Breathless (Players to Men)

by Georgia Lyn Hunter

  Max hadn’t said anything about this latest invasion of his life. But I was so grateful they hadn’t tracked us to my home as yet. And hoped it stayed that way.

  “Don’t worry, I have a backup plan in place,” Jack said.

  God! I scrubbed my face, dreading to think what that was, and prayed nothing horrible happened. Max could be so stubborn at times. It was probably why he hadn’t told me. I guess I should be thanking Jack instead. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

  “No problem. You’ll just have to protect me when he comes after my balls for bringing you, but I thought you should be there.”

  A smile tugged at my mouth. These guys had no filters whatsoever.

  Jack didn’t take me to the Conservatory but to a hall downtown. He ushered me into a dimly lit theatre. On the stage, with spotlight cast over him, a longhaired guy dressed smartly in a button-down shirt and dress pants played a violin solo.

  Men and women occupied a few of the center rows near the stage. Several more were seated throughout the place.

  Jack ushered me to a seat at the back. War slouched in one, looked up, and grunted. “He hasn’t come on yet. No fights either—pity, but all looks good.”

  What was with these guys and cheering for a ruckus?

  Sighing, I sat next to War as Jack took up the other seat, flanking me.

  Voices sounded, more like protests.

  “Our boy’s on!” War grinned.

  Max strode out onto the stage, and the spotlight hit him, highlighting the determined set of his jaw. While the others had been dressed in formal or semi-formal attire, not my guy. Max wore jeans, a faded Black Sabbath t-shirt, and biker boots. He still sported the plaited leather bracelet with my initial from the fair. I hadn’t taken off the tiger-eye earrings, either.

  A thin, tall man with a receding hairline scurried after him. “You are not on the list.”

  “Uh-oh, asshole director’s asking for it.” Jack chuckled.

  Max stopped. Slowly, he faced the skinny man. “Unless you plan to physically throw me out,” he said, tone cool, calm, “I suggest you get out of my way.”

  The director sputtered. Then he straightened his posture. “You are still on probation after your willful destruction of school property—”

  “For which, I believe the Meade-Sinclair Foundation has generously contributed twice over in reparation.”

  The man’s narrow features reddened. He turned to the people in the front row. “He did not make the cut. Unfortunately, some will never aspire to much, no matter how talented one’s parent was. So if you need to take a break, you can do so now.”

  A soft cacophony of voices reached me from the people seated in front. Fighting the urge to knock the supercilious man’s teeth down his throat, I ground my molars. Max’s entire posture went rigid. Even from a distance, I could feel his anger radiating out.

  Oh, no. Max, focus. Please, don’t lose it now.

  “Oh, man, that’s not good,” War muttered, then yelled, “Knock his lights out, boyo.”

  I sat forward, nails digging into my palms. Then Max walked right past the horrid man and sat down at the baby grand. He didn’t even seem to care that some of the men in front rose. Undeterred, he ran his fingers over the keys and started to play the slow build-up to a piece I’d never heard before.

  I went motionless in my seat, as did the handful of people walking out. They sat again.

  More spotlights came on and focused on Max, highlighting his pale hair and chiseled features, and as his music drew him in, an intensity invaded his every movement, the sounds rolling out into the audience. The dark notes he let loose rushed over the stage and poured into the auditorium, grabbing me with their potency. His fingers moved fast, swift, and with absolute precision. Suddenly, the tone changed. Softer, melodious notes drifted from the piano and swept over the arena as if chasing away the dark.

  Goosebumps skittered over my skin, and my heart pounded hard against my ribs. Somehow, I felt it was his life he was expressing in his music. Was I the light, then? My eyes burned. He performed like an angel—hell, he looked nothing like that with his tatts on display and grim features, but the music. God, his music…

  By the time the last strains of the music drifted away, tears rolled down my face at the beauty of what I’d heard and was still wrapped in.

  “Bravo—bravo!” I jumped up and clapped. Loudly.

  Jack and War whistled.

  Startled, Max looked up, his gaze darted about then settled on us at the back. He smiled. And the grin that always made my heart trip took form. I swiped at my tears with my long sleeve.

