Page 53 of Naked Coffee Guy

The words are barely out of his mouth when my fist meets his jaw.

“Hey!” The little blonde chick squeals as she jumps out of the way. I ignore her, landing one more punch in his gut. Brock grunts, dropping to his knees. He was never much of a fighter. It’s kind of unfair for me to continue, but ask me if I care.

“Don’t fucking talk to her,” I say, kicking at him as he remains on the ground. A circle has formed around us, and I’m pretty sure we’re about to get booted. “Don’t even look at her.”

“Hey, you got her, man,” Brock says, then spits blood on the ground beside him. He gets to his feet but takes a few steps back out of swinging range. “That’s what you wanted, right? Maren’s golden pussy. It’s yours. You won.”

This time, I do look at Maren. There’s confusion on her face as she studies both of us. I can see security carving their way through the crowd, and I’m fired up enough that I could take all of them on if they so much as touch me. But it’s Maren’s touch that brings me back down.

“Come on,” she says quietly. When I peer down at her, there’s a plea in her expression. I realize this must have been just as uncomfortable for her. I also know she must have a million questions I’m not ready to answer, but that she deserves to know.

“We’re leaving,” I say as the security guards reach us. I raise my hands as they push us toward the door, willing my adrenaline to subside so I don’t sucker punch one of the guards. Maren grabs our jackets, and we make our way outside, followed by Brock and his girlfriend. “Come on, let’s go,” I murmur, my hand at her back as I try to guide her toward the car. It doesn’t work, as she moves out of my reach and faces both of us, her hands on her hips.

“Not until you tell me what the fuck is going on.” Maren narrows her eyes, staring us down as she waits for an explanation. My wonder is where to start. With the fact that Brock is my brother? That she and I have met before? Or how about the fact that I owned the apartments she was kicked out of—that I’m the one who fucked her out of housing?

Brock only laughs, then shakes his head.

“I have nothing else to say,” he says, “See ya, bro.” He tips his head at me, then nods his chin at Maren. “Maren, always a pleasure.”

Even with Barbie’s hand in his, he looks Maren up and down, a smirk as his eyes land on her chest before he walks away.

I start moving toward him, the heat rising in my chest as I clench my fists, but Maren grabs hold of my bicep and yanks me back. My whole body is aching to shake her off and go after him, but Maren holds on. I feel the sparks in my veins as I turn from Brock and glare down at Maren. I’m not mad at her, but I’m furious in general, and frustrated that I can’t relieve it on Brock’s puny ass.

But Maren’s flashing eyes disarm me.

“You don’t get to be mad,” she says, “not now. Tell me what’s going on, or I’ll go find my own ride home.”

My jaw pulses, but the fire is simmering. It’s now or never. I try to come up with the words that will absolve me, the ones that will result in her leaving here with me. But when they don’t come. I shake my head, closing my eyes as I take a deep breath.

“I should have told you,” I say. I look past her, unable to look her in the eye.

“Told me what?”

“Maren.” I take another breath, a step forward and reach for her hand. She doesn’t pull away, but her hand remains limp in mine.

“Mac, out with it.”

I wince, but finally blurt it out.

“The Beale Street apartments, I’m the one who sold them.”

Maren exhales, and I can almost see the relief rolling over her like fog on the hillside. The reaction confuses me. “I know,” she says.

“You do?” I feel the weight lifting from my shoulders as she smiles.

“Yeah, you were the broker. I already knew.”

The weight returns. This is not going to be an easy fix after all.

“I’m not done.”

Maren studies me, and it’s as if a light bulb goes off. I can practically see the clarity washing over her.

“What are you not telling me?”

I think of the way she looked when I saw her standing on that rooftop bar. The glass of wine in her hand, the wind blowing through her hair, the look of hopelessness on her face. The way it felt to know that I was the one who did that to her.

“That night we met,” I begin, “it wasn’t by accident. I saw you there, and I felt like shit because I knew why you were there and why that drink was in your hand, and that it was all my fault. I knew you didn’t drink, and I bumped you so that you’d spill it. I was just going to walk away, but as soon as you turned around, I couldn’t.”