Not the Marrying Kind Page 8
I pulled up my own chair, smiling to myself at Pop’s quasi-stoic grouchiness. His vibe was actually a comforting one—he was so similar to the range of punk musicians that used to hang at our house when I was growing up. My parents always stood out due to their effusive affection and cheery attitudes. But I knew a little bit about Max’s mom—knew that she and Pop were divorced and Pop raised Max on his own with a dedication my parents were always quick to praise.
When I got myself situated and glanced back up at Pop, his nerves were on full display. I gave Max a small smile. “So Max told me there might be some legal issues going on with The Red Room I could help with?”
He handed me a piece of paper that looked crinkled and smoothed over countless times. I scanned it quickly, noted the familiar language. He was, as Max had said, being sued for back rent in the amount of $48,295, owed within fourteen days or he’d be expected in court and facing eviction. The amount owed on this sheet of paper was minuscule compared to the elite clients I worked with, who tended to be Manhattanites leaving behind estates worth millions of dollars. But this amount was absolutely exorbitant for a club barely scraping by in a neighborhood growing more expensive by the day.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. He kept his eyes trained on the floor. “I’ll still have some colleagues examine this to ensure there’s nothing illegal happening. But, technically, this is New York City law when it comes to eviction notices. I’m guessing it’s been a few months of not paying full rent, right?”
He nodded. “It’s been tight. I’ve been trying to move some cash around to do some interior upgrades and push the landlord to do some outside work. I know it’s a little dated or whatever.”
I cast another glance at Max. “Yeah, it’s a little dated,” he chimed in. “But I think the biggest priority is whether or not you’re gonna have to find another place to rent. And owe money that we don’t have.”
He wasn’t going to find another place to rent—that was the issue. Not in this city and not right now.
I took out a pen and my legal pad and began taking notes, jotting down some lawyer friends who could help. “Do you have your previous rental agreements with this landlord? Evidence of what you’ve been paying? I’ll make copies and provide them to some colleagues immediately. I’ll let them know the deadline and make sure they don’t delay.”
Max cleared his throat, and I deciphered the question on his face.
“Pro bono, of course,” I said quickly. There was no way I was going to force them to pay legal fees on top of this.
“Yeah, I can probably find it, uh… well, it’s somewhere in here.” Pop looked sheepish, rubbing the top of his head. I bit my lip, made a sweeping glance of the dusty mayhem in this office.
“We’ll find it,” Max said.
“I’ll help,” I said, surprised at the gratitude on Max’s face. “My future brother-in-law mentors small businesses and helps them develop plans to increase their revenue. He might be a resource. Running a business in Manhattan can be confusing and expensive, even for the savviest folks.
“I’ve never been savvy,” Pop said, smiling a little.
“It’s overrated,” Max said. He nudged my chair with his foot, catching my attention. “The amount that Pop could owe, should we have the money pulled together in case we need to pay it?”
Fourteen days, $50,000. A sick feeling spread in my stomach as I stared at the letter in my lap.
“Yes,” I said firmly. Gray areas and nuance weren’t going to help this situation. “It is extremely likely Pop will need to pay the back rent in full in two weeks so he’s not evicted.”
Max looked ever-so-briefly devastated—which yanked at my heartstrings so fast I was startled. But he smoothed it over with a casual shrug. “That’s good to know, thank you.”
I tapped my pen, tapped my foot, running through a few potential solutions. “Do you mind if I ask you how business has been in general? Busy? Slow?”
“Could be busier,” Pop said, mumbling a little.
Max looked up sharply. “Why didn’t you say anything? You always tell me things are fine here.”
“They are fine.”
“Could be busier is your code for things are shit,” Max said.
Pop shifted in his chair, crossed his arms tighter. “It’s not shit. But we’re down on days we’re at capacity, down on bookings. There are bigger, fancier venues people are flocking towards. I notice it.”
Max’s brow creased but he stayed silent.
“Things change in this city all the time,” Pop said.
