LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER THREE

      So many questions ricocheted around my brain, but Max’s shoulders were pulled up almost to his ears, his chin nearly on the table. Without looking at me, he shredded the napkin in his hands into four pieces and then in half again. The waning sunshine streaming in the smeared window behind him haloed his dark hair, so that the highlights shone blue instead of tawny or copper.

      “You don’t have to tell me a bedtime story,” I said gently.

      “No, you need to know. So you understand what’s going on and why it’s so tense when we get there.”

      “Okay. If you’re sure.”

      “I’ll set the stage.” His tone was brittle, uneven, and the bits of paper in his hands kept getting smaller. “I was sixteen, just got my license. My dad was drinking, acting like a fuckhead. Business as usual. When he started in on Mickey, I grabbed the keys. Figured I’d get us both out of there for a while. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but taking off is kind of my specialty.”

      “Between your bike, the garage office and the place you showed me by the river, I’ve picked up on the pattern, yeah.”

      “I thought I was doing the smart thing, you know? But I was driving too fast and some asshole blew the stoplight. T-boned us. Mickey got the worst of it...weeks in the hospital without knowing if he’d make it. Then, once he stabilized, we found out he’d never walk again.” He curled a fist and slammed it onto the table, making the pizza box dance. “Ironic, huh? I was worried that my dad would hurt Mickey but I’m the one who—”

      “Not true,” I cut in. “That’s a textbook accident. Don’t tell me you blame yourself.”

      “It’s impossible to do anything else. No, wipe that look off your face, Kaufman. I didn’t open up to make you feel sorry for me. I just want you to know the deal going in. I mean, my dad’s the biggest asshole I ever met and he hates me, too.”

      “What about Mickey?”

      “We weren’t talking much when I left. Every day I think, what if I’d put up with my old man’s shit for five minutes more? What if I’d picked a fight with him instead of grabbing those keys? I—” His voice broke on a shuddering inhalation.

      Until this moment I hadn’t realized how much weight Max carried on a daily basis or how good a job he did hiding it. I came out of my chair and rounded the little table before I consciously decided to make a move. Standing beside him, I hovered, unsure what to do. He answered the question by wrapping both arms around my waist and pulling me onto his lap. Unsettled—unnerved, even—I let him press his face into my shoulder, resting a hand on his head.

      His breath warmed the skin of my throat, rousing an inappropriate shiver. Now is not the time. It wasn’t like I’d never noticed his hotness; he specialized in a scruffy, soulful appeal that women of all ages seemed unable to resist. But it was so much better for him to call me Kaufman and confide in me instead of flirting. At the moment, Max needed a friend. I stroked his back for like five minutes before he raised his gaze to meet mine.

      “Sorry. The closer we get to Rhode Island, the worse I feel.”

      “It’s understandable. You have to be worried about how your brother will react when you see him.” The rest of his family sounded like jackwagons. Though he’d only told me about his dad, if he had any decent aunts, uncles or cousins, they would’ve stepped up when his old man went upside his head with a bottle. A scar like that would take eight or ten stitches, minimum. I imagined Max as a scared kid with blood gushing from his scalp, and all of my protective instincts roared to life. People had been calling me a bitch since I was fifteen, and I was ready to wade in against Max’s family. Yeah, the funeral might be tense and shitty, but if his family said one fucking word—

      “You’re looking especially fierce.” Max was smiling slightly, his head cocked in apparent fascination.

      It was interesting that my expression could distract him. “Just contemplating all the ways I can kick ass and take names.” With a last twirl of fingers in his hair, I slid off his lap. “Your leg must be asleep, huh?”

      Max was on the lean side, and I suspected I weighed as much as he did, possibly more. In his case, the weight was also stretched along eight additional inches. But he just shrugged and shook his head. If I wasn’t mistaken, a touch of color also burned high on his cheekbones. Wow, never thought I’d see him blush.

      Clearing my throat, I moved away, taking my half-eaten slice of pizza to the bed I’d dumped my backpack on. I bounced onto it, completely casual, as if we hadn’t just been sharing deep emotional stuff. Max silently threw away the napkin he’d shredded and went into the bathroom. The shower switched on, resulting in an awesome banging of pipes. I pictured them breaking through the wall and flooding the floor. By the time he came back barefoot, wearing a ratty T-shirt and sweats, I had the TV on, watching a bad action movie.

      “Oh, this. I’ve seen it eight times.” His offhand tone told me we were good.

      “Then line it up for number nine.”

      “Hey, Kaufman...”

      “Yeah?”

      “Thanks.”

      “Stop. Your boundless gratitude is freaking me out.”

      “Okay. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. So obviously I’ll proposition you instead, get us back on familiar footing.”

      I grinned, wadding up a piece of paper from the pad next to me and chucking it at him. “I’m not making out with you.”

      “Does

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