Good Grades & Mystery Games: Chapter 18

Even after jamming out to Gracie Abrams songs while getting ready with Kennedy and Wren, I still can’t shake the uncomfortable feeling in my stomach when we get to the bar. I tried not to make it obvious. I don’t want to ruin their night. It seems like they both need this night out as much as I do, and I don’t want to jeopardise that with my overthinking.

I texted Max on the way here and he agreed to meet me here. I enjoy talking to him for some reason. He makes conversations easy and even though he has this whole bad boy aura around him, I can tell he’s a soft and slightly nervous boy on the inside. He’s also ridiculously attractive, so that helps. Second dates (if you can even call it that) aren’t really my thing, but he intrigues me a little. He tripped me up, he made me blush. That rarely ever happens if I can control it.

After two rounds of shots at the bar, I stay there, watching Kennedy and Wren dance together to whatever pop song is playing. I told them I’ll meet them there in a second, but I need to paint on my best ‘I’m fine’ face before doing so. I can’t stop thinking about Gio and what he was doing at the restaurant.

If I think about it theoretically and cynically, he had motives. It could be him. He’s lost the most important thing to him. Looking at a darker perspective, it seems clear that he would want to avenge that and become a more prominent member in the family. What I don’t understand is that after he lost Sara, our family became the most important thing to him. Why would he try to mess that up?

I’m so deep in thought that I don’t recognise the warm body behind me. I flinch at the contact of a strong hand on my shoulder, and I turn around, Max’s deep, woody scent clouding my thoughts for a brief moment. He’s got that sexy, almost lazy smile on his lips, dressed in a dark blue button down, his sleeves rolled up and black pants. His dark brown hair looks a little shorter than the last time I saw him, and I wonder if he’s had a haircut.

“Hi, Scarlett,” he greets, sitting in the seat beside me. I angle myself better so we’re facing each other, our legs almost tangled together.

“Hello, Maxwell,” I coo, smiling at him. He smiles back at me, a dimple popping out as he shakes his head. “How are you?”

“Better now that I’m here.” He tilts his head, taking a very deliberate glance at my body and my outfit. Like usual, I’m wearing a black bodycon dress with matching thigh high boots. The dress isn’t purposefully ‘provocative,’ but if you’re a person with eyes who’s attracted to women, you stare for a bit longer than usual. It hugs my curves in a flattering way, but Max is looking at me like he wants to take it right off me.

“At least buy me a drink before you start eye-fucking me,” I say through a laugh. He snaps his gaze from my legs to my face and when he catches me laughing, he lets out a nervous chuckle.

* * *

“So, what do you do in your spare time?” Max asks, taking a swig of his beer while I take a sip of my cocktail.

It’s really an award-winning question with a million dollar answer. One of these days, I’ll have an actual answer. But the truth is, I don’t really do anything.

No one wants to hear about the girl who hasn’t found anything as interesting as creating outfits or designs and has the opportunity to make them into a reality. The second I tell people I sometimes design clothes for fun and they sell for hundreds through Voss, I’m no longer seen as an entrepreneur or a stylist. I’m seen as a spoiled rich girl. But if I was a man, it would be so different. If I were my brothers, I’d be getting patted on the back and praised for my skills. In the words of Taylor Swift, “If I were a man, I’d be the man.”

“I like to read,” I say, which isn’t entirely a lie. I do like to read. I just don’t do it a lot or in my spare time. I read enough for class as it is. Sometimes just looking at words gives me a headache.

“Oh yeah?” he asks curiously.

Shit.

He’s a literature major, I forgot. How is he managing to trip me up already? I shouldn’t want to impress him. But, God, having no real hobbies or interests is embarrassing. He seems so put together, educated, and smart. And he’s interested in me for whatever reason, and he doesn’t even know my last name. I cross my toes, secretly crossing my fingers too, hoping he’s not one of those stuck up I’ll-judge-you-on-your-favourite-author types.

“Whose work do you like the most?”

“I lied,” I admit, the words out of my mouth before I can stop them. If I want to try this, I’m going to have to be honest, right? His eyebrow quirks. “I do read, though. Just not in my spare time. I didn’t want you to think I was boring or uneducated or not interesting. Which is crazy because I don’t usually care about what people – especially guys – think about me. I don’t know. I think you kind of intimidate me.”

He studies me silently for a minute. I didn’t have to say all that. I’m barely even buzzed, so I can’t even blame it on that. It is the truth though. Usually, being with guys like him, it’s easy and we sleep together, and it’s done. But for some reason, Max is set on making regular appearances in my life and it worries me a little.

“It’s okay,” he says reassuringly. My shoulders drop. “I get that a lot, actually.”

“Really?”

“No.” He smirks. “Besides, I didn’t want to talk about boring literature stuff. I was only asking follow-up questions to be polite.”

“Wow, who knew you were such a gentleman,” I say bashfully, pretending to fan myself.

“I can be,” he says with a shrug, a dimple popping out. He pulls his chair a little closer to mine, our knees touching. The slight contact sends electric shocks straight to my brain and I shiver, only rubbing against him more. “Let’s reverse the questions. You can ask me anything you want to know.”

I ask him where he grew up and he tells me about London and how his dad is a fellow American who met his mom there on business. The poor boy is so naive that he thinks Americans are kinder than British people, which is insane. I’ve been to the UK, and I’ve spent a week in New York. You can guess where I’d want to go on vacation again.

“I think you Brits are bolder than you give yourself credit for,” I laugh.

