1
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HAYES
I’d like to tell you I have my shit together. That I have it all figured out.
But if you saw me standing here right now, on the sidewalk in my boxer briefs—for God and everyone to see—you’d know I’m totally full of shit.
My now ex-girlfriend stands on the balcony of her second-floor apartment, glaring down at me, dressed only in a peach-colored silk robe. Her hair is loose and her face is red with anger, but there are no tears.
“You bastard!” Samantha cries out and throws another armful of my clothing over the balcony. One of my socks gets stuck on a tree branch.
I grab my T-shirt from the sidewalk and tug it on. It’s May, but it’s still chilly in the mornings, and the cool air nips at my bare skin.
My shoes are thrown down next—one at a time. One bounces into the street, and I wait for a city bus to pass before I retrieve it.
I look back up at Samantha, bracing myself for what comes next. In her hands is my laptop bag. Fuck. Complete with my laptop, because I’d come here straight from work last night.
A few of the neighbors have stepped onto their balconies to see what all the noise is about. Swallowing my pride, I tip my chin at Mrs. Hendrickson from apartment 202 and smile. Her eyes widen in surprise.
“Jesus, Sam, be reasonable,” I call out.
My laptop bag comes sailing over the balcony next and lands with a loud crack on the sidewalk. There goes my laptop.
I have no fucking clue where this Samantha came from. She woke me up this morning with sex—seemed like a good sign, right? We’ve only been dating for two months, but I thought things were going well. Turns out, I don’t know shit about shit.
Maybe she wanted one last ride? Something to remember me by?
Fuck, I was so wrong.
I scrub my hands down my face.
“You’ll never commit,” Samantha says, her voice trembling with rage.
That’s not true. I’ve eaten the same brand of cereal for the past twelve years. I know a thing or two about commitment. But I decide now isn’t the right time to point this out to her.
After we had sex this morning, she curled up on her pillow, gazing at me with a soft expression. “Where do you think this is going with me and you?” She touched my chest, her fingertips tracing lazy circles on my skin.
I told her the truth, that I wasn’t sure but that I liked hanging out with her. Apparently, that was the wrong answer.
She sat up suddenly, tugging the sheet up with her to cover her naked chest. “That’s what you think this is? Hanging out?”
“No, of course not,” I said, instinctively backpedaling.
“I’m almost thirty, Hayes.” She squinted at me.
I’m almost thirty too, but I wasn’t sure what our ages have to do with anything.
“I want more,” she said, frowning. “A relationship. A real commitment. Marriage. Babies. A family.”
Things went south fast after that.
I’ve known her for two months, so I thought what we had was just casual. I haven’t even introduced her to my grandmother yet, who lives with me. Hell, Samantha has only been inside my apartment once. She’s never spent the night, a fact she reminds me of regularly with disdain.
Another neighbor peeks his head out of his window, a coffee mug in one hand, a yipping dog in the other.
Cars drive by, some slowing down to watch the drama unfold. I can’t say I blame them. This is certainly the most exciting way I’ve started a Friday morning in a long time.
Finally, my jeans are tossed over the balcony, and I rush to catch them. My cell phone is still in one pocket, miraculously intact. I tug on my jeans and shove my feet into the pair of Vans I rescued.
Without another word, Samantha marches inside and slams the sliding glass door.
Mrs. Hendrickson heads back inside too.
Show’s over, folks. Nothing more to see.
After snagging my laptop bag from the sidewalk, I head off down the street. I stop at the gas station on the corner and buy myself a shitty cup of coffee before I go find my car. Samantha’s neighborhood is in a bustling area of Chicago. There’s never any parking. But I got lucky last night, and my car’s only two blocks over. Wrapping a hand around the warmth of my cup, I head in the direction of my Lexus.
Once I reach my car, I chuck the laptop bag with my busted computer into the back seat. As I pull out into traffic, my cell phone rings. I assume it’s Samantha, thinking maybe she wants to continue telling me off, and I almost don’t answer. But the name on the screen says WOLFIE.
I let out a silent groan and answer on speaker. “Hey, man. What’s up?” I ask after downing another mouthful of the awful coffee.
“Need you to do me a favor,” he says in his gruff voice. No hello. No good morning. Typical Wolfie.
But the bastard knows I’d do anything for him. Just like he would for me. Which is the reason why I let him get away with his caveman behavior.
“It’s my first day off in like two years, asshole.”
“I know, I know,” he says with a chuckle.
I roll my eyes. “What’s the favor?” It’s no use arguing with him. I’m going to do whatever it is he needs me to do.
“I need you to go check on Maren.”
Except for that.
Maren is Wolfie’s younger sister. She graduated last year with a degree in social work. She’s a good girl. Wants to help others. Make a difference in the world.
The problem is, I’ve never felt about Maren Cox the way I should have. I feel cagey when I’m around her, like a lion at the zoo, right before feeding time.
“You there?” Wolfie asks at my silence.
“I’m here.”
He lets out a long sigh. “She’s sick. Says she’s staying home from work today. Swing by her apartment and check on her for me?”
I’m reminded of all of the other times Wolfie or Maren have called me like this, needing a favor—like when she locked herself out of her apartment, or when her car broke down on the side of the road, or that time her pet goldfish died and she couldn’t bring herself to flush it. What a fucking hassle.
I remember her as a kid with a toothy smile and big eyes, always trailing a few steps behind us and calling out for us to wait up. Of course, Maren looks a whole lot different these days. She’s twenty-five now, and she’s grown into quite a woman. Every time I’m near her, I have to force my gaze away from her full breasts, her lush mouth, and those long, toned legs of hers.
I was there for her on the night of her twenty-first birthday, holding her hair back when she puked out the car window. I was there when she had her heart broken for the first time, when her fuck stick of a boyfriend dumped her after six months of dating. I pulled her to my chest with an annoyed sigh and she tearfully broke down, making me feel even worse.
But that was nothing compared to the pain I felt when I learned he’d broken up with her only after punching her V-card. I wanted to hunt him down and castrate him. I wanted to make him suffer. But of course I promised a heartbroken Maren I’d do no such thing. Instead, I had to watch her cry over that dick bag for weeks.
“Why can’t you go?” I ask, even though I already know the answer to that question.