“What’s all this riot—huh?”
I jumped at the gruff, confused greeting but Brandon’s arm tightened around my waist to keep me steady while he slowly detangled himself from me.
“Take yer live show t’yer apartment!” Danny spewed out with a slight but unmistakeable slur, his eyes narrowing at us in disdain. “My door isn’t a fuckin’ bed.”
“I’d appreciate respectful language when you’re speaking in my wife’s company, sir,” Brandon said in a low tone that concealed none of the warning that came with his statement.
“Well, since you’re the one imposing on my company, I’ll talk however the hell I want,” Danny snapped back, returning Brandon’s steely stare.
My husband never failed to be a formidable figure with his towering height and well-muscled frame but Danny, despite his inebriated state, wasn’t a measly-sized man. He was taller than average and had broad shoulders. With a shower, a haircut, a shave, some new clothes and a few decent meals to plump him out of his slightly emaciated build, I could imagine Danny as Layla’s well-off cousin with a sterling real estate career. Drunk and disheartened with life though, he was one taunt away from exchanging punches with Brandon who looked like he was summoning all of his famed self-control to keep his fists at his sides.
“Er, hi, Danny,” I piped up before a brawl could break out. “We’re here to see Riley.”
“And who the hell are you?” the man asked without missing a beat, directing his red-rimmed eyes my way.
I glanced at Brandon who was now frowning at me in confusion. I didn’t blame him. He probably expected that I knew Danny and since my explanations were going to be as sticky and murky as mud, I was inwardly relieved he didn’t blurt out the questions I knew were running through his head.
“I’m a friend of Riley’s,” I said brightly. “My name’s Charlotte Maxfield. This is my husband, Brandon.”
The man’s brows gathered into a deeper scowl as he tilted his head at me in interest. “What did you say your name was again?”
I blinked. “Um, Charlotte.”
“Your last name.”
“Maxfield. Why?”
His eyes swung back and forth between me and Brandon. “Maxfield like the rich, powerful Maxfields?”
I bit my lip and snuck a glance at Brandon. What was I supposed to say to that?
“Maxfield of the Maxfield Industries, yes,” was Brandon’s quick and casual reply.
I raised a brow. He’s used to it. The Maxfield last name is an all-access pass in society and life after all.
Danny grew alert at that admission, as if the fancy last name had an actual sobering effect, and I sighed out loud.
“Look, Danny,” I started, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. “We’re here to see Riley because he seems to be a little under the weather.”
“You sent that secret agent dude here earlier,” he replied with a snort. “I thought it was either the IRS or the CIA coming after me.”
I bit on the inside of my lip to keep from laughing at the reference to Gilles, which could not have been more accurate, and looked Danny directly in the eye.
“Is Riley okay?” I asked, a little more gently this time.
Danny shrugged in a shirt that seemed a little too loose on him. “He’s got a bad cold but nothing deadly. Kid’s just been mostly sullen, not eating or talking much. Don’t know what’s gotten into him this past week.”
Maybe Layla’s sudden withdrawal after all that she’d done to integrate herself in the boy’s life. Abandoned once is bad enough. Abandoned twice is kind of a piss-off.
“Does his mother know?” Brandon asked in complete innocence.
Danny’s eyes narrowed at him. “What do you know about Riley’s mother?”
“Only that she’s a friend of mine,” I butted in, flashing the most dazzling smile I could manage, hoping it would somehow distract my husband. “And that she’s, uh, a little caught up right now with other things. That’s why we’re here! We brought food and balloons to cheer him up!”
Danny’s gaze was a bit perturbing as he searched my face with eyes that were sharper than I initially realized. Layla’s identity and relation to the boy was top-secret and we both knew it. He seemed to be debating my knowledge of it in that unnecessarily long pause he took.
