We fell asleep just like that, a sweaty, sticky mess, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Sixteen
Remy
As desperate as I was for a shower, I hadn’t had the energy to get up early and shower with Maxim before he left to go meet with his boss. I lay in bed with dried cum on my stomach and taint. Fucking glamorous. The sheets were just as messy as I was, but everything could wait a few more hours.
I’d nearly fallen back asleep when my phone rang on the nightstand. Apparently I’d been too preoccupied with getting Maxim to bed, then getting in his pants to set it to vibrate. An irritated groan forced its way out of me, and I rolled away from the phone, ducking under the covers.
No one calls me except Maxim. The thought had me turning over and reaching for the phone too fast, and I knocked it onto the floor. I hung over the side of the bed and felt around for it in the dark, but it’d stopped ringing by the time I found it.
Call history showed an LA number that I didn’t recognize, and I wondered if it had been one of my old friends trying to reconnect. But them calling would be… odd. Especially this early. My phone said it was just after eight, and it was two hours earlier in Cali—no one I knew would be awake at six a.m. by choice. No one except—
A notification for a voicemail popped up on my screen. I took a deep breath and tapped on it, then turned it on speaker. I said a silent prayer that the voice on the message wouldn’t be Stan’s, but fate was a cruel bitch.
“Check your emails, Remington,” was all he’d said. Four words were enough to make my spine prickle and my gut twist. Wondering what the fuck he wanted, I opened up my emails and cursed under my breath when I saw a new one from him.
I wanted to delete it again—I really did. The prospect of receiving another call from him if I didn’t read this and respond seemed so much worse, though. With trembling hands, I opened the message and dread immediately seeped into every fiber of my being. He wanted money—repayment for my flight, my phone bill, my weekly allowance when I’d left, my fucking scripts…
I should have seen this coming. Stan had a total of nearly ten thousand dollars at the bottom of the message. PrEP alone was almost two-grand a month because I didn’t have health insurance, and he’d gotten it for me in three-month increments. He was even threatening legal action against me for stealing his credit card if I didn’t repay him within three days.
I was fucked. Completely and utterly fucked, and I had no one to blame but myself.
My mind raced through all of the ways I could get that sum of money together quickly. It wasn’t anything to a family like mine, but the odds of my parents giving it to me without asking questions were pretty fucking nonexistent. My MacBook was worth a couple grand, but unless I seriously underpriced it, it would take too long to sell.
Asking Maxim wasn’t an option. He’d give me the money with no questions asked, and I couldn’t do that to him. I’d left in the first place because I was terrible for him, and I should have left again after he could take care of himself. I was a fucking idiot for letting myself believe that I was anything more than what I was: tainted. There was something seriously wrong with me, and I’d ruin Maxim if I stayed. He’d never choose to leave me, so I had to do it.
I’d known this since I’d first fucked up ten years ago, and as much as I tried to convince myself things could be different, they weren’t. I hadn’t changed, and that was the problem. Maxim deserved better than a cheating, lying whore. He knew about the lying, but I hadn’t found the stones to tell him that I was a fucking cheater too. It would break his heart, more than me abruptly leaving had.
I pushed the blankets back and climbed out of bed. If I only had a few days to come up with the money, I couldn’t afford to wallow in bed. I’d start with my bank—that’s what people did when they needed money. I could get a loan, then worry about getting a job to make payments.
I gathered up the soiled bedding out of habit and threw it in the washer. I’d turn it on after I had a shower, then head straight for my bank, and hope everything would work out okay.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kincaid” were the last words I heard before I drowned out the financial advisor sitting across from me. It hadn’t occurred to me that unemployed assholes with bad credit couldn’t just waltz into a bank and get loans. I left the bank feeling ten times worse about my situation, if that were even possible.
The reality of my situation was setting in, and it made my throat dry. Pride be damned, I had to go see my parents. I’d get on my knees and beg if I had to.
My fist fell heavily on the door. I’d already rung the bell several times and was getting antsy. What if no one was home? They could have easily been on vacation or out for tea, or whatever the fuck pretentious rich people did at—I checked my phone—nearly eleven on a Thursday morning.
The distant click of heels grew louder from inside the house, then my mother appeared behind the cracked door. Her eyes widened for a second when she saw me before she schooled her expression.
“Remington, you’ve come back.”
“Yeah, I-ah was hoping to talk to you and Dad about something.” I put my hands in my pockets to keep from fidgeting. She’d always hated that.
“Your father is away on business.”
“Well, can I talk to you then?” My voice sounded desperate, even to my own ears.
Her cold gaze raked me over disapprovingly and she held her ground. “I don’t think that’s wise, Remington.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. “Fine. That’s fine. I just need some money from my trust or something. Just ten grand—I’ll even pay it back.”
“Get yourself cleaned up. Don’t come back until then.” Her words punched me in the gut, then she closed and locked the door in my face.
Getting the money from her was a longshot, but I hadn’t foreseen being denied entry to the house and being turned away like a fucking unwanted salesman. Too ashamed to knock again, I turned and headed down the long driveway, trying to think of another plan.