  Max’s focus shifted to the front row. “That little rendition is an ode to my mother.”

  With that, he gave a mocking and flourishing bow, then slid his hands into the torn back pockets of his jeans and sauntered off the stage, ignoring the calls of, “Wait—wait!” from several of the people in the front row.

  Hurriedly, I followed Jack and War outside into the street. In the cool, overcast afternoon, I waited near Max’s Jeep, anxious to see him. Both the guys leaned against the SUV, their gazes on the doorway.

  Five minutes turned to ten and then fifteen, still no sign of Max. My worry grew. “I’m going to find him.”

  “Nah, here’s our boy,” War said.

  Max finally stepped out of the door, and I sprinted over, hugging him hard. “That was the most heart-moving concerto I’ve ever heard. You’re amazing.”

  His arms tightened around me. “Thanks, baby.”

  Easing back, I searched his face. At the flush on his tan features, unease took hold. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. I got delayed speaking to some people.”

  “Well done, man.” Both Jack and War clapped Max on the back.

  “Thanks.” But the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  “What did they say about your music?” I asked.

  His shoulder lifted in a shrug. “Guess I’ll never be as brilliant as my mother.”

  “God, I never wanted to punch anyone like I did him when he said that,” I muttered.

  “I can do it for you,” War offered.

  I gave him a wry smile. “Maybe let the air out of his tires?”

  “Done.” War strode off.

  Jack laughed. “Never say that kind of thing to him.”

  Max said nothing. He opened the Jeep door for me and helped me inside. As I buckled in, he rounded the hood to the driver’s side. “I’ll see you around,” he told Jack.

  “Meet up at Mulligan’s later?”

  “Yeah… Maybe.”

  We headed back to the apartment, but Max’s silence troubled me. I twisted in my seat to face him. “Talk to me, Max. Tell me what’s going on. I sense a distance in you, and feel as if you’ve gone so far I can’t reach you.”

  He stopped at a red traffic light and glanced at me. “That wasn’t my intention. I’m glad you were there…I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you disappointed in me—”

  “No, Max. I should have been more supportive instead of worrying about what people would say if this had turned into a debacle.”

  Never again. I had to unclench my jaw to speak, my anger at myself and that stupid director was so great. “He’s an a-hole, Max. You’re an amazing pianist.”

  Finally, one corner of his mouth quirked into a smile, and he took off again as the lights changed. “It’s okay. I just wanted that piece aired for my mother.” After a moment, he said, “They want me.”

  I blinked then laughed. “Of course, they do. You’re brilliant.”

  “I told them I’d think about it.”

  I nodded because I understood. The dumbasses were quick to write him off because of what had happened, with no clue as to why it had. “I’m glad you didn’t accept their offer straight off—Max, wait. Stop the car!”

  Cutting me a frowning look, he pulled over to the curb. “What’s wrong, baby?”

  “Won’t be a minute.” I grabbed my purse from my bag and r
an to the flower stall outside Liana’s Florist. Selecting a mixed bunch of flowers, I paid for the bouquet and hurried back to the idling Jeep and climbed in.

  Max lifted an eyebrow, green eyes teasing now, making my heart feel lighter. “For me? You shouldn’t have.”

  Laughing, I shut the door and pulled out the only rose in the lot, a pink one, and handed it to him. “For you.”

  “Why the flowers?”

  “They’re for your mother.”

  His expression shut down. “Thank you for the thought, Logan, but no.”

  I studied his grim features. “Do you visit her?”

  He remained silent.

  “Max?”

  “No, I haven’t, okay? The memories I have of my mother are of her alive. And that’s the way I like it.” Lips pressed together in a hard line, he dropped the rose on the dash, put the Jeep into gear and took off again.

  Swallowing a sigh, I buckled in and stared at the bouquet on my lap. He still hadn’t let go of her death.

  How could he when he blamed himself for the accident and, worse, he couldn’t recall how it had happened?

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed. It’s just that you dedicated that beautiful music to her, I thought…guess I was wrong.”

