Me & Mine

53. ... And Damned

I sigh as I pull up on the driveway of his big mansion. My head is still filled with worries, about Harley and Amory and Kane, and somewhere in the back but ever-present my mother's imminent release. I adjust the rear view mirror to inspect myself and run a hand through my hair. I hadn't bothered styling it this morning when I left Harley's. Hell, I hadn't bothered doing anything but making sure she was okay. She and her mom practically pushed me through the front door, wanting some time for just the two of them. Of course I understood, but I promised Harley I'd never walk away from her again and that's why I needed her to do the pushing.

The moment I left, in the very same midnight blue dress I arrived in, smudged mascara and all, I was spinning the Wheel of Unfortune in my mind, determining which one of my three stops today deserved my early morning wrath. The arrow landed on Max.

And I was planning on giving it to him. Planning on screaming and slapping and cursing and biting. Planning on demanding to know how he could be so stupid to let Amory and Kane talk him into breaking up with me.

But now, the door rushing open and a sleepy Max appearing in my sight, I just can't. He's wearing sweatpants and nothing much else, and I shamelessly let my gaze travel from his feet to his eyes. He smiles. I smile. God, why can't I just be mad at him?!

"Hi," he says, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

"Hi," I breathe. Because that's what I do when I'm with him – I breathe. His curious emerald eyes stare at me and I feel absolutely terrified. Nerves strangle me and fear kicks my stomach. He isn't allowed to look at me like that, not when I can't hold him, when I can't kiss him, when I can't comb my hands through that stupid fiery hair of his, not when we can't be together.

Moments pass before I realize that he is just as lost in me as I am in him. Fuck, what the hell are we going to do about this?

"I don't know," he says, a sheepish grin on his face. My eyes instantly widen.

"I said that out loud didn't I?" I feel my cheeks taint red, cursing myself and my brain for not functioning properly. He chuckles and holds the door open for me.

"Yeah, you did," he says, "now get your cute little ass in here, love. Have a drink with me."

I smile and take a deep breath. The nerves disappear with every step I take and before long, we sit down on his sofa, Scotch in hand.

"How are you?" He asks.

Fine. Good. Alright, thanks for asking. "Messed up," I say, smiling lightly, "you?"

"Pretty bad myself."

He stares at me again, devious smirk tugging away at his lips. Those fucking lips. God, how is this ever going anywhere?

"I, uhm," my voice cracks and I shut my eyes for a second, "you're not wearing a shirt. It makes conversation hard."

He cocks an eyebrow at me. "With you in that dress, love," he smirks, "this conversation isn't the only thing getting hard."

I chuckle. He chuckles. And before I know it those shining eyes have me erupting in full-blown laughter. I try to catch my breath and slowly shake my head.

"I miss you," I say softly.

"I miss you too, love," he whispers back, "shit – is it still okay if I call you that? I mean, I–"

"It's okay," I smile. And it is, truly. I never want him to call me anything but love.

"Good," he sighs, his devious smirk fading into a soft smile, "so what brings you here on this fine Saturday morning?"