Blitzed Read online

  School started a month or two ago, so I doubt Ace would still be up at this hour, but with Poppy out of commission, who knows what shenanigans TK is up to.

  “Brynn?” Maxwell’s deep, quiet voice comes over the line. “Everything okay?”

  “I . . . I’ve been better.” I try to focus on all those clip shows where people get hit by cars on the shoulder of the highway and not fall into a Maxwell-induced trance.

  “What’s wrong?” His voice takes on an edge that I haven’t heard before. There’s an urgency that cuts through his calm and laid-back composure now.

  “Ummm . . .” I stall, thrown by his reaction.

  “Brynn,” he barks into the phone. “Where are you?”

  I want to whisper, feeling super ashamed of how irresponsible I am all of a sudden. But a semi passes by, tons of metal roaring yanking away the silence and any sense of safety I pretended the small guardrail could provide. Its power causes the ground to shake and the pieces of trash littered around me to take flight. “On the side of I-25, right after University,” I scream, my heart in my throat.

  “I’ll be right there,” he says, disconnecting before I can argue.

  Not that I was going to.

  I want to get the fuck out of here. Thoughts of countless self-centered, drunk assholes too stubborn to call a cab cause my fear to ratchet up a few more notches. It may be a Monday, but I know no day of the week is safe from drunk drivers.

  I settle in, knowing TK and Poppy live a solid fifteen minutes away. Fifteen minutes. That’s not too long. You’re fine.

  Today was a gorgeous fall day. A perfect seventy-eight degrees. So of course, not counting on being stuck on the side of the highway in the middle of the night, I didn’t bring a jacket. The slight breeze is multiplied by the cars speeding by and my teeth are starting to chatter, but I’m way too chickenshit to go sit in my car. I feel like my hazard lights might be the car accident equivalent of a bull and a red flag.

  I open up the Internet browser on my phone, noting that it’s time for me to order a new phone case. I click the bookmarked Louboutin page and caress the beaded, crystal-encrusted, embroidered shoes through the screen. “Goodbye, gorgeous.” I delete the bookmark and go to AAA, saving their number into my phone to call and get coverage as soon as I get home. I know I could just call an emergency tow company, but I’ve heard some horror stories.

  Fuck being an adult, man.

  I close the browser, my finger hovering over my social media folder, when a car door slams shut. My phone slips through my hands and lands facedown, of course, in the overgrown grass the city of Denver really needs to deal with.

  I look up, hoping it’s not some serial killer who picks up stranded women off the side of the road and locks them in their basement, where we are all placed in separate corners, drawing strength from one another but never speaking another word again.

  It’s Maxwell.

  Holy shit. How fast did he drive?

  Also, no more Lifetime movies for me.

  “Are you all right?” he asks, his voice falling over me, calming my nerves as effectively as if he pulled me into his arms.

  “I dropped my phone,” I say, dropping to my hands and knees, feeling for it between the weeds and dirt. “Found it!” I pop up, holding it above my head with the enthusiasm of an Olympian carrying the torch.

  I make my way back to the danger-infested road, only tripping twice on two different beer bottles. What kind of monsters?!

  “You got here so fast,” I tell him as I climb over the guardrail, thrilled with my choice of leggings I picked that morning—full flexibility, bitches.

  He shrugs, offering me a hand, I’m assuming because he doesn’t trust my coordination, which would make sense considering how often I find myself on my ass around him. “I might’ve pushed past the speed limit in a few places.”

  I glance at the time on my phone; it’s only been ten minutes since we hung up. “In a few places or you floored it?”

  “‘Floored it’ could be another way to describe it.” He turns to hide his expression, but thanks to the headlights of the passing cars, I can see the embarrassment written all over his face.

  God.

  He’s so fucking hot. Between the bright lights and the harsh shadows, all of his features seem that much more defined. The strong bridge of his nose, the fullness of his lips and deep cut of his cupid’s bow, his cheekbones that look like they were carved from stone. I’ve invested hundreds of dollars in makeup to contour angles on my face that he was just born with.

