Page 30 of Maxim
“No.”
There’s an expression of annoyance mingled with anxiety on her face when she peeks at me over her phone, but I give no fucks. She’s not disappearing again. I refuse to allow her to get away a … third time?
I’m losing count.
“No?” She looks at me warily but before she can protest, I yank her phone away. It’s already unlocked. Good. Navigating to her contacts, I quickly add myself and then hit call on my number, so I have hers too.
“There. Now you can leave. But don’t bother calling an Uber. I’ll drive you home.” Part of me listens to the words spewing from my mouth and thinks what the actual fuck?
I don’t drive women home. I don’t even let them stay the night!
But I shut that voice down.
“Sex god? You added your number to my contacts as Sex God?” Now she has her phone back and I’m offering her a lift, she relaxes again, caught between amusement and annoyance. “Arrogant much?”
“No, malyshka, accurate.”
She snorts with laughter. “Sure, whatever. Now can we go? I have shit to do.”
Chapter twenty
Nat
My phone pings from my desk drawer. Against my better judgment - I’m supposed to be finishing a lifestyle article on whether women are more drawn to cats as pets as they get older - I pull it out to read the message.
It’s my doctor reminding me to book an appointment for a pap smear.
I grimace at the screen before closing the message.
Can’t wait for that.
The sensible side of me decides to overlook the fact I’m disappointed the message isn’t from Max. Since he dropped me off on Saturday morning, he’s been messaging me daily. Mostly just ‘good morning’ and ‘how was your day’. Nothing too flirtatious. I have to admit, though, I do get a thrill when his name pops up on my screen.
It’s ridiculous.
I can’t get involved with a man who describes his job as ‘import/export’. I mean, come on, it’s 100% a euphemism for something shady. There is literally nothing about Max that screams eBay seller or Etsy store owner.
My gut tells me he’s sketchy as fuck. Given my job, I’d be best staying well away from him and deleting his number from my phone.
So why haven’t I done that?
No clue.
Part of me thinks it’s because he hinted he was the reason why Rick disappeared from my life. I don’t know what happened to Rick - or care all that much - but if Max did persuade him to leave, then I owe him.
There’s no way Rick would have left his job and me without a damn good reason. When I told the girls he’d had something to do with Rick disappearing, they glanced at each other and suggested I don’t look into it.
My journalistic instincts tell me they’re right. Nothing good ever came of poking around in dark corners. Besides, Rick recently reinstated his Instagram, so I know he’s still alive. No selfies so far, but it has to be him posting photos of protein shakes and sweaty gyms.
The guy was so vain. He spent more time in the gym than he did working.
I shove my phone away and continue editing the 1,500 words I’ve written. It’s a tedious, slow process, and my heart isn’t in it. But I promised my editor I’d finish the article by 2 PM. I’d much rather work on research for my story on the mayor, but things have ground to a halt.
Micky has been looking into the mafia guy. I promised I’d call in soon - with pizza - so hopefully he’s found something I can use.
If people find out the mayor is consorting with the criminal underworld, it will be game over for him. There’s no way he could deny it if I find cast-iron links connecting him with known criminals.
Just as I save my last edits on the Cat Lady article and upload it, my phone pings again. This time it’s a message from an unknown number.