onto the pavement and reached for a towel, and he watched every long-legged move she made. While she dried herself off, he swigged his root beer and pretended that he wasn’t checking out her perfectly formed cleavage or gold pierced navel or—
“Come on, Max, quit giving me the look.”
Caught in the act, he dribbled the stupid drink down his chin. She shook her head and tossed him her towel. He cursed beneath his breath and wiped his face.
The look was code for when either of them ogled the other in an inappropriate manner. They’d agreed quite a while ago that sex, or anything that could possibly lead to it, was off the table. They cared too much about each other to ruin their friendship with a few deliciously hot romps in the sack. Even now, at thirty years old, they held a platonic promise between them.
She smoothed back her fiery red hair, placed a big, floppy hat on her head and stretched out on the chaise next to him. Max lived in a 1930s Beachwood Canyon mansion, and Lizzie resided in an ultra-modern condo. She spent more time at his place than he did at hers because he preferred it that way. His Los Angeles lair was bigger, badder and much more private.
He returned the towel, only now it had his soda stain on it. She rolled her eyes, and they shared a companionable grin.
He handed her a bottle of sunscreen. “You better reapply this.”
She sighed. “Me and my sensitive skin.”
He liked her ivory complexion. But he’d seen her get some nasty sunburns, too. He didn’t envy her that. She slathered on the lotion, and he considered how they’d met during their senior year in high school. They were being paired up on a chemistry project, and, even then, she’d struck him as a debutant-type girl.
Later he’d learned that she was originally from Savannah, Georgia, with ties to old money. In that regard, his assessment of her had been correct, and just being near her had sent his boyhood longings into a tailspin. Not only was she gorgeous; she was everything he’d wanted to be: rich, prestigious, popular.
But Max had bottomed out on the other end of the spectrum: a skinny, dorky Native American foster kid with a genius IQ and gawky social skills, leaving him open to scorn and ridicule.
Of course, Lizzie’s life hadn’t been as charmed as he’d assumed it was. Once he’d gotten to know her, she’d revealed her deepest, darkest secrets to him, just as he’d told her his.
Supposedly during that time, when they were pouring their angst-riddled hearts out to each other, she’d actually formed a bit of a crush on him. But even till this day, he found that hard to fathom. In what alternate universe did prom queens get infatuated with dorks?
She peered at him from beneath the fashionable brim of her pale beige hat. Her bathing suit was a shimmering shade of copper with a leopard-print trim, and her meticulously manicured nails were painted a soft warm pink. Every lovely thing about her purred, “trust fund heiress,” which was exactly what she was.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
He casually answered, “What a nerd I used to be.”
She teased him with a smile. “As opposed to the sexy billionaire you are today?”
“Right.” He laughed a little. “Because nothing says beefcake like a software designer and internet entrepreneur.”
She moved her gaze along the muscle-whipped length of his body. “You’ve done all right for yourself.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Now who’s giving who the look?”
She shrugged off her offense. “You shouldn’t have become such a hottie if you didn’t want to get noticed.”
That wasn’t the reason he’d bulked up, and she darned well knew it. Sure, he’d wanted to shed his nerdy image, but he’d started hitting the gym after high school for more than aesthetic purposes. His favorite sport was boxing. Sometimes he shadowboxed and sometimes he pounded the crap out of a heavy bag. But mostly he did it to try to pummel the demons that plagued him. He was a runner, too. So was Lizzie. They ran like a tornado was chasing them. Or their pasts, which was pretty much the same thing.
“Beauty and the brainiac,” he said. “We were such a teenage cliché.”
“Why, because you offered to tutor me when I needed it? That doesn’t make us a cliché. Without your help, I would never have gotten my grades up to par or attended my mother’s alma mater.”
Silent, Max nodded. She’d also been accepted into her mom’s old sorority, which had been another of her goals. But none of that had brought her the comfort she’d sought.
“The twentieth anniversary is coming up,” she said.
Of her mom’s suicide, he thought. Lizzie was ten when her high-society mother had swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills. “I’m sorry you keep reliving it.” She mentioned it every year around this time, and even now he could see her childhood pain.
She put the sunscreen aside, placing it on a side table, where her untouched iced tea sat. “I wish I could forget about her.”
“I know.” He couldn’t get his mom out of his head, either, especially the day she’d abandoned him, leaving him alone in their run-down apartment. He was eight years old, and she’d parked him in front of the TV, warning him to stay there until she got back. She was only supposed to be gone for a few hours, just long enough to score the crack she routinely smoked. Max waited for her return, but she never showed up. Scared out of his young mind, he’d fended for himself for three whole days, until he’d gone to a neighbor for help. “My memories will probably never stop haunting me, either.”
“We do have our issues.”
“Yeah, we do.” Max was rescued and placed in foster care, and a warrant was issued for his mom’s arrest. But she’d already hit the road with her latest loser boyfriend, where she’d partied too hard and overdosed before the police caught up with her.
“What would you say to your mother if she was still alive?” Lizzie asked.
“Nothing.”
“You wouldn’t tell her off?”
“No.” He wouldn’t say a single word to her.
“You wouldn’t even ask her why she used to hurt you?”
Max shook his head. There wasn’t an answer in the world that would make sense, so what would be the point? When Mom hadn’t been kicking him with her cheap high heels or smacking him around, she’d taken to burning him with cigarette butts and daring him not to cry. But her most common form of punishment was locking him in his closet, where she’d told him that the Lakota two-faced monsters dwelled.
The legends about these humanoid creatures varied. In some tales, it was a woman who’d been turned into this type of being after trying to seduce the sun god. One of her faces was beautiful, while the other was hideous. In other stories, it was a man with a second face on the back of his head. Making eye contact with him would get you tortured and killed. Cannibalism and kidnapping were among his misdeeds, too, with a malevolent glee for preying on misbehaving children.
The hours Max had spent in his darkened closet,