  The silence between us thickened, and by the time he stopped at the apartment, I decided a little distance between us would probably be for the best. Knowing Max, he’d brood for a bit. As I got out, he retrieved a cigarette pack from the glove compartment.

  I hated that he smoked, but now I understood why, too. Sighing, I entered my apartment, found a vase for the flowers, and set them on the dining table. As I passed the foyer to my studio, Max walked in, and I could feel his gaze following me.

  Truth was, I only wanted to make this day special for him, but my plan had backfired. And that hurt. Stopping at the easel, I studied Gus’s painting. It was almost done, just the background needed a little more work. I should get changed and start on this.

  “Logan?”

  I looked up. Waited. Max halted in the doorway briefly, hands in his pockets then he walked inside, stopping a few feet from me. “I’m sorry…I can’t face seeing her there, Logan, I just can’t.”

  My own hurt forgotten, I closed the small distance between us, wishing I could do something to help him. “I shouldn’t have assumed—”

  He shook his head. “I know I can’t keep running because it doesn’t make it better, but nothing does.”

  “I’ll be there with you,” I said quietly, rubbing his corded forearm, and realized he didn’t reek of cigarette smoke.

  He inhaled roughly then nodded, grasped my hand and pulled me along, heading for the front door.

  “Max, wait.” I ran to the dining table and grabbed the flowers. As I followed him down the steps to the Jeep, I saw the crushed cigarette on the ground between the shrubs as if he’d squashed the thing and tossed it aside.

  A half hour later, he pulled up outside the cemetery. The street was quiet, the day suddenly eerie. I rubbed the chill off my arms as Max came around to my side, grasped my waist, and set me down on the cracked asphalt. Then he reached past me and picked up the pink rose from the dash.

  A hand on my lower back, he ushered me through the huge wrought iron gate and into the silent, garden-like cemetery. “Do you know where it is?” I asked softly.

  “At the back, beneath a cherry tree, or so my father told me when I was discharged.”

  A soft breeze drifted through the place. Some marble headstones withstood the passage of time while others had cracks formed over their weathered surfaces and moss creeping over them. Leaves and petals lay scattered over every surface.

  Max led me some distance to the back that was fenced off, the place a little more private.

  Cherry blossoms grew in abundance, scenting the air. Beneath a tree was a marble headstone in the shape of a musical note balanced on a podium that rose from a bed of pink petals. On the smooth, white surface, etched in the marble read:

  Claudia Rose Meade-Sinclair.

  Beloved wife and mother.

  Taken too soon.

  Rest in peace.

  I knelt on the freshly fallen petals and set the flowers on the foot of the headstone then glanced back. Max stood there silently. At the torment on his pale face, his damp eyes, my own misted. Lips tight as if holding in his anguish, he stepped around me and set the pink rose on the podium at the foot of the musical note.

  Unable to bear his suffering, I rose and slipped my arms around him and hugged him. He didn’t react for a second, then his arms came around me, and he buried his face in my hair. “I still remember her smile… God, Logan, I just wish I knew what had happened.”

  There was so much pain in his voice. Nothing I said or did could take away that, so I just held him, my feeling for him expanding, deepening. I cared deeply about him. I wanted him to regain his memories, to heal. And if he did eventually leave, then I’d just have to be strong and let him go. At the thought, my stomach twisted painfully.

  A long moment later, Max stepped back but didn’t look at me. Discreetly, he swiped at his eyes.

  In silence, we navigated the leaf-strewn path to the cemetery entrance and his Jeep. He unlocked the door.

  “Are you meeting Jack and War at Mulligan’s?” I asked, trying to bring some normalcy back as I stepped on the running board. His hands cupped my backside, helping me inside. I rolled my eyes at him. “Really?”

  He smiled. It was like the sun peeking out after a storm. “I love your ass.”

  “You’re such a guy.”

  “That I am,” he agreed. Then he said as I buckled up, “It’s probably a good idea to meet them. But not just me—us, Logan.”

  “Max, I can’t.”

  “What do you mean you can’t?”

