Sugar Rush (Friend-Zoned #3)(25)
Author: Belle Aurora

He sits straighter on the bench and holds his arms out in question. “When, huh?”

I return, quick as lightning, “First, with me in my kitchen, second, with the ladies on the street, and now, with Shelly.” He snorts and I feel the need to add, “Hell, I don’t even know what you said to her, but I can pretty much guarantee you were flirting with old lady Crandle too!”

He wears a look that says bless your heart little one and chuckles. “That’s not flirting. That’s being friendly.”

Is he for real? I scoff. “No it isn’t, Max! That’s ridiculous.”

He waves a hand in my direction dismissively. “That’s just me being friendly. I’m a friendly guy, Lena.”

I like that he called me Lena. A little too much. Which, of course, adds fuel to my fire. Invisible steam pours from my ears. My cheeks heat in frustration. “You’re not friendly; you’re a horn dog!”

Shelly comes by with our food and he gestures to her. “Perhaps we’ll ask someone else, shall we?”

I nod. “By all means.”

He asks Shelly, “Helena here thinks I’m a serial flirt. I’m trying to explain to her that I’m just being friendly, but she doesn’t get it. What do you think, Shell?”

He lays on a million dollar smile and she looks at him a moment before her eyes narrow. She turns to me with a look that questions his sanity and whispers, “He doesn’t even know, does he?” I shake my head, fighting a smile.

Max’s smile fades. “What? Don’t know what?”

Shelly places a hand on his shoulder in consolation and hits him with it. “Honey, she’s right. You’re a flirt.” Shocked, he opens his mouth to protest, but she cuts him off. “That’s not a bad thing, Max. You’re good at making people feel comfortable with you, but I think if you’ll look back, you’ll find the majority of the people you befriend are, well, women.” Shelly leaves us alone to eat our late breakfast. She squeezes Max’s shoulder as she goes.

I don’t feel very hungry. Victory leaves a sour taste in my mouth. “You okay?”

He nods, picking at his food. “I’m good.” But it’s a lie.

I don’t know where the urge to make him feel better comes from, but I suddenly announce, “You know, I’m a terrible flirt.” Max looks up at me, his face questioning. I nod. “Yeah. I’m not very good at it. At least, not when I try. When I don’t try to flirt, I’m pretty damn good at it.” I nibble at my granola. “Maybe that’s what’s happening with you. Your subconscious is probably just a really good flirt, with mad skills it feels it needs to use, like, all the time.”

He doesn’t look placated, but his lip tilts up at the corner. “Mad skills, huh?”

I confirm, “Mad skills.”

Then he smiles, obviously impressed with my efforts to cheer him up. “Maybe.”

I smile in return and eat my granola.

“Helena.”

Chewing, I look over at him.

He nudges my foot under the table. “Thanks.”

I have no idea why I’m being thanked, but I’ll take it. “You’re welcome.”

Chapter Twelve

Max

When I was in high school, I met Madeline Connolly. I was sixteen, stupid, and horny. Most girls, back then, would try to get close to me to get to Nik. I could smell ‘em a mile away. Honey-sweet voices and sticky fingers. But they normally had big tits and red, glossy lips. My sixteen-year-old self didn’t give a shit if they wanted Nik, as long as they’d put out.

See? Stupid.

One girl—I can’t even remember her name—told me she was pregnant with my kid. She was my age. I remember laughing my ass off…so hard I cried. With a stern face, she asked me why I was laughing, told me this was serious. She knew I had money. Everyone knew we had money. She told me to talk to my brother, and if I didn’t want to marry her and take care of our kid, the Nik better, ‘cause her baby needed a father.

A dangerous smile crossed my face. I stepped towards whatever-her-name-was and warned her, “I don’t care what you do to me, but,” my fists balled in anger as I snarled, “don’t ever, ever, fuck with my brother.” A look of fear crossed her face. I shook my head in disgust and started to walk away. A fair distance away, I called back, “Besides, sweetheart, you can’t get pregnant from a blow job.”

This was a lesson to me. A harsh one, but a good one. That was the point I realized what lengths women could and would go to in order to tie a man down.

So one day, I’m at the library after school, working on fuck knows what. It was pretty much deserted, but I spotted this girl sitting at a desk with a shitload of books in front of her. She looked panicked, overwhelmed by her workload. Dressed in a white tee and blue jeans, she stood in a huff and started stacking her books, slamming them one on top of the other. She was beautiful in a very tame way. With long, reddish-brown hair down to her waist and no makeup in sight, her cheeks flamed red, her blue eyes blazing. As she picked up her stack of books and turned, the top two books slid off.

I smirked. That was my cue. I rushed forward, picked up the books, and held onto them. The girl stood there, waiting for me to hand them to her, but I held them tight in my grip.

She huffed, “You can put them on the top.”

I shook my head. “Nah, think I better walk you to your locker. In fact, I think I should carry all those books. You’re a safety hazard, an accident waiting to happen.” I ended on a grin.

Most girls would have laughed and let me carry their books, would’ve thanked me. They would’ve told me how funny I was and asked if I had a girlfriend. They would have flirted with me and given me an inch. Not this girl. Her cheeks turned even redder. She gritted her teeth. “Put the books on the top. Please.”

But I didn’t listen. I reached forward and tried to take her books. I grabbed them from one side, and she held firm on the other. I tugged; she tugged. She wasn’t letting go, but neither was I. I pulled too hard, and her pile of books came crashing down.

I laughed. She did not. I felt the need to speak. “Shit, sorry. I’m Max. Max Leokov.”

Eyes filling with tears, she knelt down on the ground and let me have it. “I know who you are. Why are you even here? I’m sure you could pay the teachers to pass you.”

I tried to say sorry. “Let me carry your books as an apology. C’mon.”