Page 62 of Naked Coffee Guy
Chapter Twenty-Three
Maren
Days have passed since I read the article, and I’ve tried to let it go. I’m in my own home, the tiny house still empty due to my lack of belongings. I’ve held the first of many music lessons in my family room and done my best to make this space my own. I’ve poured myself into my music, letting myself dream once again of this becoming so much bigger than the Hillside stage.
But I’m angry. Angry at Benji for fucking things up for so many people, only concerned about his own ass in the end. Angry at Mac for going along with Benji’s schemes and covering it up for as long as he did. Angry for being such a fool that I trusted this man when he screwed me over so thoroughly.
And the more time that passes, the angrier I get.
Tell that to my dreams, though. Mac has haunted almost every one of them, but in surprising ways—his chest flush against mine, claiming my with his mouth, my legs wrapped around his waist as he lowers me to the bed…
How can I hate this man so much during the day only to dream of him like this every night?
This morning, it took a few moments to remember my anger as I touched my lips, the ghost-like feel of him still lingering all over my body.
I can’t keep doing this.
Swigging one last gulp of coffee, I grab my keys and the blasted newspaper—which I’ve almost memorized at this point—then head out the door. I have no plan as I plug Mac’s office into my phone, and I let Siri lead the way. It takes fifteen minutes as I fantasize about running into some high-end lawyer and suing Mac for all he’s worth…or maybe just kicking him in the balls.
I park my car between two identical Teslas and get out to a parking lot full of luxury vehicles. The housing market is apparently booming for all the assholes who work for Southshore Management Group.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asks as I breeze past her.
“He’s expecting me,” I clip out, though I have no idea where I’m going. Luckily, a convenient chart on the wall shares the names of all agents and their office number, and Mac’s name is at the very top.
“Miss!” the receptionist calls, but I take the stairs to save time. Even in platform heels, I can be surprisingly fast. I’m rounding the corner before I even hear her feet hit the stairwell.
Mac’s name is on the door, and I have to hand it to him for making it so easy for me to find him. I burst through the door, interrupting Mac in the middle of some sort of presentation with a young couple, the mother holding a baby in his arms.
“Be sure to change the locks when you get your new home,” I warn the couple, fueled by their shocked faces. “And get a good inspector, this guy will sell you a slum before he steals anything of value.”
“Mr. Dermot, I’m sorry.” The receptionist pushes past me. “She ran up here before I could catch her.”
“It’s okay, Tara. I can handle this,” Mac says. I smirk at the receptionist, who glares at me in return as she leaves the office.
Mac offers his clients a warm smile.
“James, Anita, can we postpone the tour? I’m afraid I have a pressing matter to attend to.”
He says it so calmly, as if this kind of thing can be explained away, and apparently his clients buy it.
“It’s okay,” the man says, shaking Mac’s hand as his wife side-eyes me, “You gave us a great list of things to work on before we sell the house, so we’ll start tackling that. Call me later and we can schedule another time.”
I move out of the way as the couple leaves, shutting the door behind them. Once alone, I glare at Mac as he leans against his desk, arms folded across his chest, an infuriating half grin on his face.
“This isn’t funny,” I say, striding forward to slam the newspaper on his desk, “Explain this.”
Mac doesn’t pick up the paper, but the smile drops from his face.
“Which part?” he asks, “The part where they make Benji sound like a heartless bastard who laughed his way to the bank? The part where my brother acted like some innocent bystander while my name is plastered all over that article?”
“No, the part where I’m supposed to feel warm and cozy about your guardian because he took in two foster kids who needed guidance, when all he sounds like to me is a self-absorbed asshole who probably wouldn’t save his own mother out of inconvenience. I’m sorry, I know he just died, but Benjamin Wright was only worried about his legacy in the end. He had no concern for those of us he fucked over, and you did everything you could to support his mission, even after you knew me.”
“I know.” Mac’s eyes drop to the ground. “I wish I could take all of it back, but this was in motion long before I knew you.”
“Was this before you were just some maintenance guy covering up the deeper issues in my apartment? Or after we met at Torches when you sold my fucking home?”
“Maren, he had dementia long before he was diagnosed with terminal cancer.”