This was a dinner table conversation I was used to in the Quinn house. Both of my parents were born-and-raised, fought against things like gentrification and the tearing down of historic buildings and cultural spaces like this one.
“Yeah,” Max sighed, rubbing that crease from his brow. Plastering on a smile that didn’t seem to reach his eyes. “Either way, sounds like we need to find some paperwork and scrounge up fifty grand while we’re at it.”
There was a large buzzer sound that made me jump but Pop and Max didn’t even notice.
“That’s the beer delivery for the week,” Pop said. “I’ll go help unload. Maybe we could get those documents for Fiona before she leaves?”
Pop went to walk past me. Stopped. Patted me awkwardly on the shoulder. “Just you talking to me today was really helpful, Fi. You don’t need to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable. Or obligated.”
“I’m a Quinn. We don’t say things we don’t mean,” I said. “If I felt obligated, I would have ignored Max when he called.”
“Would have probably served him right,” Pop said soberly—but with a twinkle in his eye.
“I get no respect in this establishment,” Max called over his shoulder, already hauling open drawers.
“We’ll figure it out, don’t you worry.” I smiled up at Pop, even though I knew it was risky to make that kind of promise about something that, realistically, might not be figured out after all. But presented with a problem, my natural inclination was to find a linear solution reached by clear steps leading to the desired outcome. I was already mentally leap-frogging my way to the outcomes.
Besides, I’d barely be involved. I simply needed to connect Pop with some accomplished lawyer friends and let them work from there.
The second Pop left, I stood from the chair, smoothed my hands down my suit, and turned to find Max staring at me with too much ardent longing for a space this small and intimate. He was leaning against the filing cabinet, arms crossed, one brow lifted.
“Do you have something you’d like to say?” I asked, mimicking his eyebrow arch.
“Pop’s happy,” he said. “I know it’s hard to tell, what with the grouchy grumbling, but I think you being here gave him a little bit of hope.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised. I touched my earrings. “Well, it’s really no big deal. I’ve got connections, and I’m happy to use them for a man who basically put my parents’ band on the map.”
He nodded, studying me. “Still. You’re doing the right thing, and not everyone does that. Thank you, Fiona.”
I needed the cocky playboy from the fire escape to come back. Not this glimpse of sensitivity that was way too alluring on a man as fucking hot as Max Devlin.
“Well… anytime,” I managed. “He really hasn’t told you these things?”
He gave a half-shrug. “Yeah. I don’t… I don’t know. We don’t always talk about real stuff. I don’t always…” He trailed off, went back to yanking open drawers. “Anyway, sorry for the fucking mess. I don’t know where he keeps those agreements, but usually anything important goes in this cabinet here.”
I bent down to straighten a stack of possibly unpaid bills. Hiding a grimace, I started to place them into an organized stack before I could stop myself. “This is what it was like in my house growing up. It made me pretty panicky as a kid.”
He cast a glance from across the room. “Must be hard surrounded by all those free spirits
, huh?”
I huffed out a laugh. “Would you describe your dad as a free spirit?”
He was bent over a folder, flipping through pieces of paper. “No. In fact, the most we ever argued was about, well, my free spirit tendencies. Used to tease him about being a stick in the mud.”
I bit back my reply—because I could already sense its spiky defensive edges. My relationship with my family revolved around that dichotomy. Max must have noticed my hesitation. He closed the folder, caught my eye. Let a smile slide up his face.
“No offense to any sticks in the mud currently in the room, of course.”
I narrowed my eyes, prepared for an argument. But then he winked at me, handed me an overflowing folder. “I hate dealing with all of…” He indicated the mess of everything surrounding us. “—you know, all of this. But I’m not too proud to admit that your skills would probably have helped Pop out years ago. Maybe things wouldn’t be so overwhelming if he had a better system.”
I took the folder from him, careful to keep our fingers from touching. He was still looking at me with that playful expression. He closed the drawer, took up his post leaning against it.
