incredible she smelled. How good she felt pressed up against me. Her little gasps of pleasure replay over in my head, tempting me to go back up there to convince her to finish where we left off. Which would be an even bigger disaster.

I should’ve never gone up to that bathroom. Once she leaned over me, it was over. Her cleavage was in my face, her scent was all around me, and she looked like a sexy librarian in her work clothes. Oh, fuck—
work
. I didn’t even ask her how her first day went. Now I feel like an even bigger asshole.

“Max, are you listening?”

I think of the perfect thing to say. “Yeah, I hear you guys. I just feel like shit right now. That blow to my head gave me a really bad headache.”

Right on cue, Steph’s face fills with concern.

Trevor, on the other hand, doesn’t look as won over. “Do you have plans to go back?”

“No, Trev.”

He stares me down for a few long seconds, and then backs off, mumbling something about me deserving the headache for being a fucking idiot. Thank God. I can’t get out of the room fast enough.

EIGHTEEN

Char

I never should’ve Googled his name.

But I did.

Now I can’t stop reading.

I can’t stop clicking.

I’m pretty sure I haven’t blinked in over an hour.

Stupid Critical Writing assignment. If I hadn’t been bored to tears, I might’ve paid more attention to that instead of thinking about Max. I should’ve known better, because I haven’t been able to think about anything else since stepping out of that bathroom.

One thing led to another, and I found myself wanting to research the
Gritty Voice
. I figured there was nothing wrong with that, since I now work for the company. Reading about the news site, however, led to me to wanting to know more about its owner. Nothing wrong with researching him either, considering he’s responsible for signing my paychecks. Figured I’d just type in his name to see what pops up. By that point, it was too late.

Now I know too much.

Way. Too. Much.

It’s all public knowledge, that’s what I try to tell myself anyway, but I still feel like I’ve crossed a line. These articles I found, the headlines I’m reading…I’m not sure if I believe my own eyes. I feel like I’ve violated Max’s privacy in a big way.

I pick up my phone, feeling the need to talk to someone about this. Doll is the first person I think of. She answers after the second ring, the first words out of her mouth, “I was just going to call you.”

Dammit.

I can tell by the sound of her voice she really needs to tell me something, and as much as I want to dive straight in to talking about my situation, I try to remember how that’s something the old Charlotte would do. The new Post-Break Up Charlotte is less self-absorbed. Being a better friend is on her list of priorities.

“Everything all right?” I ask, keeping that thought in mind.

“No,” she cries out. “My
sister
showed up at my doorstep.”

“Your sister?” I ask, confused.

What sister? Okay, I’m not
that
bad of a friend. I think I’d know if Doll had a—

“You mean Christine!” I gasp.

Doll recently confided in me that her biological father is a professor at the university. He didn’t want anything to do with her because her existence was a big fat secret, which devastated her. The only way she could get to know him was by attending his lectures in disguise—another thing I didn’t find out about her until I became Post-Break Up Charlotte. I still feel bad about the way I used to make fun of her clothes and dorky glasses.

“Exactly,” she continues, sounding upset. “She found out, and get this. She got into a huge fight with her family because they’ve been lying to her, packed up all her bags, and came straight here in tears. Now she wants to
live
with me.”

“What did you say?”

“Well I couldn’t tell her no. Considering how bad it hurt me when my father turned me away, that would make me a hypocrite.”

“So then live with her. You’re catching up on lost time with your sister. In my eyes, that’s not a bad thing.”

“It’s just…remember how I told you Wes obtained permission for me to visit the wreck site?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m supposed to leave in a couple weeks. I got all my assignments worked out with my professors, ordered my plane ticket, booked my hotel, and then she shows up. How am I supposed to leave her like this?”

I frown, seeing her dilemma. “Can you take her with you?”

“Not sure yet,” she sighs. “I suppose I could ask Wes.”

“But then, there goes your romantic getaway.”

“There’s that, too.”

“I’m sorry, Doll.”

She goes on to tell me that despite the problem of her upcoming trip, she does like her new sister. Apparently they have a lot in common, archeology being one of those shared interests. In the middle of telling me about Christine, she stops to say, “Charlotte, I’m sorry for being so rude. I haven’t even asked you how you’re doing.”

“I’m good, actually. Just started a new job.”

“That’s great,” she says, pausing. “Did you happen to…um…”

“I heard about the engagement. Let’s not talk about it.”

She lets out a relieved sigh. “I really didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”

“You’re off the hook. And anyway, I called because I found something out about my new roommate, and I really want to talk to someone about it.”

“I’m all ears.”

I pause, thinking of a way to describe what I’m staring at on my computer screen. “I Googled him and found out some things I doubt he’d want me to know. Things I’m not sure
I
want to know.”

“Why’d you Google him?”

I press my lips together, not expecting that question.
Think, Charlotte. Think of an excuse!
“Um, you can never be too safe, you know? I am living with the guy. Just wanted to make sure he isn’t a maniac.”

She’s silent for a beat. “He’s not, right?”

“If that were the case, we’d be having this convo while I was on my way back to Gainesville.”

“So tell me what you found out. I’m in suspense over here.”

I close my eyes, all the police headlines and photographs still burned in my mind. I’ll never be able to forget what I’ve seen tonight. “His whole family was murdered on his parent’s wedding day, Doll. Suspected gang members came in with AKs and shot up the place. On their freaking
wedding
day, of all days.”

She lets out a shaky breath. “God, Char. That’s really sad.”

“Sad doesn’t even begin to cover it. His parents, his grandparents, an uncle on his mother’s side, all of them murdered. His sister went missing that day, too. Authorities aren’t sure if she was killed or kidnapped—she was never found. Doll, this is literally the most tragic thing I’ve ever heard of happening to a person. The guy has been to hell and back.”