Just fucking tell Maxim, a small part of me urged—the part that wanted to be selfish and stay. He would pay, and then we could go on being happy. So what if I never had to take any responsibility for my actions? It would be status quo. I was good at taking—no, I was great at it. My parasitic self thrived on others, but I couldn’t do it to Maxim.
Walking always gave me too much fucking time to think, and as such, my mind wandered. Given my history with drugs, I probably looked like a desperate junkie to my mother. I wasn’t into anything too serious when I was younger—okay, coke was serious depending on whom you asked—but they’d threatened to cut me off over it. They didn’t actually do it until I refused to leave Maxim.
Maxim never liked when I used drugs either. He’d asked me to stop, and I did. I fucking did for months. I wasn’t an addict, I just liked how they made me feel and my friends were into it. It sounds so stupid and juvenile to think about it in those terms, but that’s exactly what it was. I’d relapsed the day after Maxim had proposed to me. I was the happiest I’d ever been, and I went to see my friends while Maxim was in class. Everyone gave me their congratulations, and I’d had a lot to drink. By the time I got to Jonas Welliver’s apartment, I was fucking blitzed.
He’d been one of my oldest friends—we grew up together doing the same rich kid bullshit, and we’d rebelled together over the years. When I told him about Maxim and me, he’d suggested we celebrate with a few bumps. I refused at first, but he’d insisted, and I was too damn drunk to remain steadfast.
A few bumps turned into enough lines to spell my full name, and I lost control. I ended up letting Jonas fuck me while I snorted every last bit of coke he slid my way. When I’d woken up, I had several missed calls from Maxim, as well as a few from Mac and my sister.
I’d panicked and gone back to our apartment, but he’d already gone to class for the day. He left me a note, and reading it was what broke me. “I hope you’re okay. Please call me when yo
u come home, love.” I felt like the biggest piece of shit then, and I didn’t know how I could possibly look him in the eye after what I’d done. Being drunk and high was no excuse; I shouldn’t have been there in the first place. Jonas and I had drifted apart after I got together with Maxim. Max got a bad feeling from him, and I’d respected that. I was just too fucking happy after he proposed, and I’d wanted to tell the whole world. I was stupid, and I should have known better.
Instead of making excuses and destroying Maxim, I chose to leave. I knew it would hurt him, but he’d recover from it. If I stayed, he’d forgive me, and I’d inevitably hurt him again. I couldn’t do that to him, so I packed up my shit and left like a coward before he got home. I left my ring on his note along with a few words of my own: “I’m so sorry.”
An icy gust of wind chilled me, jarring me from thoughts of the past. I tried not to think about that day and what it must have been like when Maxim got home. But he’d turned out okay; I’d seen it with my own eyes these past few months. He would be okay again without me.
I made it to the gas station and locked myself inside the washroom while I figured out what to do. All of my old friends in the city had moved on. I broke ties with everyone when I left, and calling up out of the blue would no doubt get me a few “fuck yous” and laughter. Those people would rather watch me burn. There was one person I could try, though. Someone who wouldn’t care about the time or distance between us. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves as I tapped out a text to my sister, asking her if she still had Jonas’s number.
“Imagine my surprise when I saw your fuckin’ name on my call display.” Jonas raked a hand through his freshly cut blond hair and grinned at me like I was his prey. “How long has it been?”
“Around ten years.” I ignored that fact that he kept my number in his contacts after so long. It wasn’t important.
“Wild, man.” He sat back in his chair adjacent to me and spread his legs wide in a casual stance. “So what can I do for you? I’m assuming you called for a reason.”
“I need to borrow some money.”
He hummed, though it sounded more amused than contemplative. “And why would I do that?”
“Call it a favor for old time’s sake. It’s only ten thousand, and I really need it, Jonas.” I cringed at the desperation that had crept into my voice.
“Jonas—not even Joey anymore.” He hummed again, then drummed his fingers on the tops of his thighs. “You might not remember, but I’m not the charitable type, Remy. And not to be rude, but I don’t have a lot of faith in your ability to repay me. Am I wrong?”
My knee started bouncing, though I made myself stop when Jonas’s gaze flicked down to my nervous tick. “I’ll figure something out.”
“I can see that you’re desperate, though my answer is still no. But,” he added abruptly, cutting me off before I could beg, “I might know a way you can earn it.”
The playful lilt of his voice unnerved me. Jonas was trouble when we were kids—I had no idea what he could possibly be involved in now. Fucking rich kids.
“I’ll do anything.”
“That’s the perfect attitude for what I had in mind. Let me reach out to some friends and see if they’re still seeking entertainment for a private party tomorrow. You’re older than they typically like, but the tattoos will be appealing. Do you follow?”
I didn’t need a degree to read between the lines. My gut twisted, and I clenched my teeth to keep my expression neutral. “I understand. I’ll do whatever I have to do to get the money.”
“Sick. We’ll discuss rates once I’ve heard back from them. Do you know your status?”
I nodded. “Negative on all fronts.”