“Yes,” I said, slowly. “But I work with a lot of disorganized clients. It doesn’t come naturally, and if you’re managing a whole venue and business by yourself, without much help, in a city known for its complicated systems, then it’s easy to see how he might have gotten in over his head.”
His easy grin disappeared. That furrow was back, which fascinated me. Max’s whole disposition seemed to be fuck it, let’s have fun. Didn’t seem the furrowed-brow type.
“Yeah. He doesn’t have much help,” he replied. “If you want to glance through that file, go for it. I’m gonna drag through the closet.”
I nodded, propping myself against the table next to him and flipping through a soft, thick folder marked Money Stuff. I moved quickly, proudly in my element. It wasn’t usual that my specific skill set lined up to help this community I both adored and was frustrated by. It made me feel useful when usually I felt like a corporate traitor.
From below our feet came the distinctive sounds of David Bowie’s “Young Americans.” We were both humming it beneath our breath immediately. Max unhooked a set of keys from his pocket with a sly smile, then unlocked the closet next to the cabinet. “Pop always puts this album on when he’s loading the bar.”
“Roxy and I coordinated a whole dance to this song for a ballet recital when we were little. Quite different from our peers, who all chose music from The Little Mermaid.”
“You can’t say that and not show me one of your sweet moves.”
I mock glared at him from over the file of papers. “Never. Ever.”
“Fiona Quinn.”
“What?” I was desperately trying not to laugh and failing miserably. Which had him laughing too, reaching over to steal the file from my hands.
“Dance for me.”
My eyebrows shot up in consternation. “Uh, fuck off?”
But he refused to be swayed. Tossing his hair back, moving his body in a damn good Bowie impression, Max started to dance to one of my favorite songs while singing at the top of his lungs.
I laughed—really laughed. Not because he was bad but because it felt silly and joyful in this tiny space, surrounded with overdue bills and dusty memories. So I waited for the correct timing in the song to drop into a plié that transformed into an out-and-out twirl. The last time I’d done this was twenty years ago, but even though I was rusty it was absurdly fun. The way dancing and music always made me feel—a little bit freer. A little bit more like me.
As I spun and spun, I caught sight of Max’s legitimately happy face, which inspired me to twirl one last time. Dizziness swept over me, followed by a clumsy fear, and I was convinced I was about to fall on my face.
The anti-Prince Charming caught me, of course.
His strong fingers and strong arms held me up, as if he were dipping me in a ballroom dance class. My fingers latched around his biceps, nails digging in, our faces barely a foot apart.
“You okay?” he asked, concern in those dangerous eyes.
I gulped. “A little dizzy. It’s been a while since I spontaneously impressed someone with my expert-level dance moves.”
His full lips curved up. “There were less elbows than usual.”
“Yeah, well, you weren’t so bad yourself.”
I watched his gaze flick to my mouth for one hot, urgent moment. His hands tightened on my body, and I wondered what it would feel like if he dragged them up, up, up. Or if I took the lead, wrapping my arms around his neck and closing the annoying distance between our lips.
“This is some hero-on-the-white-horse action,” I said softly.
“You’re no damsel though.”
I shook my head. “I can handle my own distress, thank you very much.”
He had the audacity to wink at me before gently setting me on my feet again. “I would usually ask first before touching you like that. So I’m sorry if it wasn’t—”
“Better than falling on my face in front of you.” I brushed the hair from my face. “But thank you. It’s appreciated.”
He nodded, jaw tight, before pulling the closet door open again. There was barely enough room for Max to stand in there, but whatever space there was available was filled with file boxes and old concert posters. A stack of pictures, some of them Polaroids, lay on one of the boxes. I recognized the one on top so quickly, I moved past Max to bend down and scoop them up.
“Oh my god,” I said. “That’s me.”
12
Max
Fiona flipped a slightly faded, slightly bent picture around for me to see. In the center of The Red Room’s stage stood Lou and Sandy, probably before a set. They wore leather vests, ripped shirts, hair spiked. They were posing for the camera, tongues out, instruments in hand. And beaming between the two of them like a fairy was Fiona in a pink tutu.
