The two men sat in silence for a moment before Max sat forward, lowering his voice despite the fact that they were alone. "So, will you tell me something about Riley?"
Tate blinked slowly. "If it's anything to do with Seb and me putting red juice powder mix in the showerhead before he used it, then I know nothing."
Max knew Seb to be the youngest of the Moore brothers. "Red juice mix?"
"Powder mixed with the water when he turned on the shower." Tate snickered. "Bathroom looked like that scene in Carrie. Mom nearly shit bricks; he scrubbed himself for damn near a week to get clean. Man, it was awesome."
Max rubbed his eyes with the pads of his fingers, tittering. "No, that wasn't it, but thanks for that visual. I was wondering if you knew who it was that he lost." Tate appeared perplexed. "A woman," Max clarified. "When he came over last night, he said something about knowing what it was like to lose the woman he loved."
It wasn't that Max was prying. Since Riley's visit, he'd been genuinely worried about the man and concerned that he'd known nothing about Riley's past and the obvious pain he'd suffered.
Tate took a deep breath and sat back gradually, all hints of joking and pranks forgotten. He rested his ankle on the opposite knee. "Yeah, I know who it was." Max waited, but Tate didn't embellish. His expression was firm. "It ain't my story to tell, man."
"I get it," Max offered, knowing a big brother's protectiveness and loyalty was not something to fuck with. "He's okay, though, right?"
Tate nodded. "I think so." He smirked. "Riley's like a bouncy ball, doesn't matter how hard you throw him, he always comes back harder and faster."
At seven o'clock Saturday evening, decked out in black dress pants, white shirt, and a thin black tie he'd borrowed from Carter, Max sat in the passenger seat of Riley's Jeep as Riley drove the two of them across the city toward the art exhibition.
"You okay?" Riley asked for the fourth time since they'd left Max's place.
"Other than being dressed up fancier than I would be for a damn court appearance, I'm fine," Max answered with a sly grin.
"Prick," Riley muttered, shaking his head and fidgeting with his own tie. "The flyer said to dress sharp, so, shit, we dressed sharp." He glanced at himself in the rearview. "Damn sharp, baby, I look fucking hot."
Max chuckled and shook his head, his heart rate rising as they drew closer to Greenwich Village. He ran a hand down his tie and breathed deeply.
"You look okay, I guess," Riley muttered before grinning. "And you know, if this shit doesn't work out, we could always hit a couple of gay bars. We're in the area. You'd fit right in."
Rolling his eyes, Max shrugged. "I take that as a compliment."
"You should," Riley agreed seriously. "I'd do you."
Max laughed, knowing that Riley's incessant ramblings were an attempt to calm them both. Riley hadn't stopped twitching for the entire car journey. Max was honestly relieved that Carter hadn't joined them. He wasn't sure he would have been able to cope with the two of them fussing around him. Max wasn't naïve, of course; he knew having friends who cared about him was a great problem to have, especially when he considered the shit he'd put them all through. But Christ.
He turned to Riley. "Thanks for doing this."
Riley dipped his chin. "Any time, brother. You know that."
Riley parked the Jeep and the two of them sat for a minute, listening to the engine tick as it cooled. Max went over his well-thought-out spiel silently, swallowed down his fear, and climbed out onto the quiet, humid street. With Riley at his side, Max felt somewhat comforted. He damn sure knew he couldn't have done it alone.
The building they approached was fairly innocuous, save for the twelve-foot window affording a view inside it and an awesome banner that reached across the entire front declaring the show open and the names of the four artists, Grace's included, whose work was being shown. A guy at the door with a clipboard and a mustache that would have put Salvador Dalí to shame smiled as they drew near. Riley gave them his name and then a name Max had never heard of, presumably that of the owner Riley had met at the body shop.
"Ah, special guests," Dalí exclaimed with an extravagant wave of his hand. "Of course, of course, my darlings, go in. Enjoy!"
The two of them smiled nervously and, with Max in front, slipped around him into the air-conditioned lobby. "What the fuck did you just do?" Max asked with a snicker.
"I have no idea," Riley answered, glancing back at the door, looking as though he was ready to beat a hasty retreat. "But I think he just slapped my ass."