Salvaging Max Read online

  Table of Contents

  Salvaging Max

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Maxwell

  Haven

  Maxwell

  Past

  Maxwell

  Haven

  Maxwell

  Haven

  Maxwell

  Past

  Haven

  Maxwell

  Haven

  Past

  Maxwell

  Haven

  Past

  Maxwell

  Haven

  Maxwell

  Haven

  Maxwell

  Haven

  Past

  Maxwell

  Haven

  Maxwell

  Past

  Haven

  Maxwell

  Haven

  Maxwell

  Buck

  Haven

  Maxwell

  Haven

  Maxwell

  Maxwell

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Connect with Author SH Richardson

  Discover other tittles by Author SH Richardson

  Copyright © 2017 by SH Richardson

  All rights reserved

  Published by SH Richardson

  Refuse: A Junkyard Wedding is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the author’s ridiculous imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  First Edition: September 2017

  Editor Julia Goda

  Formatting: CP Smith

  Cover design: Alana Sapphire at AS Designs

  Cover Photograph Alana Sapphire at AS Designs

  Information address: [email protected]

  PROLOGUE

  I didn’t intend to eavesdrop, but the yelling coming from my father’s office was enough to make anyone stop and listen in. I was spending my first day back from boarding school exploring this gigantic mansion with so many empty rooms and hideaways. I could get lost in here and no one would find me for days. My father was an important man, a state senator who spent most of his time on the campaign trail or meeting with government officials. That was pure speculation on my part; I hadn’t seen my father in years and any information regarding his whereabouts came directly from my mother during her infrequent visits to my school. She was so beautiful, her smile made my heart dance with happiness, and when she kissed me good-bye, the smell of her perfume would last for hours on my uniform. I missed her between each visit and counted the months until her next one, but I was happy away at school and never dreamt I’d be forced to leave. They’d sent me away the moment I was toilet trained, and I hadn’t returned once before today. I was a stranger here, with no happy memories from before I went away, my father, or any time spent alone with him. He didn’t know me and I didn’t know him. He was a photograph that sat on the mantle of my dorm room and nothing more, a vague idea of what a father was supposed to represent.

  Out of the blue, my mother had phoned the headmaster and told him I was needed home immediately and that a driver would be coming to pick me up. I wasn’t given an explanation; I was told to pack my things and that I was going home. I never had any disciplinary problems, I was a model student with straight As, captain of the debate team, and class president. Maybe my parents couldn’t afford the tuition anymore and didn’t know how to tell me?I didn’t want to leave school, my friends, and all the teachers I loved so much. I begged the headmaster to convince them to change their mind, but he said it was out of his hands and he wasn’t permitted to intervene. The car arrived as scheduled, and I was whisked away before I had the chance to protest any further. I cried the entire ride and didn’t stop until the driver pulled the car to a stop in front of the mansion and unloaded my bags at the door. Neither one of my parents stood waiting to welcome me. It just didn’t make any sense. Why bring me here in such a hurry if they weren’t going to be around? There were no hugs or kisses on the cheek. I was left all alone to wander around like Casper the Friendly Ghost. That’s when I’d heard the shouting.

  The screaming grew louder as I approached the closed mahogany door to the office. I didn’t need to press my ear against it to hear what was going on, but I did it anyway. I heard three voices inside, angry men having a heated argument; one of them I assumed was my father. They cursed and called him mean names; I’d never heard anyone talk like that to another person. My father tried to answer, but his voice was unusually high pitched, shaky even, like he was afraid. He giggled a few times between his words like the girls did at school when we told fart jokes at recess. The longer I listened, the faster my heart pounded inside my chest. Something was definitely wrong inside that room, but I was too scared to call out for help.

  “You listen to me, motherfucker. I want those building permits and business licenses right fucking now, or shit’s gonna get real hot for you around here,” one of the men grunted out.

  “Please, Mr. Calhoun. You don’t understand. I just can’t give you those things without someone getting suspicious. Ex-convicts aren’t allowed to hold such licensees in the state of Virginia without filling out the necessary paperwork and reporting it to the proper authorities. If I gave you those permits, it would leave a paper trail leading right back to me, and with the re-election coming up, I just can’t take that chance,” my father squeaked out his response; he sounded like he wanted to cry.

