A Flower For Max (ON HOLD)

CHAPTER 1

Boise, Idaho

Maximilian Rowan's fingers beat a staccato on the glass of the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the alluring panorama of lights spread out across the expanse of the city. A nerve pulsed in the vein at his neck. He glanced at the lit screen on the phone in his right hand. The time read 11:02 pm. His jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. How could she be so irresponsible?

Thoughts of calling her again resurfaced, but he remembered he could only reach her voicemail, to which he'd left hundreds of messages already. The stupid phone service said her line could not be reached! Thin lines marred the space between his brows, drawing them so close that they nearly met. Fingers jerkily scrolled through their earlier chats. The last time she'd texted was at 10pm. She'd sent him a quick sorry, I'm gonna be a bit late. Maybe. Please don't be mad, along with a ton of crying emojis that embodied the drama that she was.

What the hell did "a bit late" mean? Twenty minutes? An hour??

He'd added ten minutes tops to her curfew, but now she was nearly an hour late, and still hadn't replied to his rapid-fire questions asking where she was and why on earth she still had not shown. Worse, all of her friends he'd reached out to claimed to not know of her whereabouts, stating that they'd split up earlier.

Max knew he shouldn't beat himself up about it; she was a teenager after all - a Gen Z at that- but he couldn't help the mental battle that was taking place in his mind.

His fingers on the glass had stilled, but his leg was bouncing in rhythm to his scattered thoughts.

Where could she be? Was she alone? Safe? Goddammit!

He brought two fingers to the bridge of his nose and massaged it for a second before combing his hand through his hair, then settled it on his nape to rubdown the tensed knot that had formed there.

Why were the messages ticking just once??

He rested his hands on his hips, hung his head back and rolled his shoulders, a huff of air escaping his lips.

When he repositioned his head, he inclined his head to the left and met the luxury mini-bar set up at the back of the living room, specifically designed to overlook the city. In the soft light of the lamp he'd turned on to cast a dim, warm glow over the room, a bottle of scotch winked at him. Lured by the invitation, Max crossed the dark, shiny tiles to the bar. He grabbed a glass of scotch from the mini fridge and a crystal glass from the row on the bar. Tiny golden rivulets bounced onto the surface of the polished wood of the bar as he poured the drink with a splash.

Throwing his head back, he tossed down the stinging drink. Nothing around him could rival the ongoing silent war within him.

Max tapped a corner of his phone on the bar bench as he contemplated his next action. He dialed her number again and raised the speaker directly to his mouth.
"Young lady, I hope to god for your sake that this is not a trick you're playing else I swear to god -" he swallowed his words on an inhaled sigh "- just get your ass back here as soon as possible before I get really mad!"

He left that final message to her voicemail and came to a decision: she was grounded till further notice. No, till she learned to be trustworthy. His fingers found the bridge of his nose again.

A beat later, he slid away from the bar to pace the length of the couch he'd been working in earlier. His laptop and leaves of documents were discarded to the side of the spot on the couch he'd stood up from when worry had propelled him to his feet.

Send me your GPS now!, he shot the text.

Another single tick.

Crap. This was absolute crap, and an absolute waste of time.