  So unfair.

  “What do you want to do about your car?” he asks, pulling my attention from his full lips.

  “Um . . . I . . . uhh . . . would you judge me if I just left it for the night and came back tomorrow?” If it doesn’t have to do with HERS, I am the master of procrastination and I just do not have it in me to deal with this shit right now. I need wine and sleep . . . and maybe a good orgasm before I handle my car. Two of those are super manageable.

  “No.” He opens his passenger door for me, turning on his heel and moving to my pathetic Land Rover. He leans into my passenger side, moving stuff around before coming back to me and placing my purse and some papers in my lap. “Here’s all the insurance information I was able to find in your glove compartment. Your registration is expired, by the way.” He smirks at me and I take this as a good sign that my carefree—what some people may consider irresponsible—life won’t drive him crazy. “Do you need anything else out of there?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, even though I’m not sure if it’s the truth. My trunk is basically shoved full of shit that I bring between my house and my dad’s. But I’ll be fine for one night without it . . . I think. “Thank you for doing this.”

  His white teeth flash. “Not a problem.” He shuts the door and circles around to his side, pausing as a yellow Mustang zooms by. What is it with yellow cars? He pulls open his door and slides onto the cream leather seat. “Can I see your phone really fast?”

  “Umm . . . sure.” I hand it to him and watch as he pushes numbers and hits Call. The music suddenly stops and my number appears on the screen in his car.

  “Now you have my number in case you ever need anything.” He hands me back my phone and puts on his seatbelt. “So where to?”

  “Um, DTC area, get off on . . .” Shit. I suck at directions all the time, but I’m really bad at them after Maxwell Lewis gives me his number. I can never remember street names, and I don’t know if telling him the exit before the mall will be helpful. “Dry Creek!” I damn near scream, thrilled that I don’t have to look like any more of an idiot tonight.

  “Dry Creek,” he repeats, but before he can put his car into gear and drive, his phone lights up like the Fourth of July. “Sorry.” He cringes a bit before pulling his phone out of the cup holder.

  Reality is kind of a bitch. He’s a professional athlete who is smart, nice, and so handsome it should be a crime. Of course he’s getting some late-night texts.

  I try to keep my attention focused out the front window, but let’s be honest, I’m nosy AF. I look at him out of the corner of my eye and see his jaw twitching under the soft glow of the dashboard light. His fingers fly across the screen before it goes black and he puts the phone back in the cup holder.

  “Sorry about that,” he says even quieter than normal, before shifting his car into drive and merging onto the highway.

  “No problem, can’t text and drive, am I right?” I’m not jealous, why would I be jealous? Shit. Don’t be weird, Brynn! “Sick car.” I’m trying to move the subject away from booty texts, but his car is fantastic. I’m not usually impressed with cars. They aren’t my thing. But this? It’s like being inside a fucking spaceship. My Land Rover is an older version and super reliable (well, when I don’t drive through construction sites, that is) but there’s still a cassette play
er in my stereo. Maxwell’s stereo controls/navigation looks like they’ve installed a computer screen into his dash. Streetlights flash above us and I look up to see the sunroof, but there isn’t one. It’s a freaking glass roof. I try to make out the emblem on his steering wheel, but my eyes can’t focus with the lights flashing in and out of the car. “What is it?”

  “It’s a Tesla,” he says. He keeps his eyes on the road, but gestures to the radio. “You can turn on what you want.”

  I’m not sure I actually know how to work this radio. As a millennial, I’m a low-key failure. Technology is not my friend. Getting online at HERS was a freaking nightmare. Tech support and I are on a first-name basis.

  “This is fine,” I say. He has on some station playing nineties R & B, and who can argue with that? A song I can’t remember ends and the unmistakable notes of Ginuwine’s “Pony” float through the air. Without thinking, a smile breaks free on my face and I bust out my best Tom Haverford impersonation. “Girl don’t even know who Ginuwine is.”

