Billionaires, Bad Boys, and Alpha Males (53 page)

When he walked into the waiting room, Lindsay
was sitting in one of the hard-backed orange chairs.
 
There was a magazine open in her lap,
but she wasn’t reading it.
 
She was
staring down at the floor, her head in her hands, her hair spilling over her
face.

He watched her for a moment.
 
She was so beautiful, so perfect, and so
out of his reach.
 
His stomach
clenched.

“What are you doing here?” he blurted.

She looked up, her eyes bloodshot.
 
He could tell she’d been crying.
 
Was it because of Max?
 
Was he okay?

“Lindsay,” he asked, “what happened?”

“I was driving,” she said.
 
“And I saw him coming out of the
woods.
 
He looked a little wobbly,
you know?
 
So I pulled over.
 
I didn’t know why he would be so far
away from home, and I was worried.”

He nodded, sat down next to her.
 
“How bad is it?”

She shook her head.
 
“I’m not sure.
 
He had a gash on his head that was
pretty bad, and some cuts on his stomach.”

“Thank you for bringing him in.”
 
They were the only ones in the tiny
waiting room.
 
Even the reception
desk was empty.
 

They lapsed into silence, and then, a second
later, Lindsay stood up.
 
“Well,”
she said.
 
“I’d better… I mean, I
should probably go.
 
I wanted to
stay here until you got here, just in case… just in case Max needed anything.”

He looked at her. He’d been a total asshole to
her this morning, and still, she’d been worried about his dog.
 
Enough to pull over and take him to the
vet.

“Thanks for doing that,” he said.
 

“Of course.”
 
She tilted her chin up, and he couldn’t
mistake the tone in her voice.
 
The
tone that said she hadn’t done it for him, had only done what any normal person
would have done in the situation.
 
But he could see the hurt behind her eyes, could see she was still
scarred from this morning.

His heart twisted.
 
All he wanted to do was protect
her.
 
But instead, he’d hurt her,
had screwed everything up the way he always did.
 
He wanted to tell her he was sorry,
wanted to explain everything to her.
 
But he couldn’t.
 
Couldn’t
say the words out loud, couldn’t tell her that he wanted her to stay here with
him, to wait for Max.

He looked at her, hoping she could see in his
eyes how much he needed her.

And it must have worked. Because after a
moment, she sat back down.

“I should have called you,” she said softly.

“About Max?”

She shook her head.
 
“After…I mean, after we spent the night
together.”

“What are you talking about?”

She took a deep breath and twisted her hands in
her lap.
 
“I went into The Gristmill
today, and your friend was working.
 
He told me you were upset that I never called you.”

He would kill the son of a bitch.
 
What right did Bo have to go around
blabbing his personal business to strangers?
 
“He had no right to tell you that.”
 

She could see he was angry, and so she said
quickly,
 
“He only did it because he
could tell I was upset.”

“Doesn’t matter.”
 
His rage boiled up inside him, and he
wanted to take it out on someone.
 
Bo seemed like a good target.
 
He leaned back in his chair, his fists clenched at his sides.
 
“But I’ll deal with him later.”

She stood up, her dark eyes flashing.
 
“You know what, Chace?” she said.
 
“You need to get over yourself.”
 

Her reaction surprised him.
 
Why was she yelling at him?
 
She knew what happened, knew that he was
damaged.
  
What did she
expect?
 

“I need to get over myself?”
 
He tipped his head back and
laughed.
 
“What the hell is that
supposed to mean?”

“It means that shit happens in life,
Chace.
 
Horrible, terrible things
sometimes happen.
 
And as hard as it
is to accept, you have to realize that sometimes there isn’t a reason.
 
Sometimes there isn’t anyone to
blame.
 
You need to stop punishing
yourself and get your shit together.”
 
She lowered her voice and shook her head at him.
 
But still, there was no pity in her
eyes.
 
Just anger.
 
Anger that he was wasting his life.
 
“It’s not your fault,” she said
softly.
 
“It’s really not your
fault.”

The words sent a shock of relief jolting
through his body.
 
It was one thing
to be told that by people who had to say it.
 
But he knew Lindsay wouldn’t lie to him.
 
She was too mad.
 
And he trusted her opinion.
 
He knew she was smart, and that she had
a good head on her shoulders.

He took in a deep breath, his eyes suddenly
filling with tears.

He stood up and took a step toward her, but
before he could get there, the door to the back room opened and Dr. Felder came
walking out, Max on a leash beside him.

“Here he is!”

Chace and Lindsay turned.
 
Max had a cone around his neck, one of
those big white plastic things designed to stop dogs from scratching at their
wounds.
 
