𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘

𝟓 - 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋, 𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐌𝐄

CHAPTER FIVE

ANGEL HE CALLS ME

MONACO

Max found himself back at the jazz club. It had become almost a sanctuary in the chaotic whirlwind of his life, a place where he could hide in the shadows, lose himself in the dim lights and the soothing notes of the saxophone that flowed effortlessly through the room. But tonight felt different.

He'd been here countless times before, always tucked away in the corner with a drink in hand, barely seen, barely heard. Yet this time, everything felt heavier, more pointed. The weight of the crash in Hungary still clung to him like an anchor, dragging him down. Even though a week had passed, the anger still simmered beneath the surface, just as raw as when he'd first stormed out of the paddock.

Max pushed the door open, the low hum of conversation mingling with the distant sound of the live band. The club was quieter than usual, a midweek lull casting an almost eerie calm over the space. He slid into his usual seat at the far end of the bar, glancing around, searching out the familiar figure who seemed to appear as if summoned by Max's presence.

Marc was already there.

In the usual corner, seated at the small table by the stage, his face obscured in shadows, as always. Max wondered for a moment if Marc ever left the club. It seemed like this was the only place he ever saw him, this half-stranger who seemed to know more about him than Max had ever been comfortable with. The conversations they shared here felt like a game of chess—each move deliberate, strategic, every word chosen with care.

Max raised a hand to order a drink but froze when he saw Marc move. Without a word, Marc was already heading in his direction, weaving between the tables with an almost lazy grace. It sent a spike of irritation through Max. Not even his drink had arrived, and already, Marc was closing in.

"You're late," Marc said, settling into the stool beside Max. His voice was low, almost indifferent, but there was something in his tone—an expectation that Max couldn't quite place.

"I didn't know we were on a schedule," Max muttered, shrugging off his jacket. He hadn't even ordered yet, and already Marc was leaning in, looking far too pleased with himself.

"Predictable, that's all," Marc replied, his mouth curving into an almost-smirk. It was the kind of smile that said he knew just how to press Max's buttons, and he wasn't above doing it.

The bartender slid a drink in front of Max, and he took a long sip, his eyes narrowing. He wasn't in the mood for this tonight. Not the banter, not the subtle digs that Marc always seemed to throw his way. But he also knew there was no avoiding it.

Max kept his eyes trained on the drink in front of him, trying to will away the tension gnawing at his chest. But Marc, with that infuriating calm, just let the silence hang between them for a second longer than necessary before breaking it with a simple, "Is it because of the race?" Max's head snapped up, his irritation bubbling over. "You follow the races?" The surprise in his voice was evident, and for a moment, the frustration wavered. Marc tilted his head slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips, like he knew more than he let on. "I know enough. Looked rough out there." he said, not quite answering, but that only made Max's pulse race even faster.

Max stiffened, his jaw clenching involuntarily. "I don't need this right now."

"Oh, I think you do." Marc shrugged. "You're here now. So, does that mean you won?" His words were light, yet something in them prodded at Max's frustration.

Max groaned, rolling his eyes. "Why would I be here if I won?"

Marc's brow quirked up in mock thoughtfulness. "True. Winning you'd be too busy... sulking elsewhere?"