Page 81 of Maverick

I should have called the women in earlier. Of course they'd help. They all love Cadence, and I think they all love me. They're rooting for us, just like I am. "That would be great."

Nick pulls out his phone and makes a call, his voice a low murmur in the background. I should get up and get shit done, but I don't. I just sit here, and let my mind drift to my favorite topic. Cadence. Nothing about spending time with her is getting old or routine. None of it. Not the way her eyes crinkle whenshe laughs at my terrible jokes, or the brush of her hand against mine as we make coffee in the mornings.

I didn't know I would crave those little moments. You always think about the big things in a relationship. Sex, kissing, grand declarations are important, yeah, but those little moments, a whispered thanks or a shared smile fill up that hole inside of me in a way I never expected.

My phone buzzes, and the moment is gone. An unknown number. Not uncommon, but my gut clenches anyway.

"Thanks," I mutter to my brothers, then head out the door as I bring the phone to my ear.

I answer the call, my gut already clenching. "Maverick Walker speaking."

"Mr. Walker?" A hesitant male voice comes through, his speech thickly accented. "I... I hope I'm not bothering you. I got your number from a friend. He said you might be able to help."

My heart sinks. I know where this is going, but I can't bring myself to shut it down. I never can. "What's the situation?"

The man launches into his story. It's a familiar tale - a negligent landlord, dangerous living conditions, threats of eviction. As he speaks, his voice trembles with a mix of anger and fear.

"The place is falling apart. There's mold everywhere, the stairs are rotting. My son fell through a step last week. And now the landlord's threatening to kick us out if we complain again."

I close my eyes, feeling the weight of his words. I know I shouldn't, I know I'm over capacity already, but before I can stop myself, I'm saying, "I'll help. Let's set up a time to meet and go over everything in detail."

"Thank you. Thank you! Bless you. I didn't know what else to do. Who else to call." His voice is thick with emotion, the tremble in it betraying how difficult the situation has been for him.

After hanging up, I turn, startled to find Zach standing behind me, eyebrow raised. "Another one of your charity cases?"

I bristle at his words. "They're not charity cases, Zach."

He crosses his arms, leaning against the wall. Of all my brothers, he's the most put together. He's always in a suit, his hair is always perfect, and he makes it look effortless. By the end of the day, I look like I've been hit by a hurricane. I try to stay a little more professional, but the longer the day gets, the more I start tugging at everything. My tie, my shirt, my hair.

"You're taking on cases for free. That's literally the definition of charity work, Mav."

"It's not-" I start, but stop, frustrated. I run a hand through my hair, trying to find the right words. "These are people who need help. Real help. They're not just cases or charity. They're families facing homelessness, kids living in dangerous conditions."

Zach holds up his hands. "I get it, man. I do. But what's wrong with calling it what it is? You're doing good work. Charitable work. Why does that bother you so much?"

I pause, his question hitting me harder than I expected. Why does it bother me? I open my mouth to respond, but I'm not sure what to say. Shaking my head, I move down the hall and push into my office, dropping into my chair. Zach drops into the chair in front of my desk.

"Why does it bother you so much?" he asks again. But there's a knowing in his eye that annoys the fuck out of me.

"You have an idea?"

"Yeah, I do. And if you slow down and think about it, you will too."

"I don't know what you're…aw fuck." Dammit, he's right. My mom and I lived in a series of shit apartments with even shittier landlords. And more than once I had to brush cockroaches off my bed before I could go to sleep. I remember arguments withlandlords and tears. Even at five or six, I knew the way we were living wasn't okay. I heard other people talking about bugs, and being dirty. But we weren't dirty. Not ever. My mom tried her hardest, every damned time, but she was always outmatched and outgunned.

"There it is," Zach says, watching me carefully.

"Landlords that force people to live in filth deserve to be flayed alive."

"Agreed," he says simply, still watching me carefully. He always does this, and dammit, it always works. I wonder if he’s been reading Colton’s psychology books.

"They just keep calling. I don't know what else to do but help."

His eyebrows wing up. "Do you want a solution? Because we've brought this up before, and you always said it was fine. It doesn't look like you're fine anymore."

"It was fine. It was," I insist as he crosses his arms over his chest. "I had the time. Especially this year, things were changing. You guys were busy with the women, and it was fine. And I like having something to do, other than sit around and think about everything I don't have."

"Poor little billionaire," he says with a smirk. He drops it quickly though. "Seriously though, I hear what you're saying. But it's okay to outgrow something, and maybe you're outgrowing being Mister Fix It."

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