  “You think I give a fuck about your re-election or your fucking rules? This is about payback, motherfucker. The club covered your ass more times than I can count, made all your fucked-up shit disappear without blowback to you. Today’s the day you pay up, you sick fuck, or I will end you.”

  “Mr. Calhoun, it’s just not that simple…”

  “Call me mister one more fucking time and I swear to Christ I’ll blow your fucking head off.” Click.

  The voice of the other man in the room was calmer than the first but just as scary. He was trying to tease my father, like the kids on the playground used to do when they wanted to bully the newer kids at school. I was afraid for my father, afraid of what those men would do if he didn’t give them what they wanted. I wanted to yell out to them to leave my father alone, get out and never come back. If I were bigger, I could break inside and make them stop saying those bad words, but I was just a scared little kid, powerless to stop them.

  “Easy, brother. The senator here seems to think he has a choice in whether or not he’s going to help us. I’m sure these will convince him otherwise.” There was a low rustle of papers as if they were thrown across a flat surface, most likely my father’s desk.

  “Where…where did you get these? I…please, I’m begging you.” He sobbed.

  “That last job we did for you was messy, Senator, real messy, against everything the club stands for. We never touch women and children in our world, but we stepped in to clean up your shit. There are no choices, Senator. You got two days to get those fucking permits or be prepared to sit back and watch your shit crumble down around you. Decide.”

  “Please, Mister…I mean, Psycho…I’m begging you to reconsider.”

  “Time’s up, Senator. Good luck with your re-election.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it…just don’t show anyone those photos and I’ll have your permits by tomorrow. Just…please. We’re all friends. We each want the same things, don’t we?”

  “Want the same things? Motherfucker…I…Don’
t...Fuck...With...Kids.” Whack. Whack. Crack.

  There was a loud crash right before the office door whipped open and revealed my father slumped over sideways in his chair. His mouth was hanging open, and bright red blood dripped down the front of his shirt and onto the floor. Two large men, both wearing leather jackets with patches on them, walked out carrying guns and stood directly in front of me. I wanted to run away and hide, but I couldn’t move; my legs shook so badly, all I could do was stare at them. Their huge arms were covered in tattoos, black skulls in all different sizes, strange writing with funny-looking letters. I couldn’t believe my eyes. They were going to kill me for listening at the door when I shouldn’t have. I was the only witness to a crime, and just like on television, the witnesses always disappeared.

  “The fuck you doing here, boy? Don’t you dare fucking lie,” the bigger man with rubber bands wrapped around his beard asked. His voice was gruff, like that of the headmaster, especially when he caught us pulling pranks around school. They pushed their way outside and closed the door behind them so I couldn’t see inside the office.

  “I…I live here, my father…I’m Maxie.”

  I tried to answer him in complete sentences, but my mouth refused to cooperate. Both men stood tall and ripped, twin towers of terror, ready to crush my tiny head with one massive punch. Their muscles stretched against their vests like all the superheroes in my comic book collection. They could easily beat up the bad guys and save the world from evil villains if they weren’t such mean bullies. I wanted to show them that I wasn’t afraid, that I was braver than my father and would fight back if I had to. I took a few deep breaths and waited to see what they would do next.

  Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me.

  “Looks like that asshole senator’s been keeping more secrets from us, brother. Knew we couldn’t trust that fucker.” The second man with dark brown hair scrunched up his nose like he smelled something rotten. “Don’t worry, kid, we ain’t gonna hurt ya’ none. Just needed to have a chat with your old man about some things,” he told me with a smile, and I believed him. His eyes were kind and gave me a warm feeling like he wanted to be friends.

  “How old are you, boy?” Rubber band man spoke up, but he wasn’t smiling.

  “I’m seven. Seven years old,” I answered with more confidence than I felt. The big man growled low in his chest like a bear, and I flinched when he reached into his pocket to get something. He slipped his gun into the back of his shirt, and that’s when I noticed the blood and scratches across the top of his knuckles. He had to have been the one who beat up my father in his office.

  “Your momma? Where is she?” I gave a one-shoulder shrug but didn’t reply.

  “Need to hear the words, boy. Answer me,” he asked again, rougher and with more authority.