“What are you? Four?” I asked, not able to stop the smile from spreading across my face.
“Probably,” she said, biting her lip. “I’m sure they’d just picked me up from a recital. When I was that young, I loved dancing up on that stage while they were setting up.”
“Who took you home so you could go to bed?”
She took the picture back, staring at it mysteriously. “My parents would. They weren’t strict about much, but bedtime stories when I was young was one of their hard lines. Then a rotating group of friends and family would keep watch until they came home at four in the morning. Sounds weird, but it was normal for us.”
“Yeah,” I said. “After my mom moved out, Pop had a cot set up in that old office. I’d sleep there sometimes when there wasn’t someone to watch me. It felt normal to fall asleep to death metal.”
“Being the children of punks has its pros and cons. One of the biggest pros is I can fall asleep anywhere. Tour bus. Back stage. In the middle of band practice.”
She smiled at me—big, a little toothy. Cute. I immediately knocked over a stack of files and a cup of old ticket stubs. I cursed, dropped to the ground to scoop them up. Avoided making eye contact with Fiona. My limbs were heavy and clumsy. Also, my palms were sweating again.
“Are you okay?” Fiona’s voice sounded like a song. There was a hint of a smile in it.
“You’re makin’ me nervous over here, princess,” I drawled.
“I’m literally just standing here.”
Yeah, but you’re too fucking pretty, and I don’t know what to do with my hands. From the moment I greeted Fiona, out on the sidewalk, I’d been nothing but nerves. She looked so goddamn stunning in that pantsuit it made my head spin and my jaw ache from clenching it. From the bun in her hair to the pointed tips of her high heels, she was buttoned-up beauty. Apparently, I’d always had a secret sexy-office-lawyer fetish.
Or maybe it was that Fiona had turned me down last night and I was still stuck thinking about her. That must be why I’d lost any and all of my game.
“I’m sorry I… kept you awake last night. Won’t happen again.”
I stepped back into the closet to avoid doing something stupid. Like kiss those sexy pursed lips. Or get down on my knees and beg her to reconsider my offer.
Or admit what I’d actually done last night when I couldn’t sleep. Which was jerk off—fucking twice—to a fantasy of her that felt so real I fell asleep after and then dreamed about it. One where she’d said yes, please, worship me, and then led me to her bed eagerly.
And then I’d shown her eager, I’d shown her hunger, I’d shown her what it was really like to have a man like me on his knees and my greedy tongue between her thighs. In my fantasy-dream, I fucked good girl Fiona until dawn and woke up still horny and a lot worried.
Because I wasn’t sure if this was normal.
“I’m sorry I kept you awake too,” I called over my shoulder. “Undeniable sexual chemistry will do that to a person.”
She hummed beneath her breath. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
I chuckled, stepping further into the office and staring up at a wall of shit that sent anxiety surging through me. Facing away from her, I finally scrubbed a hand down my face, hiding a massive sigh. She was such a lovely distraction right now, but the moment I dragged my eyes away, I remembered how deeply fucked up this situation was.
Fiona sifted through another file of paperwork while I hauled a massive cardboard box from where it was jammed under an old amp. Kicking it with my boot, I pushed it into the center of the room. “Think this is where that picture of you came from.”
“And I think I might have found your dad’s pile of rental agreements,” she murmured, still staring at the files. She looked up, then down at the box. “Holy shit, that’s an epic find.”
She dropped down, pulling out rolled up posters, stacks of pictures, rolls of tickets, and old calendars. She carefully laid them on the floor. It was a whole history of punk and rock music scattered around us. Pop had managed The Red Room for more than thirty-five years and had seen a ton of famous acts come through. As had the previous owner, who’d worked even more closely with CBGB, New York’s most famous music venue. When CBGB closed, a lot of musicians and fans gravitated to The Red Room full-time, and Pop had kept the doors open and the lights on through good financial times and bad.