Not the Marrying Kind Page 9

  Although this time went way past “bad.”

  “The Sex Pistols,” Fiona said, pointing at each one. “The Clash. Bowie. Blondie. Joan and Patti. The Dead Kennedys. The Ramones.”

  I pulled out a handful more, which included a host of beloved local bands, including Fiona’s parents. “Vintage Hand Grenades,” I said, showing her a red-and-black poster from twenty years ago. She eyed it, smiled. “My parents have that hanging in their upstairs bathroom.”

  Beneath that, the stacks of photos showed similar images, though these were more daily life shots—the different folks who’d worked here over the years with Pop. A few old pictures of him with various musicians and bands. Some wild shots of Lou and Sandy.

  She snatched up a picture with a bright laugh. “Bad bitches alert.” She tapped a photo of herself and Roxy backstage with their parents. Roxy had her arm looped around Fiona’s neck, her other raised in cheer. Fiona was smirking and pretty, arms around Roxy’s waist. They were polar opposites—fishnets versus sweater sets—but the affection in the picture made me smile.

  “How old are you guys here?” I asked.

  “Twenties, maybe? That’s definitely my I have class tomorrow face. You were probably on the road at that point, right?”

  “I left at twenty-one,” I said, pulling through more pictures, setting aside ones of Pop and my mom. In a lot of ways, pictures of them had the same opposites energy as Fiona and her sister. Pop was always serious and gruff while my mom was sparkling charm. “If I hadn’t, I would have flirted your face off.”

  “And I still would have turned you down,” she replied. “Easily.”

  I grabbed my chest again and winced. She poked my arm instead, and I jumped back, grinning. Which forced me to stand over everything in front of me—the music, the people, my dad. I shoved my hands in my pocket and winced for real.

  “Are you thinking about the money?” she asked.

  “It’s hard not to,” I said. “We’ve got, what, two weeks to figure this out? I don’t know who the hell has that kind of money, but we sure don’t.”

  She crossed one leg over the other and grabbed her phone. “This isn’t the Band-Aid, but long-term, I think Edward really could help Pop develop a better business plan for this place. It’s how he and Roxy got together. He helped her turn around her shop, increase her revenue. When was the last time you think Pop even raised beer prices?”

  I blew out a breath. “I mean… never?”

  She nodded, lips pursing. “It’s a start. Doesn’t solve the fifty grand question though.”

  I glanced over at her. “Thanks, by the way. For being so nice to Pop.”

  “He’s in a tough spot,” Fiona said. “It’s easy for anyone to get that far behind. And it sucks, to even contemplate this place closing. It’s…” She bit her lip. “Standing here, surrounded by all this, these memories, it doesn’t seem real. It doesn’t seem possible that we’d be letting it go.”

  I leaned back against the filing cabinet, arms crossed. I didn’t have a ton of money to my name. I owned my bike and a couple suitcases full of clothing. That’s it. I rented, never owned. Worked jobs and left them just as quickly. My bills were paid, and I had a little extra for savings, but no excess.

  I had no idea where to find this much money when we had so little.

  I stretched my neck. I needed a beer and a long ride in the middle of nowhere.

  The tip of my boot nudged a slip of paper from that pile. I bent down, picked it up. In red block letters, it said: Save CBGB. Save Punk Music!

  Flipping it around, I held it out to Fiona. “What do you know about CBGB closing?”

  She leaned back on her palms. “They were sued for back rent, like your dad. They owed twice what your dad owes, and the new landlord was increasing rent to four times what they were currently paying. It was too much, and too fast, and they had to close.”

  I stared at the tiny poster, wheels turning. “I don’t remember much, but I do remember how sad my dad was. And everyone here.”

  “It was an institution that changed everything,” she said. “That challenged the status quo of the music industry and helped bring it directly to the people. Like this place, like—”

  She stopped speaking. Stood up and snatched the tiny poster from my fingers.

  “What?” I said.

  “It didn’t work, unfortunately, but I think this poster is from the benefit show bands put on to try and raise the money needed to save CBGB. They sold tickets, raised funds, raised awareness.” She stared up at me, eyes curious, smile hopeful. In a dizzy flash, I connected the dots.

  “We should throw a benefit show,” I said.

  “Yes.” She clapped her hands together. “Yes. Exactly.” She started pacing the small space, and I didn’t mind one bit seeing a glimpse at this spitfire in action. “Your dad needs to pay by the end of this month, which is—”

  “Thirteen days from now,” I said. “We could give it a day to pull our shit together, but that’s only twelve days to book bands and sell tickets.”

  Fiona lifted an eyebrow. “Planning an event with a tight deadline is my idea of a good time. I can do this.”

  “You mean we can do this.”

  She stopped mid-pace. “You and me… plan this event together?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t you have to go back to wherever you’re headed next?”

  I shrugged. “This is why I came home. To help Pop, however I can. I’ll need to take a job soon, but I’ve got enough savings to last me a few weeks. That’s enough time to see what we can raise and then tackle whatever comes next.”

  “You’re definitely leaving though, right?” she asked.

