by Erin Hayes
I kiss her forehead without thinking, and the movement catches both of us off-guard. I swallow, trying to act natural from it. “I’ll call my driver.”
It only takes five minutes for Charles to arrive, but Max has nearly chewed away her fingernails from biting them so much. I keep catching them to try to make her stop, but she only absently pulls away from me to start doing it again.
Whatever has her upset must really be worrying.
She practically falls into the limo when it arrives. I slide in next to her. My driver peers at us in the rearview mirror.
“Where to?” he asks.
She hesitates as emotions battle on her face. She’s debating whether or not to drop me off at my apartment building first.
Her grips slackens in mine, and I think she’s going to tell him to go to Central Park.
Her voice is almost strangled when she speaks.
“To Hoboken Memorial Hospital.”
10
Max and I look completely out of place when we hurry to the reception desk of the hospital. The nurse looks up at us, a shocked expression on her face.
I guess there aren’t too many people dressed up for the red carpet going to the hospital these days. I would have thought there’d be more emergencies from people who are at high society functions.
“Can I help you?” the woman asks.
“Where’s Gotham Barber?” Max asks, exasperated. I pick up on her son’s different last name. “He was just admitted here, and I’m his mother…”
“Maxine!” an unfamiliar voice shouts. I turn towards the voice, frowning, but Max rushes past me and into an old man’s waiting arms. I watch the two of them cautiously. He looks to be in his mid-sixties with thinning white hair and a stoop to his back. There’s a likeness in their cheekbones and their build.
So this is her father Max briefly mentioned at the gala. I suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands, so I just stick them in my pockets.
“He’s all right,” her father says. “The doctors are looking at him right now.”
Max pulls back and searches the old man’s face. “What happened, Dad?”
“A seizure.”
She sighs. “I told you, Dad, that unless—”
He cuts her off. “It lasted for more than five minutes.” He gives her a hard look. “I didn’t know what to do other than call the ambulance to take him to the hospital, because…” His voice trails off, and his gaze travels to me. He frowns and gives me a once-over. “Who the hell are you?”
Definitely not impressed by my five-thousand-dollar tux, nor the fact that I drove his daughter all the way here from the Metropolitan Museum. I think I kind of like him.
He’s a no-bullshitter, just like Max.
I thrust my hand out. “I’m Damien Eros,” I say with a tight smile. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Galloway.”
The old man takes my hand and gives me a stern handshake. Now I can see where Max gets her strength from. Aside from the stoop in his back, there’s a bit of muscle on his frame, like maybe his bad posture is from a past injury.
“Call me Hector,” he says, with his same air of gruffness. I wonder how much Max has told him about us. If he even knows about our arrangement.
Thankfully, she steps in to—finally—lend me a helping hand. “Mr. Eros is my boss,” she tells him.
Hector narrows his eyes at me. “So, you’re the one who’s been making Maxine work late these past few weeks. Don’t you realize that she has a very sick son at home that she needs to take care of?”
“Daddy,” she chides under her breath, looking at me and pleading with her eyes not to fight him. So, I’ll operate under the assumption that he doesn’t know about our agreement, and he doesn’t look like the type to read gossip magazines. “It’s a very busy time for the firm,” she explains further. “Mr. Eros was nice enough to give me a raise to help out with the house and Gotham’s treatment.”
My blood cools in my heart.
Suddenly, everything falls into place. From Max accepting the agreement in the first place to her wanting to protect her family from the spotlight.
It’s all because of her son and father.
And I feel like an ass for not knowing. I look at her and try to tell her telepathically that if she had only opened up to me, I would have helped a long time ago.
“You can’t replace this time with Gotham with money,” Hector lectures her. “He misses you.”
Max sighs. “It’s just for a little bit, Daddy. It’s all for him. And you.”
He sniffs at me. “Right. What the hell are you two wearing anyways?”
I’d almost forgotten that Max and I are dressed to the nines, and a sharp bark of laughter escapes me. I end up smirking and turning away. “We had an engagement,” I reply.
Max gives me a cold glare at my choice of words. “It’s a part of my job, Dad.”
Like that explains everything. She’s never been dressed up in a Grecian-inspired ballgown before, but her father takes this at face value and nods. He does grin at her though. “You look pretty, Maxine.”
She flushes a deep crimson and refuses to look my way as a doctor comes through a set of double doors to talk to them. Max gives me a look that says to stay away, so I head over to the waiting area and end up sitting next to a baby that watches me with wide eyes. I feel self-conscious and smile at him. Then I make a funny face, and the baby giggles.
See, I’m good with kids.
Then I look down and see that every gossip magazine on the coffee table is about Max and me. Steven’s really been working overtime to get the word out that I’m not a playboy. I pick up the closest magazine and flip through it, curious to see if there’s anything I’ve missed.
They’re all glowing reports about Max and me. And based on the accompanying photos, no one would ever doubt that it was a real relationship.
Even myself.
I glance up every so often to make sure that the conversation hasn’t turned too dire. It’s an intense conversation, one that has Max nodding every so often. She looks ill at ease, but no further tears fall, so I take that as a good sign.
