I open the door, finding Maxim standing outside with his back to the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. If I didn’t know better, I’d think his stance was relaxed, but the way his muscles are bunched under his shirt and his jaw tight, I can tell he’s been out here holding himself in check.
“You okay?” He meets my gaze, then looks behind me.
“Great,” I say as he places his hand in the center of my back to lead me across the room. “Everything go okay with your phone call?”
“What did the redhead say to you?” he asks, ignoring my question.
Figures.
“How do you know she said anything?”
“She was watching you from the moment we sat at our table, then I watched her follow you into the restroom. I figured she’s either sleeping with your ex or wants to be sleeping with him, which means you’re enemy number one.”
“You’re good at reading people,” I tell him, glancing at the table where Vanessa and her friends are sitting, and the three of them watch us walk by. If I had to guess, they have all been hanging out with Cohen and his band, and none of them want some chick coming in and fucking things up for them.
“I own a strip club; I know women, know how territorial they can get,” he murmurs as we get closer to the table. I don’t respond, even though I really want to ask him if he’s slept with any of the women at his club, giving them a reason to fight over him. It’s none of my business, and there is no way in hell I would ever let him think I’m jealous, because I’m not.
Okay… I’m mostly not.
“Thanks,” I tell him when he holds out my chair for me to take a seat.
“Why do you have that look on your face?” Melanie asks her brother before looking at me. “And why do you look annoyed? Please tell me that you two are not fighting.”
“No one is fighting,” I assure her as she hands me a shot of tequila.
“What is that?” Maxim asks her, and she grins at him.
“Tequila.”
“Fuck.” He jerks his fingers through his hair. “I’m not taking care of your ass if you get fucked up.”
“Yeah, you are.” She holds her glass out to me.
“I’m not.” He takes a sip of his whiskey.
“What about your girlfriend? Are you taking care of her if she gets messed up?”
“He’s not my man,” I tell her, and his hand lands possessively on my thigh, his fingers squeezing—not enough to hurt, but definitely enough to get my attention.
“Pretty sure you’ve been claimed,” she mutters, then takes her shot, and I turn to meet her brother’s gaze and shoot back mine.
Between the hold he has on me and the burn from the tequila, my breath catches. I set down my glass and cover his hand, attempting to get him to let go. He doesn’t, and I don’t know what the look he’s giving me means, but then again, it doesn’t take a genius to guess he’s not happy.
Which is too damn bad for him.
Chapter 7
April
“I LOVE YOUR sister.” I sigh happily, waving at Melanie, who is standing in the open doorway of her house.
“Go back inside, Melanie!” Maxim leans across me to yell at her out the passenger side window.
“I’m saying goodnight!” she shouts at her brother, then her eyes come to me, and she holds up her pinky to her mouth and thumb to her ear. “Call me.”
“I’ll call you. We’ll have lunch,” I yell back, and she stumbles slightly to the side, and Maxim lets out a string of curses before getting out of the car once again.
“Okay, but don’t forget.”
“I won’t.” I cross my fingers over my chest, watching Maxim stomp up the steps toward her.
“Night, new best friend,” she singsongs loudly, waving over the top of her brother’s head.
“Night,” I shout back as he pushes her into the house and pulls the door closed, then he waits a second, probably to see if she’s going to come back out, which is something she’s done twice now.
After a moment, he walks back to the car, looking annoyed, then he gets in behind the wheel and rests his hand on the back of my headrest so he can back out of her driveway.
“You’re very cranky tonight,” I point out, and he turns to glare at me.
“You and my sister are not allowed to hang out again.”
I laugh, resting my head back against my seat.
“I’m serious.”
“Whatever you say, boss.” I smile, closing my eyes, which is not wise, because my head starts to spin. I roll down the window, needing some air, and his hand lands on my thigh.
“Are you going to be sick?”
“No,” I tell him, hoping I’m right, because his car probably costs a billion dollars, and I don’t even want to think about what it would cost to get it detailed. Worse, the scent of puke would probably never come out completely.