Blitzed

by Alexa Martin

  “The Schuyler sisters!” I screech. It’s so high-pitched as it leaves my mouth that I wouldn’t be surprised if a flock of dogs rushed to us. I should probably be embarrassed or apologetic . . . or both, but I’m too fucking happy to even consider it. “No! Oh my god!” I jump into Maxwell’s arms, peppering his face with kisses and wrapping my arms so tight around his neck that he has to loosen my grip. “Hamilton? How did you even do this? It’s been sold out for months!”

  “I have my ways.” He touches his lips to mine, his eyes boring into mine. I can’t tell you what passes between us in that moment; all I know is that it’s big.

  Battle of Yorktown huge.

  * * *

  —

  “ARE YOU STILL crying?” Maxwell asks, and I’m stuck in the hard place of trying to decide whether or not to punch him or wipe my tears.

  But when the snot threatens to fall with my salty tears, I decide to wipe my face.

  “How are you not crying? When Eliza was hovered over Philip’s body and then after Hamilton died and she was all alone, just ensuring his legacy and starting an orphanage? How did you not cry?” I narrow my puffy, cat-eyeliner-smeared eyes at him. “Are you a witch?”

  It would make sense. There has to be some wicked flaw as to why he’s still single. I wonder if his dick is his wand?

  “What are you looking at?” he asks, which makes me acutely aware that I’m staring at the bulge in his pants.

  I snap my head forward and focus on the taillights of the car in front of us. “So where are we off to next?”

  His bed?

  Dammit!

  I never used to be such a creep. He for sure put some kind of spell on me.

  Thankfully, he lets my change of topic slide. “Do you like Mexican food?”

  “What kind of question is that? Do you even know me?” I don’t think you can be a Denver native and not love Mexican food. And besides Mexico, Colorado makes it best. I could live a long and happy life on a diet consisting of nothing more than green chili. Do you know what it was like for me to move to Texas and not have green chili? Torture! If I dedicated half the time I spent calling restaurants and asking if they had it on the menu to my studies, I would’ve graduated in a year. But you know . . . priorities.

  He smirks and it warms my heart that he seems to find my slight dramatics endearing. “That’s what I thought. I made a dinner reservation at La Loma.”

  I almost lean over and start kissing him right then. La Loma is hands down my favorite restaurant in the entire world. “You know, some might worry that you are peaking way too early.”

  The “some” in that statement would be me.

  Shoes, Hamilton, and green chili in one day? There has to be a catch.

  “Then they would be underestimating me, and I love proving people wrong.”

  The timbre of his voice makes my toes curl because I’m pretty sure that he means me and he’s going to prove me wrong in bed.

  And I am not mad at it.

  I squeeze my thighs together and bump the number of margaritas I’ll be drinking tonight to two. “Well, okay then.”

  La Loma recently moved from their longtime location in the Highlands to prime real estate in the heart of Downtown Denver right across the street from the Brown Palace. It’s a boss move I can only dream about making. This new location also comes with valet parking instead of the pothole-ridden parking lot you’d have to navigate because their food was worth the risk of ruining your tires.

  The valet attendant climbs into the driver’s side without acknowledging what a sick car the Tesla is or who’s driving it. It’s probably the most professional shit I’ve seen in a long time, and now I’m equally as impressed with the curbside and table-side service.

  Even though I’m about as fancy as I’ll ever get, we fit right in with the eclectic Monday night crowd. Maxwell places his hand on the small of my back as we walk in. Normally, this is just the kind of possessive he-man move that would turn me all the way off. But like everything to do with Maxwell, this feels different. With him, it’s not possessiveness, it’s desire—like he can’t handle being close to me and not touching me. A feeling I completely understand because I feel the exact same way, and it takes everything in me not to completely melt into his touch.

  “Killer shoes,” the hostess says to me as we approach. Her lustful eyes are directed at my shoes and not the fine man beside me.