The baby’s mother notices that I’m the same man on the cover of the magazine, and her eyebrows pinch together in disbelief.
I try ignoring her and just sit back and wait for Max and her father to finish talking with the doctor.
At one point, her father walks back to where I’m sitting and sits next to me.
“Gotham should be all right,” he tells me with a sigh.
I close my eyes and nod. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“Can I ask you something?” he asks.
“Shoot.”
“What kind of asshole keeps a woman away from a son who has cerebral palsy?”
I widen my eyes and stare at him. More pieces of the puzzle that is Maxine’s life click into place, and I feel even more like a dick. “She hasn’t told you about me?”
“Not much. Only that you’re a womanizer and you’d put your shirt on backward without her help,” Hector says with a huff, sitting back.
That makes me chuckle. “She’s right. But I had no idea that she had a son with special needs,” I admit. “Max has kept her private life very separate from her professional life.”
You know, aside from pretending to be my girlfriend. But I don’t bring that up.
To my surprise, the old man smirks. “Yeah, she tends to do that. Bottles up and keeps everything inside her.” He nods to his daughter, as she’s finishing up. “She thinks she’s tough that way.”
“Maxine is one of the toughest people I know.”
“Damn straight.”
I wonder if he’s even looked down at the magazines on the table to see his daughter and me on the cover with questions flying about our status. Luckily, he doesn’t glance down once as Max comes over to us.
“He said that Gotham is responding to their medication,” she says with a tired smile. “So that’s good.”
She sounds exhausted
, like she’s run a full marathon.
“Can we see him?” Hector asks.
She nods and then hesitates, looking at me. “Listen, Damien,” she says under her breath, “thank you for the ride out. I’m so sorry to waste your time—and your money—like that but—”
“He’s coming to see Gotham,” Hector growls as he gets to his feet.
Max blinks. “What?”
Hector thrusts his thumb toward me. “If he’s going to keep you late every night, he needs to know why you’re doing this.” He glares at me. “And if he has a conscience, he will let you get home earlier.”
I don’t say anything because my heart is pounding in my ears as I wait to see what Max decides. I’d already made up my mind to let her go home early on a permanent basis, our little agreement be damned. I hadn’t realized it would get in the way of a child in need.
“All right,” she says as she rubs at her temples. “You can come.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, but she shoots me a warning look that shuts me up. She’s not happy about me coming along, but that seems to satisfy her father’s opinion of me.
Hector and I follow her through the double doors. She talks to the doctor the entire time, and I hear snippets about what to expect and new medications they can try to keep Gotham’s seizures under control. I try not to listen too much—it feels like an invasion of privacy, especially since Max has been keeping it secret all this time—but there’s a part of me that hurts.
She doesn’t trust me to keep her secrets. She’s seen me at my absolute worst—from different women in my bed to overindulgence and more—and yet she won’t let me see her at her best.
I wish there were some way to get past her barriers and really understand the true Maxine Galloway.
But that’s for another time. Right now, there’s a boy that needs his mother.
We arrive at a room with a boy of about seven years sitting on the bed inside. He looks really small and scared underneath the mint-colored hospital sheets, surrounded by machines and hospital equipment.
When he turns to the door, his face lights up. “Mommy!”
Max, like water breaking through a dam, rushes forward and takes the boy in her arms. “Gotham, you had me so worried!”
The boy pulls back and snickers at his mother. “I’m fine, Mommy. I am.” There’s a desperation in his voice that I catch. He’s trying to protect Max from worry and fear, even though he had a seizure. He has Max’s dark hair, and a pair of glasses magnify his eyes as he peers up at Hector and me.
He looks like a normal, healthy boy at first. One would think that he’s like any other seven-year-old boy, lively and vivacious. But when he sits up to hug his mother, I notice that the muscle definition of his legs underneath the sheets is skinnier than it should be, and there are leg braces propped against a chair.
“Who’re you?” he asks me point-blank. “Are you Mommy’s boyfriend?”
“Gotham,” Max chides softly. “This is Mr. Eros. He’s Mommy’s boss and a nice guy.”
A nice guy. I haven’t been called that too often in my incredibly long life. I notice there’s the omission about me dating her, but I don’t comment on that.
“Why is he dressed like that?” He looks back at her. “Why are you dressed like that? Like you’re going to prom?”
All I can do is smile because I don’t know what to say. How can a group of three mortals silence a god?
It seems to happen a lot around Max.
I hear Max’s shaky breath as she tries not to laugh and fails. “We were at something like a prom,” she says, looking up at me. “But we came here to see you.”
“And take me home?” Gotham asks hopefully. “The green Jell-O here tastes bad.”
Max glances over at the doctor who gives a confirming nod. “We’re just going to hold you here a little longer,” he says, “so that we can be sure you’re not sick.”
“I’m always sick,” Gotham says with a frown. “Because I have See Pee.”
“That’s what he calls ‘cerebral palsy,’” Hector supplies for me under his breath. “He’s been hearing it as ‘CP’ his whole life.”
