“Jesus,” I breathe, looking at the damage.
“Yeah. I’m glad she wasn’t home when it happened. No guessing what might have happened to her if she was.”
“Actually, she walked in on the dude. He hit her once.” I look around his broad shoulders and into Layla’s apartment. It looks like a tornado whipped through it. Stunned, I step closer. Couch cushions have been ripped open, curtains torn from the walls, and clothes are strewn everywhere. “Uh, Layla sent me to grab a box of mementos? She said she left it by the door.”
The officer nods, but then his gaze sharpens. “Hey, are you —”
I interrupt him with a loud and awkward laugh. “I know what you’re about to say. I get that all the time. Not that dude from the Wolves.”
He shakes his head. “No, not the Wolves. The Raptors. You know, the baseball team?”
I make a face. “Oh. I’m not really a sports guy, so I don’t pay attention to the teams here.”
I grab the box, thank the officer, then run down the stairs. After carefully placing the box in the trunk, I climb into the car. I intended to ask Layla to direct me to the interstate, but her eyes are closed, so I quietly open my navigation app.
I don’t say a word, letting Layla process what she just experienced. I don’t even know what to say. How do you comfort someone in a situation like this? I like black and white. Cut and dry. If I find the guy who did this — because I fucking know it was a guy — then I can take my aggressions out on him with my fists. Black and white. You did the crime, now you pay. But that attitude won’t work with Layla.
I’m about to make a sarcastic joke about why I was even by her apartment in the first place, when Layla slides her tiny hand into mine, and I forget everything.
I squeeze her hand, then bring it to my mouth and kiss it softly.
This makes me hope that everything will be okay.
When amI allowed to wave my white flag? Does it need to be a tangible flag, or can I wave a metaphorical one? At what point do I cry uncle, or admit defeat, or whatever?
Seriously, universe, can you pick on someone else now?
Walking into my apartment was surreal. Like a movie scene. A nightmare I can’t wake up from. Whoever did it destroyed as much as possible, even going as far as breaking my dishes. I’m not sure what message he was trying to send with that move. Maybe that I shouldn’t cook? Eat fewer vegetables? I don’t know why this happened, but if the message was solely to scare the daylights out of me, the message was received loud and clear.
I don’t like feeling inept or that I need to depend on a man to get me through something. I’ve always been a strong and independent woman. I’m sure it has a lot to do with watching my dad wither away, because we had to take care of him, but I also think it’s just part of my personality. You won’t find me pining for a man or unable to make decisions without the male point of view.
And honestly, the fact that just holding Max’s hand is making me feel better really pisses me off. Quite the juxtaposition inmy emotions right now.
As Max pulls into the underground parking at a high-rise apartment building only a few blocks from the ball field, I take in all the expensive cars. While I’ve never been in this building, I know quite a few players live here. It’s so convenient, and as Max said, it has great security. I’ve heard some other athletes for the Denver teams live here too. After the fifth Porsche, I stopped counting, but did notice a handful of Mercedes, a couple of Aston Martins, and a Bentley. When we pass a weird-looking sports car, I can’t help but ask about it. “What was that, and who owns it?”
Max snorts. “It’s a Bugatti. A guy on the NBA team owns it. He had to special order it from France. Cost a couple of million bucks.”
“Holy shit,” I whisper. Millions for a car? “I’m very much out of my league here. I can’t even imagine having one million in my bank account, much less spending more than that on a car.”
“And it’s a car that sits here. I’ve only seen him drive it once. That’s a waste. Plus, I don’t think I’d trust it being in a parking garage. We’ve got good security, but nothing is guaranteed. I’d want that car in a private garage,” Max says as he pulls into a spot.
I suddenly realize I’m sitting in an SUV with a professional athlete, and I take note of the all-leather, sleek interior. “What kind of car is this?”
Max smirks. “It’s a Mercedes-AMG G 63.”
“This looks kind of normal for an athlete,” I comment. “Almost like a family car.”
Max shakes his head. “No family. I have a couple of sportier cars, but I left them in California. I wanted something that would handle snow better. You ready to head up to my apartment?”
Sighing, I nod. I guess it’s now or never. “Are you sure this is okay? I can try to find a hotel to stay in that’ll allow pets.”
Max turns to me. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t sure. You’re welcome here, Peaches. And the girls are too.”
As if they know he’s talking about them, Muriel and Marilyn erupt in a cacophony of squeaks. “Better get them upstairs. I didn’t give them any fresh food yet tonight.”
As we get out of Max’s SUV, he asks, “Do you have a pet service that looks after them when you’re on road trips?”
“No, I had a teenage neighbor who would do it. She really likes animals, and I’d give her a little cash each road trip. It was cheaper than hiring a service.”