  “Oh my god, aren’t they?” I twist my ankle around, giving her a good look at all angles. Then I realize how rude I sound. “Shit, sorry.” Heat rises in my cheeks as I plant my feet firmly on the ground. “I meant to just say thank you.”

  She waves off my apology. “Girl, don’t apologize. If I had those on my feet, I’d be standing on tabletops and carrying around a megaphone so people would look.”

  Well, shit.

  Now I want to poach La Loma’s employees because I really want her to work at HERS.

  “I’m Brynn.” I stretch out my hand, taking her by surprise.

  “Romy,” she says, shaking my hand back.

  She’s got a great handshake.

  “How’s your insurance and do you enjoy reality shows?” I ask before I can think this all the way through.

  Her eyebrows furrow together and her face scrunches up in confusion, and Maxwell lets out a deep bark of laughter and speaks before she gets the chance to answer. “We have a reservation under Lewis for two.”

  “What? Oh! Right.” Poor, flustered Romy shakes her head, her long, bouncy curls falling in front of her face, and reaches for two menus. “This way.”

  She leads us to our table, the faint music and loud conversations distracting from the awkward silence that’s fallen between us.

  “Here you are.” She gestures to the small corner table nestled against the brick wall. “Julia will be your server tonight.”

  “Sorry for making that awkward,” I say as I take my seat, successfully making this interaction more awkward. “What I meant to say is if you ever find yourself at HERS in Five Points, and I’m not there, tell whoever’s working that Brynn said your bill is on the house.”

  Her eyes light up and my shoulders fall by what feels like a solid three inches. “Oh my god. I’ve been dying to go there! I knew you looked familiar. Love the Player is, like, my new favorite show. Me and my girls have watch parties every week. I don’t know much about football, but I’m a reality TV expert.”

  Don’t offer her a job again. Don’t offer her a job again. Don’t—

  “Well . . . I’m always looking for new people to join our staff. And giving genuine compliments and being well versed in reality TV are two of my main requirements, if you’re interested in joining our team.”

  Oh well. I only have so much restraint. Okay. Whatever. I have zero restraint but that’s what makes me a motherfuckin’ go-getter.

  Romy looks over her shoulder like she’s afraid her boss is going to appear and ream her out for encouraging me. “Is it true a lot of Mustangs players and their wives come in or is that just for the show?”

  I studiously ignore Maxwell, who is watching me with unabashed interest in my answer.

  “Lots of wives come in and a few players, but nobody impressive.” I watch Maxwell’s reaction out of the corner of my eye and am super satisfied when he has to pick up his menu to hide his smile.

  Romy shrugs. “I doubt I’d recognize any of the players anyways. Except TK Moore.” She closes her eyes as if she’s conjuring up a maybe-dressed picture of him in her head. “It’s a shame he retired. That hair and that body? He was the only reason I watched.” Her eyes fly open and both hands cover her mouth, and I have no doubt her brown skin is warm to the touch. “Oh my god. I am so sorry.”

  Maxwell is full-out laughing now, and I’m pretty sure I found Vonnie’s long-lost sister.

  “So you’re hired. Se
riously, if you want it, stop by and we’ll get things sorted.” I pull out one of my business cards that I always have stocked in my wallet and hand it to her. “Also, would you happen to be related to Vonnie Lamar?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Come work at HERS and you’ll see,” I say. I think adding a little bit of mystery is always a good idea when courting new employees.

  “Okay, I will.” She looks at the card and then smiles a megawatt smile. “Enjoy your dinner.”

  “I’m not used to sitting with a celebrity,” Maxwell jokes as Romy hurries back to the empty hostess stand with a growing crowd. “Do you think she’ll validate our parking now?”

  “It’s complimentary valet.” I roll my eyes.

  He smiles wide, his white teeth bright against his full lips. “For ballers like you, maybe.”

  “This is true. You really need to step your game up, Lewis.”