  “I have work to do.”

  His mouth pressed into tight line. He looked down the street, a tic working his jaw. Cold, green eyes came back to me. “That’s why you want me gone. He’s going to be there tonight.”

  I sighed. About to tell him I wanted this painting over with fast, which was why I worked so many hours on it, I realized Max needed me more after this emotional day…and I wanted to be with him.

  “Okay, I’ll cancel.”

  Without a word, he shut the door, and as he rounded the Jeep, I texted Titus.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ila

  My eyes snapped open, a sense of dread stifling me. Even though the moonlight seeped into the darkened room, it took a moment for my sight to adjust then I saw the dark, hunched silhouette seated at the edge of the bed. “Max?”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “It’s okay, go back to sleep.”

  At his raspy tone, prickles of unease skated over my skin. Usually, if he wasn’t in bed when I got up, I’d find him downstairs watching TV. The last time, he’d rushed off to the accident site.

  I crawled to him, wrapped my arms around his chest, and pressed my cheek against his warm back. “What is it?”

  “Same thing.” The words sounded strangled.

  “The accident?”

  A deep shudder shook him. He dropped his head back into his hands. “The same things over and over again, I see the rain, hear sobbing, then there’s glass shattering and metal crunching…after, it’s all a blank.”

  I guess seeing his mother’s grave had probably amplified his nightmares. And with his amnesia, it didn’t give him the closure he needed.

  He rubbed his scarred eyebrow.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “It’s okay, I’m used to it.” He reached for his tote on the floor and pulled out a bottle.

  I’d seen one in the kitchen trash a while back. They were very strong pain pills—schedule drugs. My stomach lurched in anxiety. “Max, do you see a therapist?”

  “I said I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not.” I grasped his arm. It felt like a steel cable about to snap beneath my fingers. “You barely sleep, and not remembering is destro
ying you. Have you seen a doctor?”

  He shoved to his feet so fast, I fell back on the bed. “I don’t need a damn caretaker, Logan. Yes, I have a goddamn shrink!”

  I sat there, shocked to my core at his cold, cutting anger. Then my own hurt and frustration surged. I shoved off the bed and stepped up to him where he stood glowering out the window. “Don’t you push me aside, Max. You wanted a relationship with me. This is me. I won’t turn away or let you do this to yourself when you’re hurting inside. You think shutting me out and taking all those pills will make it any better?”

  “They’re just goddamn headache pills—I’m fine!” He spun around, pulled on his discarded clothes.

  “Fine?” I glared at him. “Then why are you seeing a therapist?”

  “Because I’m fucking screwed up in the head!” he yelled and stormed out.

  I stood there, staring at the empty doorway, feeling as if the bottom of my world had just fallen away. The front door slammed, and I flinched as if it were a slap. Moments later, the sounds of an engine tearing up the street and spinning tires reverberated in the night.

  ***

  The unexpected fight with Max left me reeling. I understood it was hard on him going to the cemetery for the first time. But why wouldn’t he talk to me?

  I scrubbed a hand over my burning eyes, hating this fight—this distance between us. My anxiety mounting, I glanced at the quiet street again. An hour had past and no sign of him.

  Dammit, I couldn’t sit here and do nothing. The only place I knew he’d go to was Jack’s. They’d been friends “since the crib” as Max had put it…but that guy ran parties twenty-four seven. And that wouldn’t help with Max’s headaches at all.

  I pushed off from the window seat, changed my clothes then grabbed my jacket, so grateful Ray had mentioned where Jack lived. I didn’t care if it was five in the morning. Max was all that mattered.

  Taking a cab to Octavia Street, lined with elegant Victorians, I easily found the lavender, two-story, semi-detached with white trim. Two bikes were parked at the curb, a Porsche in the driveway along with Max’s Jeep.

  Inhaling a lungful of cool, early morning air, I walked up the paved pathway, took the few steps to the door, and rang the bell. After what seemed like forever, the door opened. War filled the entrance. He was huge, and wore only jeans. He blinked bleary, red eyes and scratched his wide chest. “Yeah?”