When the dog saw Chace, his
tail began to wag dopily bag and forth.

“Hey, boy,” Chace said, giving him a little pat
on the nose.
 
A line of stitches ran
from Max’s ear down across his snout.

“He’s going to be okay,” Dr. Felder said.
 
“He needed stitches on that gash on his
face, but the ones on his stomach should be okay as long as you keep them
clean.
 
He was limping a bit, but
his x-rays don’t show anything, so he’s probably just sore from whatever fight
he got into.”

He looked at Lindsay.
 
“You were lucky to find him when you
did.
 
His injuries weren’t that
severe, but he was losing a lot of blood.
 
If he’d stayed out there much longer, he may have become too weak to
move.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Chace said.
 

“I’ll prescribe him some pain killers, and he
should rest and take it easy.
 
He
can eat whatever he wants, although watch to see if the pain killers are making
him nauseous.
 
If they do, call me,
and we’ll see about switching him to something else.”

Chace nodded, and the doctor disappeared back
behind the door to get the medicine and write up the bill.

Max was licking Lindsay’s hand.

“I’m glad he’s going to be okay,” she
said.
 

“Thanks again for bringing him in.”

She looked at him, her dark eyes on his.
 
He knew she was waiting for him to say
something, was giving him a last chance to tell her he was sorry, that he
hadn’t meant to blow her off, that she was right, that he needed to get on with
his life.
 
But he couldn’t.
 
The moment had passed.

So instead, he looked away and back down at
Max.

Lindsay shook her head.
 
“Goodbye, Chace,” she said.
 

And then she walked out.

C
hapter
N
ine

Maximilian wanted to play.
 
The whole ride home he acted like he was
fine, licking Chace’s hand and trying to poke his snout underneath Chace’s arm.

“You’re supposed to be sick, Buddy,” Chace
said.
 
“The doctor said you need to
take it easy.”

But the car ride must have tired the dog out,
because as soon as Max got in the house, he walked into his crate, flopped
down, and fell asleep.
 
The pain
killers were making him loopy and drowsy.

Chace didn’t want to leave him alone, but he
had some business to take care of.
 

“I’ll be right back, buddy,” he said to
Max.
 
But Max was already asleep,
his breathing slow and content as he worked on starting the process of
recovering.

When Chace got to The Gristmill, he turned his
truck off and sat in the parking lot.
 
The bar was starting to get busy -- it was Friday, and the fishermen who
had cut out early for the day were starting to file in, along with the tourists
who’d decided to get a jump start on the weekend.

Whatever.
 
An audience never hurt anyone.
 
Chace waltzed inside and right up to the bar, drumming his fingers
against the wood impatiently.
 
His
body was wound tight with electricity.

Bo was down at the other end, pouring glasses
of beer out of the tap.

Chace stood there, waiting, his impatience
growing with each passing second.

When Bo saw him, the smile on his face
disappeared.
 
After fifteen years of
friendship, he knew why Chace was there, knew he was pissed about what Bo had
told Lindsay.
 
Bo nodded, held his
finger up to signal one minute.

Chace walked outside and paced in front of the
bar.

Thirty seconds later, Bo appeared in front of
him.

Chace stared at his friend.
 
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t
punch you.”

Bo shook his head, rolled his eyes.
 
“I’ll give you three good reasons.
 
One, we’ve been friends for fifteen
years.
 
Two, I’m one of the only
people you’ve got left.
 
And three,
I’m not really the one you’re mad at.”

“Oh, I’m plenty mad at you,” Chace said.
 
He rolled up his sleeves.
 
“And the other two reasons don’t count.”

“’Course they do.”

“No.”
 
Chace shook his head.
 
“You
might be all I have left, but you’ll forgive me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because of reason number one. We’ve been
friends for fifteen years.”
 
He took
a step toward Bo.

“Jesus, Chace,” Bo said.
 
“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“About what?
 
Hitting you?
 
I’m trying hard not to, but I’m not sure
how much longer I can hold out.”

Bo shook his head.
 
“I really can’t fucking believe you,
man.
 
You’re acting crazy.”

“You had no right to tell her.”

“She was upset!
 
She had no idea what the hell was going
on.
 
You were a complete prick to
her.
 
What was I supposed to
do?
 
Let her sit there and cry and
act like I had no idea why you were doing what you were doing?”

“She was crying?” This threw him off.
 
He’d pictured the conversation differently,
the two of them sitting there in the bar, talking about him behind his back,
about what a fuck up he was.
 
The
thought that Lindsay would be crying over him hadn’t crossed his mind.
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Chace said,
shaking his head.
 
“You’re my best
friend.
 
You’re supposed to be loyal
to me.”