  “Eh.” He lays his menu flat on the table and cocks his head to the side. “It’s a turn-on being with a powerful woman.”

  “Hi, I’m Julia.” A peppy woman in black slacks and a white button-up appears next to us. “Can I start you folks with something to drink?”

  “A margarita on the rocks, and stat, Julia.”

  “I’ll just have water, thanks.” Maxwell’s heated eyes don’t move from me as he orders.

  “Got it.” Julia tucks her notepad into her apron and turns on her heel.

  Maxwell looks at me over the top of his menu. “And to think, this entire night is just the appetizer for when we get back home.”

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  “We could always just order to go,” I suggest.

  At that, he throws his head back and laughs. His entire beautiful face somehow becomes more beautiful, and my insides go liquid knowing that I made it that way. And I know, without a doubt in my mind, that nothing in this world could ruin this night.

  “Brynn?” A finger taps me on the shoulder, and I turn to see Eloise. “Oh my god! Hi!”

  But she’s not alone.

  Well, fuck. I guess there is something—or someone—who could ruin this night.

  “Hey, Bro,” Theo says, something so off about his tone and the glint in his eyes that a chill goes down my spine . . . and not the good kind either. “You’re a hard guy to get in touch with.”

  Twenty-nine

  “Brynn,” Maxwell says. The carefree man who was just in front of me is long gone, and a version of him that I’ve never seen is in its place. His eyes are like ice. The tendons in his neck are bulging and his hands are balled up in fists against the tabletop. “Go find Julia and tell her we’ll be taking our order to go.”

  “We can’t take margaritas to go,” I joke, but Maxwell’s eyes slice to me and shut me up.

  “You know how much I love your smart mouth, but please, just this one time, please just go.”

  My eyes flicker between him and his brother. Both of them are still, the only movement is the twitching of their square jaws.

  Side by side, they look nothing alike. Though I thought Theo seemed built when we first met, he looks a bit like a slouch with Maxwell in front of him. There are deep lines surrounding Theo’s mouth that can only come from frowning, which is a stark contrast to Maxwell’s unmarked face.

  “Umm . . .” Eloise shifts nervously beside me, looking between the two brothers. “Am I missing something here?”

  I jump out of my seat, and the loud squeak of the chair against the distressed wooden floor draws the eyes of diners nearby. “Come with me?” I ask Eloise, but I grab her hand and start pulling her away before she has an opportunity to answer.

  “What the hell is that about?” she asks once we’re out of earshot.

  “I have no idea,” I tell her honestly. “I knew they weren’t close and that Maxwell wasn’t Theo’s biggest fan, but I think there’s more going on than I ever imagined.” Not that I actually gave it much thought . . . at least before. Now the adorably inquisitive side of me is dying to get to the bottom of this.

  When I find Julia, she’s standing behind the bar, grabbing what I can only pray is my margarita. “Excuse me.” The pitch of my voice raises a few decibels. “Is there any way we can order our meal to go? Something came up.”

  “Of course.” She eyes the margarita in her hand. “Do you still want this?”

  “Is water wet?” I ask before I can check myself.

  I should really invest in some kind of class to help me develop a filter.

  Luckily for me, she laughs, and even if she didn’t find me funny, I’m standing much too close for her to spit in my drink.

  “Then here you go. Are you ready to order now, or do you want me to come find you in a few?”

  “Um . . .” I know what I want. I’m a creature of habit when it comes to food. But Maxwell and I are too new for me to know what to order for him. “Let me go ask him what he wants and I’ll find you.” I glance at Eloise, who is on her tippy-toes, craning her neck, trying to get a good look at what’s happening at our table. I tap her shoulder and she spins around with the same expression Ace wore when I caught him standing by the freezer, eating ice cream out of the container.

  “What? Hi! Sorry, what?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek not to laugh at her. “Watch my drink for me?”

  “Can I have some?” she counters.

  “I knew I always liked you,” I say. Even though . . . lies. I totally hated her, but mainly because I was just being a hater. “Of course you can.”

