Carter smiled gently. “Then do it.”
“Well, I’ll be goddamned, if it isn’t Max O’Hare!” Riley Moore’s voice boomed across the body shop, reverberating around the metal and the people working on it.
Max laughed and lost himself in the huge man-hug Riley embraced him with. Riley clapped Max’s cheek. “You’re looking good, my man. My brother Tate knows his shit, right?”
Max snorted. “Yeah, he knows his shit.”
All the other boys—Paul, Cam, and a couple of faces Max didn’t recognize—all approached him with handshakes, hugs, and well wishes. It had been a week since he’d left rehab but it was the first time he’d been back into the city and visited his business. He was relieved but not surprised that the place looked great and ridiculously busy. He noted a small blonde-haired woman at the back of the shop, sitting behind a desk working on a pile of paperwork, oblivious to the hubbub of Max’s arrival, and shook his head wryly. Carter had told him all about the young, pretty thing Riley had “welcomed” into the world of O’Hare’s.
He pushed Riley’s shoulder. “You never fucking change.” Riley smirked. “What? I gots needs.”
“You sure everything’s good?” Max hedged, glancing around the place, a strange sensation of neutrality settling in his belly.
“Absolutely,” Riley answered, his business face emerging quickly. “We don’t have the figures for the last quarter here, although Carter might at WCS, but you’re obviously welcome to look at the books if you want—”
Max clapped a hand to Riley’s shoulder and smiled. “No need. I trust you. And I can’t thank you enough.” He lowered his voice slightly. “Carter showed you my offer, right?”
Max couldn’t have been certain, but Riley appeared almost shy, certainly grateful, his hazel eyes soft. “Yeah, man, he did. It’s fantastic. Thank you.”
Max and Carter had discussed at length making Riley a permanent business fixture at the body shop. With Carter’s company, WCS, becoming a shareholder in O’Hares, clearing all the debts when Max first entered rehab, and Riley’s business know-how in maintaining the smooth running of the place in Max’s absence, it seemed only appropriate to offer Riley a firmer stake in the place, as well as a salary. Besides having good and trusted friends at the helm of his beloved father’s business, Max also knew that, for a time, he could afford to take a step back, take his time in finding his feet again in the outside world, reducing by a considerable amount the weight of the expectations that rested on his shoulders.
Catching up with the guys at the shop was a strange experience. They all looked happy to see him, especially Paul, who, like Carter, had begged Max to get help for months, if not years, before he finally went to rehab. But Max couldn’t shake the feeling of detachment that had continually skulked within him over the past seven days.
He’d been eagerly filling his time at Carter’s beach house with the treadmill—when the weather wasn’t agreeable enough for him to run on the beach—weights, playing guitar, reading, and even painting a little, but the ball of restiveness still weighed heavy in his spine. He’d continued to take his meds regularly, exactly when he should; attended his first NA meeting outside of rehab; spoken to Tate about it and arranged his first appointment with Dr. Moir; but still Max couldn’t settle.
Carter had done more than bend over backward to accommodate Max’s needs, making sure that he had everything he could want to make his transition back into the real world as easy as possible. Kat, too, had been supersweet, cooking for the three of them and appearing genuinely interested in Max’s recovery. She didn’t cling to Carter, as Max had assumed she might now that Max was back. She was, as always, attractive, ballsy, and independent. Even in the short time Max had spent with her and Carter in their home, it was still abundantly clear why they worked well together, even if the diamond on her left hand still caused Max’s stomach to twist in residual grief.
It was all very bizarre and difficult to digest.
“You’ll get there,” Tate assured him on the phone when they spoke later that evening, as Max lazed on the bed in Carter’s guest room.
“Maybe I should go home,” he mused, although the sound of the ocean certainly kept him calmer than the noise of Brooklyn. “Maybe being in my own apartment might help?”
“If you think it will, do it,” Tate encouraged. “But don’t isolate yourself.”
Max sighed and rubbed his face with a tired hand. “Yeah. Christ, I just didn’t think it would be so . . .”
“Different.”
“Yeah,” Max agreed enthusiastically. “Everyone is being so fucking nice, so happy for me to be home, despite the shit I put them all through, but I just can’t . . . connect or relax.”