  I ignored the new ache in my chest and said, “Absolutely. I’m not here to stay, and I’ve got job applications out at shops all over the country. It never takes me long to pick up a gig. But it does mean I’m home for now, with nothing to do, which means we’re doing this thing.”

  This was the first idea that seemed like it could save my dad’s livelihood. And having help—having a partner or friend or whatever Fiona was to me—was such a relief. At least there was someone who could help shoulder the weight a little.

  Fiona was practically shaking. “If we set ticket prices at $100 or more and hit venue capacity, that’s well over $35,000 in ticket sales. But maybe Edward’s hotel could sponsor the event, fill that gap potentially.”

  “That would be awesome,” I said, already feeling better.

  “Yeah, well, what’s the point of a rich brother-in-law if you don’t squeeze them for money?”

  She started pacing again, grabbing her sheet of paper and writing down a bulleted list. “It’s going to be a lot of work, Max.”

  “I’m a hard worker.”

  She looked up, bit her lip. “I mean, if we do this, we’ll be spending a lot of time together.”

  I couldn’t stop the smile on my face if I fucking tried. “That’s even better.”

  I’d have a sprained wrist from overuse but fuck it—I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to her yet. But from the way she was standing tall and studying me, maybe she was ready.

  “Will you be able to deny your sexual attraction to me?” she asked, chin tilted up.

  “Deny?” I said. “No. There’s no denying that I want you very, very badly.”

  She flushed but stayed quiet.

  “But I heard you loud and clear last night. You’ve got goals and fancy men to marry. I won’t get in your way.”

  She looked at the center of my chest, teasing again. “You’re not too heartbroken?”

  I knocked my knuckles against my sternum. “Ticker’s just fine. You can’t hurt an organ that never comes into play.”

  Something happened after I said that. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she nodded once like she was making a decision. “Of course. That’s right.”

  “Will you be able to deny your intense and extremely obvious sexual attraction to me?”

  She ran h
er tongue along her teeth. “I don’t have to deny it. It was never in play.”

  She was too smart and too quick, and I wanted to kiss her for whole fucking hours.

  I pointed at her. “And you’ve got goals, which you always crush—”

  “Always.”

  “—so, then, me working with you shouldn’t be a distraction, right?”

  Her nostrils flared. “Right.”

  The music coming from downstairs changed, a new Bowie song coming on, setting my feet tapping again, filling the small space. We were having fun—it was easy to do around Fiona—but she and I both knew this was serious.

  I ran my hand through my hair, dropped the flirting. “Cards on the table?”

  Her shoulders softened down. “Go for it.”

  I held out my hand. “Pop needs this. And I can’t pull it off by myself. I need a friend with an organized brain and a skill for planning. I need… I need help.” I swallowed hard. “Will you help me?”

  “As friends.” She said it like she’d never heard the word before. Hell, it was new to me too. I pursued women sexually. I didn’t have a ton that were my friends.

  “Yeah. For Pop. For The Red Room.”

  She let out a long breath. “And for my family.”

  She stepped forward, took my hand, and shook it. Like earlier, when I’d stopped her from falling, an electric shock went through me at the points where our skin touched.

  She let go fast. Ran her hands down her jacket and stepped far away from me. “Twelve days, one concert, fifty thousand dollars.” Her lips curved into a confident smile. “Easy as pie.”

  “Plus, as your friend, that makes me free to help you meet your future husband,” I said. “I can call up some yacht clubs, see who’s single and ready to mingle?”

  “Very true,” she said. “Twelve days is realistically all I have before securing my future husband becomes my priority. And you should have plenty of time to unleash your playboy ways on a hundred different women in this city, right?”

  I gave her my most arrogant smile. “You’re goddamn right.”

  And she was. Because for the next twelve days, Fiona was officially off-limits, and I could go have meaningless sex all over the place.

  This was fine. Absolutely fine.

  Totally, totally fucking fine.

  Or whatever.

  13

  Max

  I ducked my head into the office at The Red Room, surprised to see Pop sitting there with a chipper expression. It was only ten in the morning, early for him, but he was sitting in front of the desktop and slurping coffee from a mug.

  “Take an extra,” I said, setting a cup of Blue Bottle coffee down for him. “I’m taking some to Mateo in a second.”

  Pop turned around, grunted at the coffee. “He knows you’re coming?”

  “Nope.” I grinned. “I’m gonna surprise him.”

  I hadn’t seen him—or, actually, spoken to him—since leaving the city. And now he had a gallery and was engaged to Rafael, so he had a lot of stories I needed to hear.

  I felt lighter today, a little more convinced that things were going to be okay. Part of that was Fiona, sneaking into my thoughts and providing me yet another night of hot, filthy fantasies. I was sexually frustrated but still happy knowing I’d keep seeing her.

  Happy knowing another person was on my side.

  And in the meantime, I probably needed to hit a bar and get myself laid.

  Probably.

  “So what do you think about what I told you last night? The concert?” I asked Pop, taking a sip of coffee.

  “It’s good, Maxy. Real good.” He cleared his throat. “I knew you’d figure somethin’ out.”

  “Well, half of that is Fiona,” I admitted. “She’s way smarter than both of us.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s obvious.”

