"It's just a small thank-you for all your help with the house," she replied. "I gave the rest of the guys beer, but I thought you'd appreciate this more." She ventured to the bathroom to grab some toilet paper to use as makeshift napkins.
"You were right." Max dropped down onto the side of the bed after swiping a can of Dr Pepper. "I love pizza."
Grace snorted and joined him with her own slice and a can, hyperaware that he'd still not put on a shirt and they were sitting on his sheet-rumpled bed. Under the delicious aroma of oregano and pepperoni floating around them, the underlying scent of man enveloped her. Her pulse jumped but, weirdly, panic never took hold.
"So how did this morning go?"
Max had had an appointment with his therapist, causing him to miss their run. She didn't mind, obviously, but his absence did make the day drag a little bit longer, even with all the chaos at the house.
"Good," Max said after swallowing a bite of pizza. "He's lowered my meds. Says he's pleased with my progress."
"That's great," Grace enthused. "I'm proud of you."
Max looked at her dubiously, wiping his mouth. "You are?"
"Sure." She shrugged. "It's great that you're doing so well."
"Like you." He nudged her elbow with his own. "You must be stoked that the house is done."
"Yeah. Although I'll miss not having you across the hall."
He chuckled. "Well, you know who to call if your pipes fuck up."
Grace swallowed the last of her pizza as well as the nerves festering in her throat. "You're more than welcome to come over," she murmured. She fiddled with her soda can. "Whenever you want. Anytime. I could cook for you."
She chanced a glance at Max. He appeared amused, his lips twitching as though fighting a grin. "Sure, I'll come over. Especially if you're cooking. Man's gotta eat, right?" He shoveled another slice of pizza into his mouth.
As he lifted his arm, Grace noticed a large scar that ran from under his left pec, horizontally across his ribs, toward his back. Her fingers reached out to touch it before she could stop herself. Not that Max appeared to mind. He looked down at where her fingers traced the deep groove of healed flesh.
"Ah. That," he mumbled around his food.
"What did this?" she asked quietly.
"A bullet."
Max's answer was so matter-of-fact that it took Grace a moment to comprehend what he'd said. When the words settled in her brain, she startled, yanking her hand away. "A bull- Are you serious?"
He nodded, still chewing.
"What happened?"
"My best friend and I got caught up in some shit."
"Carter?" Max spoke about his friend often. He clearly cared for him, talking of him as more like a brother than a friend.
"Yeah." He placed his hand on the scar. "This was from a car boost that went wrong."
Grace sat back, bewilderment prickling her skin. "You're so cavalier about it."
"I don't mean to be. It is what it is and it happened a long time ago."
"Did it do any damage?"
"Only what you can see. I was lucky. The doc said because of how I pushed Carter out of the way, the bullet missed its true trajectory." He patted his chest. "My heart."
Grace frowned. "Wait. You pushed Carter out of the way?"
"Yeah. The fucker with his finger on the trigger aimed at my boy from across the street."
"Jesus." Grace crossed her arms over herself, suddenly cold despite the humidity of the room. "You could have been killed."
Max shrugged. "He's my best friend. No one's allowed to shoot him but me." He smiled toward the floor.
The plot surrounding Max O'Hare thickened. Bullets, car boosting, and drugs. Oh my. To any normal, sane individual, they were all words that should have had Grace bolting for the door, and hightailing it far, far away. Yet the modesty with which he talked about saving his friend's life kept her ass firmly in place. There was so much more to him than swagger and rehab and Grace couldn't deny the hunger to learn it all. The paintings were a mere glimpse into what made him tick.
Max placed his can on the floor and turned toward her, resting his palm on the bed. "I'm not proud of my past, as you well know, but I can't change it. This scar is just one of the things in my life that remind me of who I don't want to be."
"And your tattoo?" she asked, gesturing to the curve of black ink that swept across his shoulder and the upper bicep of his right arm. Grace wanted him to turn around so she could see the rest of it.
He smiled wryly, shaking his head. "That's a story for another day, I think."
Disappointed, she nodded in acquiescence.