“Why is Riley friends with Boston’s power couple? Charbrand or Bralotte or something like that,” he mused with a sneer laced in suspicion. “See, I’ve read all about you in the papers. I know the Maxfields—my firm had sold two large luxury properties to Martin Maxfield about ten years ago. And I know you’re that Cinderella girl who caught this younger Maxfield in her hooks.”
I gritted my teeth, barely sparing a glance at my mildly-amused husband. “First of all, we’re just Brandon and Charlotte, not some silly conjoined power couple name. Second, my name is Charlotte, not Cinderella. Third, if you’d like to see just how sharp and deadly my hooks are, I’d be happy to show you.”
Danny’s eyes widened before he grinned and glanced at Brandon. “She’s a feisty one, isn’t she? They wrote the same thing about her. Must drive you crazy lots.”
“Occasionally,” Brandon murmured his assent.
“I even get more feisty when people talk about me like I’m not in the same room,” I muttered, shooting both men a glare. “Since you’ve done your celebrity profile report on me, Danny, can we move along now? Or do you need an autograph and a picture too?”
Danny’s expression grew serious again as he focused on me. “Why are you so interested in the welfare of the boy anyway?”
I stared right back. “Because there aren’t enough people interested in the same thing?”
His eyes narrowed. “I did the best I could with the kid given my circumstances.”
“I’ll agree that you could’ve done worse,” I answered with a shrug. “Same way I’ll agree that you could’ve done better.”
“You don’t know a single thing about me,” Danny hissed, prompting Brandon to step forward and put a protective arm around me.
Undeterred, I tilted my head up at Danny’s flushed face. “Assuming you mean to qualify your actions by the context of your situation, wouldn’t you have been a better man if you’d persevered to care for someone other than yourself when there was very little incentive to it?”
“Charlotte, don’t,” Brandon breathed a low, even warning to me.
“If you think I’m letting you into my home after you’ve insulted me, you’ve got a loose screw in your head, lady,” Danny said balefully. “Who are you to judge me?”
I actually smiled. “I’m someone who also once thought that my actions were justified because I had good enough reasons. I did worse when I could’ve done better. Fortunately for me, I got a second chance.”
“The fact that she’s been through hell and back means that I am more inclined to protect her,” Brandon said in a clipped tone as he stared down a fuming Danny, his body taut against mine with the instinct to hit back should the man even turn his nose our way. “From anyone who would dare hurt her.”
After a long stretch of silence, I wondered if Danny was just going to slam the door in our face. Or spit at us.
He seriously looked like he was contemplating the most efficient way to dispose of me.
I wouldn’t blame him.
Throwing someone’s shortcomings to their face wasn’t exactly the best tactic to charm your way into their home. I wasn’t really an A-plus student when it came to social etiquette. I didn’t exactly glide gracefully into people’s good side. I more like charged forward, most of the time.
My poor husband probably felt like he needed to keep up and stay by my side in case I tripped on my own two feet or got shoved face down to the ground.
Come on, Charlotte. Let’s try this one more time. took a deep breath and loosened the tension from my shoulders. “Listen, Danny. I understand Riley more than you’d ever know. He needs a friend as much as he needs chicken soup right now. If you can’t take care of him at this
moment, at least let us.”
He hardly budged but his eyes glanced around and finally took in the food and party favors we’d set down on the floor, including the balloons on plastic sticks.
“She’s not going to go away, is she?” Danny asked, glancing at Brandon.
My husband gave him a tight smile. “No, she’s not.”
“Alright,” Danny finally relented, begrudgingly of course, taking a step back and holding the door open. “Come on in. But I don’t want to hear another criticism about my character, a’right?”
“I suspect you give yourself one often enough that you don’t need more from me,” I replied lightly, earning another scowl.
“We appreciate your hospitality, sir,” Brandon cut in quickly, his polite interjection smoothing the man’s very easily ruffled feathers. “My wife means well.”
“Don’t we all. Doesn’t alway mean it’s worth anything,” Danny muttered under his breath. “Call me Danny. Might as well make yourselves comfortable since you’re clearly not going anywhere until you get your way.”