He nods. “Mostly because we know what we want and we go for it,” he whispers, his voice dropping an octave. I swear the heat has climbed up here vociferously. “You Americans bullshit your way through conversations without telling people what they really want.”

“Is that so?” I ask, trailing my nail up his forearm. I know it drives men insane. From the way I watch Max’s chest rise and fall repeatedly, I know I’ve hit the target. “Why don’t you tell me what it is that you want, Maxwell?”

The end of my sentence ends with a yelp as I stumble off my chair, my back crashing straight into a wall. Max tries to catch me, but his hand only reaches out half-heartedly before he gives up, shaking his head at me or whoever’s behind me.

I swear to God, I better not be getting kidnapped right now because even as I kick and stand on whoever’s toes are behind me, pulling us to the other side of the room, they’re not letting go of me. I look down at the blonde-haired arms wrapped tightly around my front.

No way.

No fucking way.

I tell myself to calm down so I can remove myself from his grip. His claim to my body relaxes when he thinks I’m going to relax and I use the brief moment to leap out of his arms, turning around and facing him.

Evan Branson has a new hobby where he ruins my dates.

I push him in the chest, watching as he stumbles backwards slightly into the chalkboard hung up on the wall. He’s not even saying anything, so I push him again. He just blinks at me like I’m the one who crashed his date.

“What the fuck, Branson? Can’t you see I was talking to someone or are you not wearing your contacts today?” I quiz. I’ve stopped pushing him now because that’s getting no answers out of him, and I pin my arms across my chest.

“I can see fine, thank you very much,” he responds, dusting off his shirt. He looks over to where we left Max. “Why are you even giving him the time of day? I’ve never seen you talk to a guy longer than two minutes other than him.”

“Sorry. Could you remind me why that’s any of your business?” I ask.

“If you’re secretly planning to murder him and take all of his money, I can keep that a secret. If not, then I want to know why.”

“Why is me murdering him your first thought?” I ask, laughing. But he’s not laughing. He’s being dead serious. Okay, so we’re doing this. “He’s nice and for once, I don’t want to chop his head off. He’s making me reconsider this whole not-dating-anyone thing.”

Is this entirely true? Sort of. If it means getting Branson to back off and stop killing my vibe, I’ll say it over and over until it’s the only thing he hears when he closes his eyes at night.

“‘Nice?” he repeats, exasperated. “You like him because he’s nice?” I nod. “Him? Seriously? The guy looks like he can’t even tie his own laces.”

I thought I broke him with the weed, but maybe not. Maybe this is his breaking point. God, I want to see him unravel so badly. I just want him to stop trying so hard at showing me up and be real with me. I want to shove him and for him to shove back.

“I don’t know why you care so much, Branson,” I say humorously.

“I don’t,” he concedes. He’s lying. I don’t know how or why, but he just is. The look on his face is something bordering on disgust and anger. “I just don’t understand why him of all people. Why now? You could have anyone you want by a tap of your finger and you’re considering him. I just don’t get it. What made you change your mind?”

Wow. Someone’s asking a lot of questions tonight. Usually I’m the talkative one. I always have been. There’s something slightly unsettling hearing him talk so much in one sitting.

I tilt my head playfully, twirling a strand of my hair around my finger. “You’re awfully curious for someone who hated me a few weeks ago. Remember that? The good ‘ol days,” I point out.

“I don’t hate you, Scarlett, and you know I don’t.” He looks at me with that intensity that I can’t place. My heart trips over itself when my name comes out of his mouth in that tone. It’s rare that my full name ever leaves his lips. Not like that, anyway. He blinks back at me as if there’s something I’m missing. “Just tell me why.”

I could lie to him. I could tell him Max is the greatest guy I’ve ever met and he’s just it for me. But he’s not. Somewhere deep down, I know he’s not. There’s something about him that is different from most people like us. Sure, he’s a little on the nose, but for the most part he’s fine.

“He treats me like an equal and I like him for it, okay? It’s not like there’s anyone else who wants me for me and not to use me for money or sex. And he doesn’t want either of those things from me. Well, not now anyway.”

Evan looks at me like he’s been sucker punched. Jesus, when did he get so pale? It’s giving me the heebie jeebies as he sticks his tongue in his cheek and nods slowly as if he’s trying to process the information. What is wrong with him?

“Good to know, Angel. If he fucks up, just let me know.”

I bark out a laugh at the faux protective thing he’s got going on right now. “Yeah, like you’re going to do anything,” I say. He pins me with a look. One of those looks and my mouth clamps together before opening. “Fine.”

He nods. Once. Twice. And then he’s gone.

I stand there for a few seconds, dumbfounded before I collect myself, trying to shake off whatever that was.

I don’t like him being protective over me, trying to handle me like I belong to him or like I’m his girlfriend. We’re just two people who are working together on a project, sometimes try to solve mysteries together and occasionally smoke weed. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less. And the last time I checked; bodyguard does not fit into that description.

When I return to the bar where Max is, he’s still waiting for me. His whole face lights up when he sees it’s me and I can’t hide the blush on my face even if I tried to.

I slide back into the stool. “Miss me?”

“I thought he was trying to take you away from me,” he responds.

“Not quite,” I say. “Where were we?”

“I was about to tell you how much I want you.”

This, I think to myself, this is exactly what I need. I need someone who’s going to whisper things like that to me over loud music in a bar. Someone who makes me feel weak in the knees by just being in their presence.

Suddenly I’m desperate for him.

For a release.