“Hard limits? That will decrease the price.”
“None.”
“You’re giving me all the right answers, Remy. Care to tell me why you need the money so badly? I can’t imagine that your family has gone broke and can’t bail you out for what is essentially pocket change.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not talk about it. It doesn’t change anything.”
He arched his brows at me, then studied me from head to toe, long enough to make me uncomfortable. “Fair enough. Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to make a few calls.”
I swallowed a sharp laugh. Comfortable—Fucking hilarious.
By the time I left Jonas’s condo, I felt hollow. We’d gone over what would be expected of me, and every word he said plunged me deeper into resignation. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t done before, and I’d come out of this. He’d even been “kind enough,” as he’d put it, to give me poppers.
On the ride home I contemplated finishing what I’d started that evening in Palm Springs when the hospital called. I’d lost all will to live up until then, but things had changed. I didn’t know when it’d happened, but being with Maxim again had killed my resolve to go through with dying. I’d been so sure that it was the only choice, and now at my lowest point, I couldn’t even bring myself to do it. Perhaps I was meant to live on and fucking suffer a bit longer—lord knows I deserved it. I couldn’t say those feelings wouldn’t come back after another few years without him. They probably would. I’d deal with it then.
Maxim was home when I got back. I stuck to a partial truth and said I’d gone to see my mother again when he asked where I’d been. It turned out to be the perfect explanation for my shitty mood, and he didn’t press. If he had, I feared I would have spilled everything.
We had a quiet evening, and the next morning was very much the same. I walked with Maxim to the gym in the afternoon, then went back to the apartment to gather up my shit. I couldn’t take it with me in case the guys I was meeting up with were the type to steal from me. I wouldn’t exactly be in a position to stop it. And at least I could say a proper goodbye to Maxim this way.
I’d at least give him that courtesy this time.
Seventeen
Maxim
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with Remy. He’d told me he went to see his mom, but his mood still seemed off. He was distant and was trying to hide it. His efforts made it obvious that he didn’t want to talk about it, so I’d let it go for the night. He really was the worst liar.
Then he’d been acting strange this morning too. I hadn’t wanted to leave, though I didn’t want to suffocate him either. His behavior had been so strange that I’d forgotten to tell him about my meeting with Braddock, and he hadn’t even asked. That should have been my first clue that something wasn’t right with him; he would have normally asked me about it as soon as he saw me. Especially since it was regarding a possible promotion.
“Are you all right, man? You seem a bit”—Macalister waved his hand in front of him—“distracted or something.”
I sighed noncommittally then rolled my eyes and decided to be frank with him. “I’m worried about Remy.”
“Why?”
“He was acting strange last night and this morning. It’s probably nothing, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.”
Macalister’s forehead creased. “Wanna wrap up early today? You’re obviously not going to stop thinking about Remington Steele, so you might as well go home and talk to him.”
I nodded and set my weights back on the rack. “Thank you. I’m sorry.”
“Nah, it’s cool. Dove is home today anyway. You want a ride back?”
“That’s okay. Walking will give me some time to think.”
Macalister held out his fist, and I bumped it with mine. “All right, dude. Text me later.”
I arrived home twenty minutes later to a quiet apartment, and that uneasy feeling in my stomach began to swell. “Rem,” I called out as I toed out of my boots and hung up my jacket. No answer came and I went straight for the bedroom, hoping he was merely asleep. Remy wasn’t there. His bag, however, was fully packed and resting against the wall near the door.
He couldn’t be leaving. Not again. His stuff, although packed, was s
till here, which had to mean he was coming back. I was about to call him when I noticed a piece of paper on the nightstand. I strode over, picked it up, and felt my heart sink.
I can’t do this. I’m so sorry about everything.
I’ll be back later to get my stuff.
“No, no, no, please, no.” I dropped the note and called Remy. I paced around the room like a caged animal, my nerves fraying more with each ring that went unanswered. His voicemail kicked in and I left him a message to please call me back before I hung up and dialed him again.
No answer again. I checked my texts and didn’t see any from him. I sent him one, again asking for him to call, then I called Rosalind.
“Hello?” she answered in a tired voice.
“It’s Maxim. I’m sorry if I woke you, but have you heard from Remy today?”
“No, sorry. Is he okay?” the tired edge in her voice switched to concern.
“I don’t know. I can’t reach him. He left a note saying he’d be back later, but something feels wrong.”
“I’ll call around and see if I can find him.” She took a breath as if she was going to say something, then cut herself off. “He might be involved in some shit, Max. He called me yesterday for the number of one of his old friends. The guy was a douche back then, and he’s grown into an even bigger asshole.”
“Who is it?”
“Jonas Welliver. You used to know him too.”
The name sounded so familiar. I couldn’t quite place him, though. Think, think. “Do you mean Joey?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
I felt like I was going to be sick. I’d hated him back then and thought he was dangerous. Remy hadn’t seen it, but Joey was a predator and a user; why would Remy want to talk to him now?
Somebody to Love (Crazy Little Thing Book 3) Page 16
