“Sure, you can,” I say as I stroke him through the thick denim. His eyelids flutter, and his fingers curl around the chain link fence. “You take off your clothes, I take off mine. We do what we want to each other and get relief from the hell our bodies are in. This doesn’t have to be complicated.”
He gently pulls me to my feet. “Whether we like it or not, it is complicated. And with what I still have to tell you, it’s about to get worse.” He retrieves my jacket and hands it to me. “When we have sex, Eden, I intend it to be the start of something special. Not some desperate quickie in a dusty warehouse. And once you hear my full story, you might decide even that’s more than you want from me.”
He pulls out the chair from behind the desk and gestures to it. “Please, sit.”
He grabs another chair from near the wall and sits at the end of the desk, facing me. The positioning makes me feel like I’m conducting a job interview. In a way, I guess I am. With most men, the only thing I’m interested in is their body. Once the flush of arousal fades, so does my desire to have them anywhere near me. With Max, I want him near me all the time, whether he’s touching me or not, which is why I’m vaguely hoping that what he’s about to tell me will be so unforgivable, I’ll never want to see him again.
Max leans forward, forearms on his thighs, hands clasped together. His expression is so grave, I become genuinely concerned.
“I didn’t bring up my family before now, because I was ... ashamed. I wasn’t ready for you to know the person I used to be. But ... nothing I’m about to say changes how I feel about you. I need you to know that.”
“Jesus, Max, you’re really starting to freak me out. Did you kill someone or something?”
I expect him to laugh at that, because I was going for ridiculous to lighten the mood, but he doesn’t.
“What would you say if I did?”
I look for any sign that he’s joking and swallow nervously when I don’t find one. When he sees the horror dawning on my face, he looks away. “The first thing you need to know is that as far back as I can remember, my dad tortured my mom.”
That makes my skin crawl. “He was violent?”
“Not with his fists, but he pummeled the hell out of her with his words every damn day. Taunted her. Belittled her. Committed psychological warfare every chance he got. I’ve since discovered that he’s a malignant narcissist, so that should tell you something about how bad he was. And the most shameful admission I can possibly make to the woman I have feelings for is that ...” He takes a breath. “... there was a time when I wanted to be just like him.”
I’m shell-shocked. This man – the one who’s chivalrous and polite, who holds chairs and doors with such deference and care – he looked up to his abusive father?
“Max, I find that hard to believe.”
His expression turns steely. “Believe it. Before everything went to hell, people thought we were a great family. Rich, loving, successful. It was all a lie.” He gazes at a spot on the wall behind me, and it’s clear admitting this stuff is easier when he’s not looking at me.
“Dad treated Mom like she was a second-class citizen, while making Spence and me think we were gods. We were indoctrinated to believe that men ruled the world and women did what they were told, so we didn’t even question the way he treated Mom. It was natural. When we were old enough to realize that not all women were treated like that, it was too late.”
He shakes his head, angry at himself. “In our minds, Mom’s job was to keep us fed and the house organized, as well as look pretty and play nice for Dad’s rich, society friends. Her whole world was made to revolve around us, and that was the way we liked it. Especially Dad. Toxic masculinity at its finest.”
He looks over at the jewelry box, shame etched into his features. “There’s no doubt in my mind that we were the reason she killed herself. Her blood is on our hands. Especially mine.” He’s squeezing his hands together so hard, his knuckles crack.
I don’t know how he’d react to me touching him right now, so instead I try to make my voice as soothing as possible. “Max ... I can’t talk about the reasons your mom did what she did, but you can’t take responsibility for –”
“She asked for my help.” He clenches his jaw. “She tried talking to me about how she was feeling, and I ... I brushed her off. I didn’t have the time. I had more important things to do.” He goes quiet. “She tried to tell me she was struggling with depression, and I ignored it.”
I don’t know what to say. How can I possibly console him over that? It’s something he’ll have to live with for the rest of his life.
“I’m sorry.”
He stares at a spot on the floor. “I look back at how I treated my girlfriends in high school, even the few I dated in college, and I’m horrified. I’m disgusted that I allowed myself to be molded into my father’s image.” He looks over at me, a world of regret in his eyes. “I know you don’t trust me ... that you may never trust me ... but I’m genuinely trying to tip the karmic scales back to make up for what I did. I give my clients the man they need, whoever the hell that may be. I couldn’t do it for my mom, but I can sure as hell do it for them.”
It’s hard for me to think of Max treating women like possessions, but perhaps the anger I saw in him last night, the hard, dominating side of Maxwell, was a glimpse into how that might look.
“The phone call last night–”
“Was from my dad. He kept talking about all the things he wants us to do together when he gets out. I just want to beat him senseless for what he did to Mom. But as satisfying as I’d find that, it wouldn’t bring her back. And it wouldn’t change him. No matter how many people he destroys, he’ll always think he’s the sun, and the rest of the solar system should revolve around him.” He shakes his head. “I don’t care anymore. I have no father.”
Well, there’s something we both have in common. “Maybe your dad and my dad should get together and go bowling. Form a vortex of douche.” He tries to smile but doesn’t quite succeed.
“Vivian said you had to become Mister Romance because of financial problems.”
He nods. “Dad gambled. Compulsively. By the time he was caught with his hand in the company till, our house was mortgaged to the hilt, the business was dying, and he’d sold off most of our assets. Then the trial costs piled on top of that, and I dropped out of college, because I couldn’t afford the fees.”
He gestures around him. “Mom left me this warehouse in her brother’s name, but no one wanted to buy it. After I sold our family home and the house in the Hamptons, there was still a mountain of debt. Most of what I make these days goes to paying it off. A portion goes to the Valentine Foundation to help women like my mother, and every few months I sell off what’s left of our possessions and live off the cash. I haven’t started selling the jewelry yet out of respect to Mom, but I’ll have to one day.”
“The necklace you gave me ...”
“That was her favorite. At least, I think it was. I never asked. She wore it the most.”