“Jesus, Char…”

I scoot my laptop across the bed, unable to look at any more images. If something happened to just
one
of my family members, it would devastate me. I can’t imagine losing all of them. Thinking about what Max went through makes my heart hurt.

“Losing my mom and Harland to cancer was tough,” Doll tells me. “But not as tough as it would’ve been if they’d been murdered.”

I walk across the room to pick up the picture of his parents again, looking at it more closely this time. They look
so
happy. Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen any pictures of them anywhere else in this house. All the walls are empty. Then again, how can I blame him? Who would want a constant reminder posted on the wall? Better here, in this one picture frame, turned down on the desk, so he doesn’t have to face his past.

“Do you think I should act like I don’t know?”

“It’s not like his info is private. He probably already assumes you do.”

“That’s true.”

Something catches my eye along the bookshelf. A notebook? I pull the leather-bound book out from beneath a pile of sewing supplies, dusting off the cover. The name Maximus Archer is printed in the bottom corner.

“Doll, I think I may be crossing that line.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, voice full of suspicion. “What are you up to?”

“It’s a journal,” I say, opening it carefully.

The handwriting inside is remarkably decent for a guy.

“Your roommate’s journal?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not reading it, are you?”

“Looks like he writes in it once a year,” I say, ignoring her last question. “Every entry is marked with the same date—January 20
th
.”

Doll and I gasp at the same time. “It’s the anniversary.”

“Close that journal right now, Charlotte Amelia Hart.”

I wince. Clearly she’s the Voice of Reason. The Voice of Reason always calls you out by your middle name. But I really don’t want to listen. “If he didn’t want it to be seen, why would he leave it in my bedroom?”

“Probably because he didn’t know he’d left it in there.”

That makes sense, I suppose. I did show up unannounced. It’s not like he had time to clear out this room before I moved in.

“But Doll,” I whine. “I
really
want to read it. There’s something wrong with me. I don’t think I can stop myself at this point.”

“Charlotte, your parents may have thought it was cute when you played detective as a child, and for that matter, most of your friends let you get away with being nosy because that’s your thing, or whatever. But in the real world, it’s not okay to invade someone’s privacy!”

“Okay, okay.” I close the journal next to the speaker on the phone. “Hear that? It’s me, closing the journal.”

“Loud and clear. I’m proud of you.”

I talk with Doll a while longer, until I’m certain she’s no longer suspicious. But as soon as we hang up the phone, I go right back to the journal. She can’t judge me if she doesn’t
know
I invaded Max’s privacy.

Maybe I’ll just read one entry.

That’s seems fair. If I’m ever questioned about it, I’ll say I didn’t realize what I was reading until I’d read an entire page, and after that, I put the journal back. Perfectly reasonable explanation, in my opinion.

Now, which page should I turn to?

I consider going with the first, but then I realize the first entry won’t give me enough insight into who Max is at this point in his life. So I flip to the last entry. A tiny twinge of guilt lingers in the back of my mind; it’s not too late to back out. But once I start reading, I can’t stop…

Dear Mom and Dad,

Today would be your 14th anniversary.

It’s strange how every year I feel slightly different about this day than the last. For instance, let’s go back to D-Day. I was just a kid, barely 8 years old. I didn’t have a clue what was going on. You both were dead, my grandparents dead, my sister missing. The only family I’d ever known was destroyed overnight. An aunt and uncle I barely knew came to take me in, and God love them for wanting to. Anybody else would’ve taken one look at me and known I’d be fucked up for the rest of my life. Actually, Uncle Jim and Aunt Birdy probably knew it too. They’re just the kind of people that are too good to let that stop them from doing what they consider the right thing in the midst of a tragedy.

When you guys died, everyone kept whispering that word.

Tragedy.

Such a wonderful family. What a tragedy, they’d say, with pity in their eyes.

But was it really?

I guess from the outside looking in, yeah, it may have appeared that way. A bride and groom are slaughtered on their wedding day. Their three-year-old daughter goes missing. Their son becomes an orphan. What’s more tragic than that?

Let’s dig deeper. After all, everyone knows appearances can be deceiving.

As it turns out, Dad, you weren’t the swell guy you claimed to be. Tracking down your employment history was easy enough. Before you opened your own business, you worked for a Mercedes dealership owned by one David Garcia. The same man accused of using his business to traffic drugs across the country. The same man who is now in hiding because he’s on most wanted lists in almost every country. The same man rumored to be responsible for your murder. By the way, I checked your bank records. During the time you worked for Garcia, you were bringing home around $400,000 a year in sales. Now if you ask me, those earnings seem a little steep for a car salesman in the nineties.

Oh, and Mom. Let’s not forget about you. Because you weren’t the gem we all thought you were either. You also worked for Garcia. Matter of fact, you were his personal assistant. Now, there’s nothing wrong with that title on the surface. Except when you consider that the man you worked for was a criminal. When you think about how closely the two of you worked together, there’s no way you could expect anyone to believe you didn’t know about the drugs.

To your credit, Mom and Dad, you both quit. The two of you started a new life together, and a luxurious one at that. Whether or not the money you earned was legitimate, I can’t say. However, I was surprised to find out you opened another car dealership smack dab in the center of Garcia’s neighborhood. That same car dealership brought in nearly triple the profits of what his brought in within the first year of opening. His dealership took a huge plunge in sales. Bad move on your parts.

Bad. Fucking. Move.

You pissed him off, guys. Royally. I haven’t figured out yet if it was the reason he came after you. You’d think it wouldn’t matter so much since Garcia’s business was a cover for the drugs. Unless…maybe your business was shady too?

I’m not sure. I haven’t tracked down any evidence of that, and honestly, I don’t know if I even care anymore. The only thing I care about is finding Fiona.