I beamed at him. “Thank you—and, oh! We brought lots of food. You may want to heat up some and have a few bites. I swear, they’re delicious!”
Without delay, Brandon and I gathered back up the food from the floor (and I inwardly hoped that they weren’t contaminated by anything yet) and carried them into the apartment, following Danny into the narrow galley-style kitchen.
Once the food was set down on the counter, I stood and surveyed the apartment. It was undoubtedly small and sparsely furnished but it was surprisingly clean. The sink only had one unwashed bowl in it. The breakfast bar was nearly clutter-free except for a small stack of those free local tabloids Danny must read a lot and a neat row of assorted, empty liquor bottles lined up against the wall.
For a while, my father stashed proof of his excessive drinking in an old hamper in the broom closet but after several years, he gave up the lame attempt and started collecting them in a large plastic bin by the door. He yelled at me when I accidentally knocked it over and caused a couple bottles to roll off and shatter against the floor. He didn’t want to waste any of the money he got from recycling the bottles. He had to pay for his next drink, after all.
I pushed out the grim memories from my mind and turned to Danny. “There are cakes and cupcakes and all kinds of pastries that need to be kept cool. Can we scoot them into the fridge?”
“Feel free,” he said as he picked up a bottle of beer from the coffee table between the couch and the TV. “There’s not a lot in there to compete for space.”
I opened the fridge and scrunched up my nose. It was quite empty except for half of a six-pack of beer, a nearly empty jar of milk, a couple of eggs and a dry clump of celery sticks.
I glanced at Danny over my shoulder and raised a brow. “Glad to know you’re eating a well-balanced diet of beer and celery.”
Brandon shot me a warning look but that jab seemed to have bounced off Danny who just shrugged.
“Grab your husband a bottle if he’d like one,” he said, lifting his bottle at Brandon. “It’s nothin’ fancy like you’re probably used to but trust me, when you’re properly soused, you really can’t tell.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Brandon said a shake of his head, making a commendable attempt at politeness. “I’m perfectly content to be sober.”
A bitter smile crossed Danny’s face as he tipped back his beer. “Knowing how well you’re doing with the big boys up there, you prob’ly have no reason to drink—except maybe to celebrate. I remember how that felt.”
“Danny used to be in real estate,” I told Brandon as I opened up the cupboards and grabbed a couple of plates. “He owned and ran his own firm, I believe. Right, Danny?”
“Damn right, I did,” Danny asserted. “Anderson Executive was the top real estate player in the state. Our clientele ranged from celebrities to top businessmen to politicians—we were the most sought-after firm for anyone with money to burn in luxury real estate.”
“Yes, I remember your company,” Brandon said with an impressed nod at the man while I busied myself unwrapping some of the leftovers and tossing them on plates. “My family had definitely done business with you before.”
Brandon was doing a good job talking up the man who was beaming like a spotlight at the attention my husband was giving him.
One would think that talking about the good old days of something someone had lost so desperately and miserably would turn the conversation bleak but Danny had a sparkle in his eye.
“Has Riley eaten?” I asked.
“Nothing more than a bowl of tomato soup earlier this evening. We didn’t have any crackers,” Danny answered before turning back to Brandon.
“Could’ve bought a few boxes of crackers with the money you’d spent on a six-pack,” I muttered under my breath.
But Danny didn’t hear me.
While I arranged the food, nuked some of it in the microwave, and stored the rest in the fridge, the two men started talking about people they mutually knew, the industry, the economy and all kinds of highfalutin business stuff.
I hoped that Brandon was sincere in his interest in the conversation because Danny was wearing his heart on his sleeve. He talked with a mixture of confidence and fascination, as if Brandon was a rockstar and he was his biggest fan in the world.
The fallen stars know how majestic the skies are. They can’t help but long for where they once shone bright from.
