“I guess people say that because the alternative is saying nothing,” he ventured. “Being silent when it feels like something needs to be said.”
Marcie’s gaze shifted to him then, her eyes brimming. “Yeah,” she said brokenly. “But sometimes there’s nothing to say, Max.” She took a deep breath that seemed to cost her dearly. “I need you to do me a really big favor.”
“No.”
Her expression flickered. “You don’t know what I’m going to ask.”
“Yeah, I do. I have to tell Mr. Kensington about this.”
“I’m an adult. It’s my decision to share or not share.” Her voice quivered again. “I swear to God, if you say I’m not an adult, I’m going to find a blunt object and beat you to death with it.”
Despite his best effort, his lips almost twitched. Jesus, she had spirit. Her eyes were actually flashing, even as she swiped at her tears with an impatient hand. “No ma’am. You’re as adult as they get. Hey, no. You stay here.”
She’d been about to push away from the car door, and from the direction of her look, he knew she was going to retrieve her shoes. Stilling her with a gentle hand and a firm look, he strode over to them. Picking them up, he marveled as he always did that women could walk in those things, but he bet Marcie had worked them to the nth degree.
She had a made-for-sex body, but one with a lot of strength to it. He’d seen that punch, was surprised Ben hadn’t spurted blood. She’d had the balance, aim and force that said she knew what she was doing. Which meant she shouldn’t have done it, but it was obvious there was a lot of emotional shit happening on both sides. Besides which, Max knew Ben was a way more lethal fighter than Marcie, even if she had ten black belts.
Since Ben had shown that side of himself in a way he shouldn’t have either, it made Marcie’s response now even more impressive. Max knew men who would have crapped themselves from that deadly backwash that Ben had dished out. They wouldn’t be standing on their own bare feet, trying to hold it together and talk their driver into all sorts of foolishness.
He set his jaw, reminding himself of the dangerous influence of tears and a determined woman. As he came back toward the limo, he could see her gearing up for another try. But Max had his own code. “No,” he repeated, before she could say anything. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Matt needs to know about this.”
“Because I’m a woman.”
“Yes. And you’re one of theirs.” He nodded into the night, after Ben. “There’s nothing they take more serious than your well-being. He knows that.” Which opened a whole other set of interesting questions.
“Can you at least give me twenty-four hours before you tell Matt?”
He suppressed a curse at that look, part plea, part demand. Jesus, what the hell was the matter with Ben? He was half tempted to go kick his ass himself. Except Max knew Ben. When she’d landed that punch, something had welled up in the guy, something Max had sensed before from him, but had never seen unleashed like that. He had comrades with PTSD, when the dark shit came up and took over, spilled out like pus running from an old wound. What he’d just seen had felt a lot like that.
Unless he was gravely mistaken about Ben’s character, Max had a feeling that when the man’s head got back on straight and he thought about what he’d just done to her… Hell, he was probably going to figure out a way to kick his own ass, even before Matt Kensington could do it. Which was coming, Max was pretty sure of that. Unfortunately, Ben had probably intended that with this stunt tonight. It was as if he was burning his bridges deliberately. Fucking bastard was all over the map. This wasn’t good.
“I’ll think about it. No promises. Let me get you home.”
“Okay.” She seemed to accept that was the best she was going to get. “Let me go in and clean up my face first. I’m not going back to my sister’s looking like this.” She unlaced the mask, scratching her snarled hair. “Damn, I’m a mess.”
“Fucking hell. Did he do that?” When she raised a surprised face to him, showing the black eye even more clearly, Max was ready to discard any sympathy for Ben and lead the lynch mob himself.
Her brow furrowed, then cleared. “Oh no. That was work. An investigative case I was doing for Pickard. Security guy got the jump on me in an alley over at Pfeiffer. I was going through their Dumpster.”
“Of course. Jesus, girl. You’re a magnet for trouble.”
“Magnet for everything but Ben, apparently.” She stared off into the night again, and Max touched her arm.
“Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s get you home.”
“Max, I have to go back in. Ben didn’t let me get my clothes and purse out of the locker room. Asshole.”
Max pressed his lips hard against a smile, though it was balanced with something far more grim, looking at her strained face. No way she was going back into Surreal. Not in this kind of mood. “I’ll go get them. Tell me the number and the code you used.”
When she gave him an obstinate look, he chose a different tack. “Do you really want to go back in there?” he asked quietly.
“No.”
“Then let me go get your stuff. You can clean up in the limo. You’ll find mirror, wet towels, all that girl stuff in the storage compartments.”
“They’re always prepared, aren’t they?” She gave a bitter chuckle.
Not always, Max thought. When she slid into the limo, she gracefully accepted his steadying touch so she managed it without her knees buckling, but then she leveled a glare on him.
“If you engage the child locks while you’re gone, I’ll hotwire the limo