  I bounce around in my seat, my fingers dancing across the touchscreen trying to find volume control. All of my chill thrown out the window.

  However, instead of the music blaring from his high-tech speakers, the volume is turned down to where I can’t hear anything. “Hey!” I turn hard eyes to Maxwell. “What the hell?”

  “‘Girl don’t even know who Ginuwine is’?” he asks, laughter thick in his voice. “What are you talking about?”

  Now it’s my turn to look at him like he’s the alien. “Oh no-no list?” I ask, continuing on when he shakes his head no. “Parks and Recreation?”

  “For the city of Denver?” His eyebrows scrunch together, total confusion taking over his face before he glances over his shoulder, changing lanes.

  Oh my god. Is he serious?

  “Are you fucking with me?” I turn sideways in my seat, studying him closely. He has to be messing with me, right? Everyone loves Parks and Rec!

  “No,” he deadpans. “I have no idea what you’re rambling about right now.”

  “Amy Poehler? Nick Offerman?” I keep going, sure he’s just blanking but actually knows what I’m talking about.

  He cocks one eyebrow à la the Rock and shakes his head.

  “Aziz Ansari? Chris Pratt? Retta?” I feel my eyes bulge when there’s still a look of zero recognition on his face. “How have you never watched Parks and Recreation before?”

  Now I’m yelling. But what the fuck?

  “Oh!” He starts to laugh, his solid chest shaking and trying to distract me from the conversation at hand. “It’s a show?”

  “Not just a show, it’s the best show ever,” I tell him, feeling unbelievably offended on behalf of the entire cast and crew.

  “I don’t really watch TV. Just ESPN and the news.” He looks at me for a second before moving to the exit lane. And my stomach drops a bit knowing my time with him is almost up.

  “What are you? Sixty-three?” I poke him in the shoulder. “My dad isn’t even on the sports and CNN regimen yet.”

  He shrugs, embarrassment flitting across his gorgeous face.

  And in that moment, staring at his strong profile, dread gripping my stomach at going up to my small condo and being alone . . . like always, I don’t think, I just let the words run from my mouth. “You’re coming inside.”

  His back straightens and he looks at me out of the corner of his eye, his fingers drumming a beat against his steering wheel. “For what?”

  “You are watching Parks and Recreation with me.” I leave no room for negotiation in my tone.

  “Which way do I turn?” he asks, getting off the highway, ignoring my invitation to keep the party going.

  “Left at this light, then right at the second light, and then the first left after the roundabout,” I tell him, the directions not including street names flowing off the tip of my tongue without a second thought. “There are always a few open spots in front of my building for you to park.”

  His shoulders relax and he looks at me as we come to a stop at the red light off the highway. “One episode.”

  I roll my eyes, knowing once he watches one, he’ll be stuck for at least six.

  I don’t let him know that.

  “Yes, Grandpa,” I joke.

  He laughs, but he does it with a glint in his eyes that wasn’t there a second before.

  And I laugh with him, just with knots in my stomach and excitement flowing through my veins.

  Eight

  “Home sweet home.”

  I push open my door, trying to discreetly kick the pile of shoes I’m too lazy to move to my bedroom closet that’s not far at all considering my condo is just over nine hundred square feet.

  Maxwell walks in, his thoughtful gaze lingering on my empty brick wall and exposed metal ductwork. “Nice place.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  He’s full of shit.

  It’s a cool condo . . . for probably anybody else.

  The issue with my place is that where I poured my heart and soul into HERS—even my office—my condo is a total afterthought. My couch, though comfy as sin, is my dad’s old one he gave me because he was sick and tired of having to sit on a beanbag when he came over. Luckily for me, my dad has good taste. Not my taste, but not bad. There are no personal touches anywhere, even the one frame I have on my side table still has the stock photo inside. I don’t really know why I bought this place. My dad was fine with me living at home. It just felt like the adult thing to do, I guess. Though, I did buy it before real estate prices skyrocketed, so no matter what, it was a good investment.