  I chuckled, patted him on the shoulder. “When I get back later, let’s talk bands you think would play, and then I’ll start calling them.”

  He was still looking at his screen. I peeked around him. Over 60 Match was up, displaying a blue-colored chat with Angela. The blinking message said: I would love to exchange email addresses.

  I hit Pop’s shoulder again, harder this time. “Look at that, old man. She likes you.”

  He was turning red. “Maybe. You’ll, you know, help me send something?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. When I get back, we’ll brainstorm.”

  “I’ll pull a list of bands together too,” he said.

  I grabbed both coffees, whistling beneath my breath. “We got this. I can feel it.”

  Once outside, I slid on my sunglasses and smiled up at the clear blue sky. New York City in May was a beautiful thing.

  Walking these streets made me re-live memories I hadn’t thought about in years. Running wild on skateboards or bikes, papering the block with concert posters for acts at The Red Room. Pop wasn’t the best at the school stuff, but Mateo’s parents were strict about grades. Most nights, Mrs. Rivera would lure us to her dinner table with the best empanadillas and tostones in the whole city. And then made sure we finished our homework before heading to The Red Room to catch whatever band was playing that night.

  We were city kids, through and through. Went to the same public middle and high school, rode the same subway, stayed out much too late and always broke curfew. While I’d gotten on my motorcycle and ridden out of here, just like my mom, Mateo had stayed and gone to art school. He and Rafael had been together since we were seventeen, had been the high school sweethearts of our grade. They even won Homecoming Kings together—a ceremony I’d watched with Pop and Mateo’s parents. His mom had cried and applauded. His dad, always the quiet one, beamed with pride. Even Pop was a little teary-eyed.

  I’d cheered for my best friends until my throat was hoarse, of course. And only later did I wonder why my mom never showed up to any of these school events. Even though she told me she was in the city sometimes, visiting friends, visiting her family. But being around Pop must have been hard, and those kinds of school spirit events were so against her nature.

  My phone rang in my back pocket. Juggling the two coffees, I stopped to lean against a building. I slipped my phone out and secretly hoped it was Fiona.

  The number wasn’t one I recognized.

  “Yeah, Max Devlin speaking.” I squinted up into the spring sunshine.

  “Hey, this is Charlie over at Rusty’s Shop in L.A. Is this the Max Devlin that used to work with John at Rebel Bikes in Denver?”

  Well fuck again.

  “It is, yeah. Sorry, did you say you’re calling from Rusty’s?”

  L.A.’s most famous motorcycle repair shop had been around since 1955, and even though the Hollywood Hills had grown up around it, it was still old, greasy, and beloved in the bike community. If you don’t like it, get the fuck out was a common mantra at every shop I’d ever worked at. That had always been Rusty’s. The difference now being that some of the wealthiest celebrities in the world brought their bikes in there.

  “Yeah,” Charlie grumbled. “You heard of us?”

  I laughed a little, kicking my foot up against the wall. “Yes, sir. I’m sure you hear this all the time, but I’ve wanted to work at your shop since I got my first bike.”

  There was the sound of a metal filing cabinet shutting and some disgruntled yelling in the background. Shop sounds—the heartbeat of every job I’d ever worked. “I do hear it all the time,” he said. “You ever been out here before to see it?”

  “No, not yet, but I plan on it,” I said. Six months ago, after a pretty boozy night with a few guys from work, I’d gone back to my apartment and sent off my resume to Rusty’s. Hell, give me a torque wrench and a nice bike, and I was a happy son of a bitch. As long as the shop had a decent owner and treated customers right, I didn’t usually care where I worked, long as they were okay with me moving on whenever I wanted to.

  Rusty’s was different though.

  Though even
as I sent it off, I was already lowering my expectations to a realistic zero. Mom loved to hand out pearls of wisdom like candy. Never have expectations was one of her favorites. As soon as I’d stopped setting my sights on specific goals, my life was more carefree.

  “Good,” Charlie said. “Because we’ve got a few candidates we’re looking at for our open position here, and you’re one of them. I don’t really do in-person interviews as much anymore. I prefer to hire mechanics on a trial basis and see how they do in person, evaluate their skills and capabilities on sight. I’m assuming you’re interested in being considered?”

  You could always stay longer if you wanted.

  Pop’s voice dragged me back to the present, to that ache I’d had since getting here. Though I’d never not gotten itchy feet before, so this time wasn’t going to be any different.

  “What, uh…” I cleared my throat. “This is for the custom builds mechanics job, right?”

  “Yeah, it is. Job would start in two weeks.”

  That would mean leaving right after the benefit concert. Los Angeles appeared in my mind—all palm trees and big beaches and smooth, easy sunshine. Gorgeous women and bright lights and famous rides along the coast. What could possibly keep me from going? Roots only held you back.

  “Of course, I’m interested,” I said, rubbing a hand across my jaw. “Thank you for even considering me. It’s an honor.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Charlie said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  I stared at my phone for a few seconds after he hung up, sure I’d imagined the call. Now I had this… this expectation that I could be working a dream job in California in under a month. Hope was trying to wiggle its way in, like a weed growing in a garden. But hope was dangerous and almost always led to being let down.