“Hey,” Max says, stroking the boy’s hair. “We’re going to get you better, okay? I promise.”
He doesn’t say anything further, but I can read the doubt on his face. Ouch. A seven-year-old without hope is something that I hate seeing. But there’s a lot of his mother in him, a strength that transcends the state of his body.
He looks back at me. “Do you like board games, Mr. Arrows?”
After being associated with a naked baby shooting arrows at people to make them fall in love, I like the name. “Only the coolest games,” I say. “Do you have any?”
He nods seriously. “Can we play when we get home, Mommy?” he asks Max. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s including me in his question.
Again, Max hesitates, then she sighs and sits back. “You don’t want Mr. Eros at home,” she says. “Besides, you haven’t cleaned your room, and you aren’t cleaning it tonight, not after this, and—”
“Please?” His begging cuts through her, and she wavers. Well, now I know that the way to Max’s heart is through her son. As it should be.
Our gazes meet, and I shrug. “I have no plans for the rest of the night.”
A pained expression crosses her face, and I want to tell her that I’m okay with missing the rest of the gala. There are more important things than an event like that—including her very bright son.
“If it’s not too late when they let you go,” she tells him. “Until then, you just have to wait.”
Gotham gives an excited yelp and sits impatiently while the doctors assess him. I can tell that Max has been through this many times in her life—she has the air of someone who has spent a lot of time in the hospital, and she asks many questions that a novice in the hospital wouldn’t think to ask.
I’m amazed at this side of Max that I’ve never witnessed before.
I feel like I’m only at the tip of the iceberg when it comes to Maxine Galloway. The more I learn about her, the more I want to know.
And that terrifies me.
11
“Sorry!”
Gotham giggles as his piece lands on top of mine. He takes way too much delight in moving my little peg to the beginning of the board.
“What? You cheated!” I exclaim with mock despair. I pick another card and grumble, moving my displaced piece forward one position.
That only serves to make the boy giggle even more.
“You can’t cheat at Sorry, Mr. Arrows,” he explains with the weary air of an old man telling a child that he had to go to school uphill in the snow. He picks a card and scores a six, leading his last peg on the home stretch to winning.
“Well, you’re doing something to beat me,” I say wryly as I pick for my turn. I come up with a two. “I’m not used to losing.”
“I’m not, either,” Gotham says. He goes again and gets the exact amount he needs to bring his peg home.
Meaning that he won his third game in a row. The boy whoops as he counts the steps to have his peg join the other three and throws his hands up in the air. I have the feeling that due to his condition, he has a lot of pent-up energy that he can’t just run off—not with his leg braces. He’d be bouncing off the walls right now if he could, as he’s so happy about his win.
I chuckle and sit back. “I don’t get it!” I shake my head and cross my arms. “You’re too good, Gotham.”
The boy grins. “Play again?”
I’m about to tell him that my ego is bruised too much from losing to him, but his mother interrupts us from the doorway. “Not now, Gotham. It’s time for bed.”
She’s changed out her ballgown and is wearing a pair of pajama bottoms and a singlet that shows off her smooth skin and slim figure. It’s not something I could imagine any of the people at the gala wearing, but she looks at home.
This is yet another side of Max that I’ve never seen befo
re.
The boy lets out a groan and sits back, resting on his palms. “Mo-ooommmm,” he says. “But I don’t want to go bed.”
You would have thought bedtime—especially after a visit to the hospital—would be welcome, but he’s acting like it’s the worst thing ever.
“You’ve had a very busy day,” Max says, “and I’m sure ‘Mr. Arrows’ wants to get home, too.”
I can’t help my smile as she helps him to his feet and hands him his crutches. I’ve learned that the boy can get around very well with those things, even if he can’t run around like other kids. He can still keep up with his mother as she leads him out of the living room.
“Good night, Mr. Arrows!”
“Night, Gotham,” I say, thinking that would be the end of it, but Gotham turns to his mother, eyes wide.
“Mommy, can Mr. Arrows come over tomorrow?” he asks.
Max opens her mouth to answer and then looks at me helplessly, the color in her cheeks draining. “We’ll talk about it,” she says as she takes him down the hallway, presumably to his bedroom.
Alone, I sit back on the sofa and look around at Max’s house. It’s a single-family home in Jersey City, about a half-hour commute from Manhattan. It has both her mark and her father’s mark, a blend of someone from New York who is trying to update the place to be more chic, and an old man who is completely set in his ways.
Painted wood paneling is on the walls of the living room, and the floor has been updated to a slate gray wood. But there’s a La-Z Boy recliner with an afghan over one arm and the New York Times crossword on the other. The sofa I’m on is a gray suede, a few shades lighter than the floor.
And despite the warring styles between Max and her father, toys are on the sofa and the floor. Pictures of the boy dot the wall, and there are marker drawings on the refrigerator.
I like this blend of Max’s family. It’s like there’s a little bit of all three of them here, and it makes it far homier than most other places I’ve been. I can honestly say it feels like home.
I sigh and sit back. Unlike where I live.
“Sorry.”