  “Then yes, I can.” She smiles and I’m pretty sure the group of businessmen sitting at the table behind us fall in love.

  “Be right back.”

  I don’t make it far. Only four steps to be exact before two angry sets of eyes stop me in my tracks.

  “Um, I was just coming to get your order.” I bite my lip, hating the hesitation in my voice.

  I keep my gaze leveled on Maxwell, but it’s hard to focus when Theo’s angry one is damn near burning a hole in the side of my face. But even distracted, there’s no missing the warring emotions crossing Maxwell’s beautiful face. “I’m so sorry to do this, but I have to go,” he says.

  My head jerks back so fast, the room starts to spin. “What?”

  “I don’t want him near you,” he whispers, his mouth so close that his lips graze my ear as he talks.

  But even though my body is a fucking traitor and even that tiny bit of contact sends lightning bolts straight to my core, my mind is sound and my hackles shoot up. “What does that even mean?” I keep my tone hushed, not wanting to draw more attention to our group than the hostile waves rolling off Maxwell and Theo have already garnered. “I’m grown.”

  He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. I know he’s holding on by a thread and I think on my words. I’m grown enough to put myself in his situation and think about how I would feel if my mom suddenly showed up. The last thing I’d want is for him to witness that.

  “Okay,” I say before he gets the chance to speak. “Go, I’ll take an Uber home.”

  “No.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the valet ticket. “Take my car. I’m going to ride with Theo and I’ll call you when I’m done.”

  “I . . . I . . .” Okay, now my mind stops working, and before the circuits repair themselves, he sticks the ticket in my hand and is out the door. “I can’t drive your car! I’m a terrible driver!” I yell to the now-closed door.

  Fuck.

  I really need that margarita, and now I can’t have it.

  “I’m a fantastic driver.” Eloise places the cold margarita glass in my hands. “And you look like you need to get drunk.”

  I contemplate saying no and heading back to Maxwell’s house to wait up for him. But that only lasts for about one point two seconds. Then I realize the be
st date I’ve ever been on ended in catastrophe and I won’t be getting any tonight. I lift the salt-covered rim to my mouth and down the remainder of the margarita, not even stopping when my brain freezes in my head.

  “Let’s go to HERS.” I put the empty glass on the table and dig out enough cash to cover my drink and give Julia a sizable tip. “I know the owner, we can drink for free.”

  Thirty

  Maxwell had to come see me.

  Taking the keys to someone’s car is a fantastic way to make sure they follow up. Only if they offer, of course. Don’t go to jail trying to get a second date. But if the opportunity presents itself, I definitely encourage taking it.

  He was properly apologetic, and I was—if I do say so myself—properly understanding. But that was where it ended. I didn’t invite him inside and he didn’t ask. I think it was a heavy evening for all involved, and a short break was needed.

  The problem with this? Our break has now lasted a week. I mean, we text and shit, but I’m not sixteen anymore, and a good-morning text doesn’t do what it used to. I understand that the regular season is coming to an end and if they want to keep their playoff hopes alive, he needs to focus. If anyone understands the demands of a job, it’s me.

  What is pissing me the fuck off though, is he’s had this job for years and still managed to multitask.

  This is a problem.

  Maxwell doesn’t like confrontation. He doesn’t like getting angry or having people angry at him . . . which is funny when you think about how many crazed football fans hate him. Whereas I don’t give a single fuck. If I have a problem, I want it dealt with immediately. I’d rather get in a scream fest than walk on eggshells pretending things are fine when they’re clearly not.

  “Ew.” Charli slides into her reserved, game-day chair across the bar. “Who peed in your Lucky Charms?”

  “Gross.” My stomach turns. “I don’t think that’s even the saying, and now you’ve fucked up marshmallows for me.” Which makes me even more irritated because I just ordered some for the seasonal hot cocoa cocktail I’m putting on the menu.