The men barely glanced at me when I placed a plate of assorted savory quiches in front of Danny before carrying another toward the bedrooms. One door was ajar and another was shut close, sporting an old Red Sox sticker that had started to curl back on the edges.
I lightly knocked on the closed door. When there was no reply, I let myself in quietly.
“Riley?” I called out.
The room was dim save for the pale yellow light coming from an old, brass table lamp with a flickering bulb. It was right next to a narrow bed where a lump was curled under the faded blue quilt.
“Riley?” I murmured again, setting down the food on a small study desk.
The room was terribly cold, as if the heating didn’t work somehow because the living room seemed warm enough.
I approached the bed and spied a blond head peeking out from under the covers.
Slowly, I patted the still form under the sheets.
“Riley, it’s Charlotte,” I said as I hunched down next to the bed, wincing when the ice-cold floor made contact with my knees. “I came to see how you’re doing, buddy.”
I gently patted the form again until it wiggled slowly.
Pale blue eyes stretched open as Riley shoved the covers off his face, bunching it up under his chin.
“Charlotte?” he asked in a sleepy voice even as his eyes widened in surprise. Even saying just the two syllables of my name, he sounded clogged up.
“Hey, you.” I smiled at him and reached out to ruffle his head lightly.
His skin was quite warm to the touch but didn’t have the searing quality of a fever. His cheeks were blotched red, matching his slightly swollen nose.
“Wha...” His voice trailed off as he cleared his throat with some difficulty. He pushed himself up on his elbows and reached for the glass of water on his nightstand.
I picked it up and held it with a steady hand as he took a long sip.
“You okay?” I asked as I put away the glass.
He nodded and glanced up at me again. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard you were sick. You remember, Gilles, my driver? I sent him here earlier to pick you up because it’s my birthday today and I had a surprise party and all,” I told him with a broad grin. “I thought maybe you’d like to come join us but he said you had a really bad cold.”
The boy answered with a sniffle and I touched the back of my hand to his forehead. “You’re warm but you don’t seem to have a fever. How are you feeling?”
“Tired and my nose keeps runni
ng,” he replied, dashing the back of his hand against his nose. “And I’m cold.”
“No surprise since it’s like a walk-in freezer in here,” I said, looking around. There was a rusty-looking radiator right under the window. “Did your heater die or something?”
“It broke two winters ago and the landlord wouldn’t fix it,” Riley said with a limp shrug. “Uncle Danny kept saying he was going to have it repaired but I don’t think he can afford it.”
I’ll need to start a list. First, stock the fridge with food that a growing boy would need. Second, fix the damned heater so he’s not growing icicles in this room.
“I’ll send someone to come look at it tomorrow. We’ll get it fixed,” I told the boy as I yanked a towel slung on the back of the chair by his study desk. It was small but at least it was dry and added another layer of insulation as I draped it over his covers. “Along with this flickering lamp that’s giving me a headache.”
Riley’s wide, wary blue eyes peered up at me. “Uncle Danny doesn’t like charity. He always says he’s not going to be someone’s pity-project.”
My heart twisted at the boy’s hollow statement.
At twelve, he was supposed to be too young to know what it was like to be on the receiving end of pity. Unfortunately, it was a concept you learned early when you lived on the other side of that window, peering in at those who lived a charmed life while your nose pressed up against the cold glass and your stomach grumbled to the beat of the music and laughter.
“There’s nothing wrong with giving or receiving charity,” I said gently. “As long as you’re doing it for the right reasons. Don’t worry, I’ll talk to your uncle.”
The boy nodded before chewing on his bottom lip, clearly hedging about what he was going to say next.
“Have you...” he started, pausing awkwardly before shaking his head in resolve. “Have you seen or talked to Layla?”
I noted that the boy didn’t call her Auntie to go with her cover story but I had a feeling Riley knew well enough that she wasn’t his aunt. He didn’t know enough of the truth though to dare call her what she really was to him.
The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield Page 78