  And I love the security I’ve created for myself knowing I’ll never have to jump from man to man to have a roof over my head. Even if that man happens to be my dad. Ugh. How lame.

  “Do you want something to drink?” I ask, hoping he says no because, thinking about it, I’m pretty sure all I have is water.

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  Oh, thank god.

  “Cool. Well.” I motion to my butt-indented couch. “Get comfy and I’ll turn it on.” I feel awkward all of a sudden. It’s not like I haven’t had guys over before, but when I have, they aren’t looking at anything except my ass, and I don’t have to worry about conversation.

  I open the drawer to my coffee table (also my dad’s) and pull out the TV and Roku remote, pushing buttons until the NBC peacock flashes on the screen and Leslie Knope makes her glorious debut.

  I plop onto the couch, toeing off my Keds, thankful I put on matching socks for once, and laugh at the drunk guy stuck in a slide like I haven’t already watched this episode umpteen times. But unlike the other times I’ve watched this show, I’m more focused on the man next to me. Is he laughing too? I feel like I need to laugh harder to prove how funny this show is. There’s actually a lot of pressure sharing your favorite show with another person. I’m not sure I could be friends with someone who doesn’t love Leslie.

  Sometimes people need politics and religion in common. I need shared sitcoms.

  The tension I didn’t realize I was carrying ebbs out of my body when Maxwell lets out a surprised bark of laughter. In my peripheral vision, I watch as he leans over, untying the laces to his spotless white sneakers, his gray joggers riding up just so and his biceps flexing under his official Mustangs apparel tee.

  Even in casual wear he looks so well put together.

  Though, not to brag or anything, I too have mastered the art of slouchy chic. It’s kinda my thing.

  He leans back, slumping into my couch, rubbing a hand over his nearly bald head, laughing again at whatever’s happening on the TV. I laugh belatedly, turning my head back to the screen so I don’t get caught staring like a fucking creeper. And soon, I forget that it’s Maxwell on my couch. We both laugh at the same spots, me harder than him most of the time, and as soon as the credits hit the s
creen, we make eye contact and Maxwell says, “One more?”

  “Ha!” I clap once. “I knew you’d get hooked.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, but doesn’t even attempt to mask the smile playing on his lips. “Just hit Play . . .” He pauses, mischief dancing in his brown eyes. “Brynny Bear.”

  I can’t stand TK. I hate that nickname and I’ve told him at least a million times.

  I growl. Actually, audibly freaking growl. Maxwell’s eyes grow a fraction before they snap closed and he throws his head back laughing. Out of reflex, I grab the pillow next to me and launch it at his head, but somehow, he snatches it out of the air like a toddler tossed it to him.

  “What the?” I ask just before the pillow smacks me in the face.

  I grab the pillow by the corners and swing it over my head, going to maximum force, but I’m laughing so hard, it feels like it’s stuffed with rocks instead of soft, fluffy, and light cotton.

  “How did you even do that?” I ask through the laughter. “Your eyes were closed!”

  “Oh, that?” He tips up the corner of his mouth, raising his hands in front of his chest. “I get paid to do this.”

  My jaw falls to the floor. Who is this guy? I’ve never heard anything even remotely cocky come from him and then he says that? What?

  But before I can think of a comeback, another pillow hits the side of my head, shifting my topknot bun to the side.

  “Shhhh.” He puts one finger in front of his mouth while another points to the TV. “I need to see what happens with Leslie’s park project.”

  I sit back down, but not in surrender—I start to quietly plot my revenge.

  Then Maxwell starts laughing. And not just a quick chuckle or an abrupt bark of laughter. No, it’s body-shaking, eye-wiping, hysterical laughter.

  And I forget about the pillow fight.

  Well, not really.

  But I do remember how long it’s been since I had a friend over and laughed so hard.