  “I don’t know where she is…sir.” It was the truth; I hadn’t seen her since I arrived.

  “Hold out your hand, boy,” he commanded.

  I tentatively presented my right hand, and he placed a small object inside of it. I closed my fingers around it, but I didn’t dare look at it while they stood in front of me. It was cold and made of hard metal, but it didn’t hurt when I held it in my hand.

  “Buck Calhoun.” Rubber band man pointed to his chest. “Repeat it, boy.”

  I did as instructed and repeated his name back to him; it seemed important that I followed his request, so I did it without argument. The two men shared a look, turned, and walked away without another word, not even a good-bye. They left me alone standing outside my father’s office door, alive and untouched. I didn’t know it at the time, but the strange gift would save my life one day and help me begin a new one, a better one.

  MAXWELL

  Regret.

  A six-letter word that didn’t scratch the surface of the emotions I’d felt over the last few months. I fooled myself into thinking that I had it all figured out, that I was in control of everything in my life, that as long as my brothers stood with me, I could conquer anything. The truth was always staring me in the face, and like a fool I ignored it, choosing instead to pretend that I could do it alone, fight the shadow and win. Just once I wanted to show that fucker that I was strong enough to take him on without someone holding my hand and guiding me. I wanted to stand on my own two feet like a real man, a normal man, instead of leaning on my family to pull me up by the shirt tails. How foolish I was to think things would be any different, that I was strong enough like Buck always said. The shadow always won; it lurked just below the surface, reminding me that I was that scared little boy who shook with fear every time he came to visit me in the dark.

  My troubles hadn’t started with Mitch and his sick obsession with Ashley Benjamin. True, he used me to get closer to her by pretending to be my friend, but he only succeeded because I refused to listen when my brothers tried to warn me about him. Mitch wasn’t some brilliant mastermind who fooled everyone with his well-thought-out plan to take Ashley at knifepoint and keep her for himself. I just hadn’t cared enough to read between the lines and see just how fucked up he really was. I kept Mitch around to play a role in my twisted sexual games, games I needed in order to escape reality through pleasure. It wasn’t his body I craved but his willingness to inflict pain at just the right time so I could get off and force the shadow back and release its hold. Buck had known about my sexual proclivities and never judged me for them. To him, every man had his own way of getting off, and as long as it didn’t hurt anyone, it was no one’s business. He had been the only person who could keep my head on straight, my ever-present voice of reason and encouragement, but he decided to leave me when I needed him the most. Buck had been my rock from the very beginning once I made my escape and tracked him down at the junkyard. He became my everything, what I needed the most; but even he couldn’t help me with what I was fighting against.

  Buck knew every single one of my secrets and never broke his promise by sharing them with the other boys. When I needed to talk about where I felt my life was going, he dropped everything to hear me out. He always told me I was strong, strong enough to walk through hell and back without getting burned. He wanted me to live a normal life filled with love and family, all the things he’d had but lost. I killed that dream of ever having at a normal life the day I ignored his phone call to get over to Foster’s as fast as possible, choosing instead to finish getting a blow job from some bitch whose name I couldn’t even remember. I was responsible for Buck’s death that day at Foster’s, the same as if I’d pulled the trigger myself and watched him bleed out on the checkered tile floor. It was a sad truth that I accepted willingly even after Range tried to convince me that it wasn’t my fault, that there was no way I could have prevented what inevitably happened. Buck’s death sent me over the edge, but my downward spiral began long before he had been laid to rest.

  That work day had started like any other, bright and early on Monday morning. I had a coffee in hand and a full schedule to look forward to. My marketing firm was the best on the east coast with clients who ranged from celebrities to pro athletes, successful businessmen to politicians. The waiting list of potential clients was nearly as long as the ones I actually represented. I was selective with my clientele. I carefully scrutinized their need for representation and considered all the facts before I chose to represent them. I worked hard to get my business to where it was, and like Buck had always taught me, “Never find yourself outworked by any man. The only person you end up half-assin’ is yourself.” I believed in that motto, followed it closely, until my reputation was that of a trustworthy advocate and a man who always got the job done. I demanded top dollar for my services, along with absolute autonomy in my decision-making process. One lie, one false statement, and they were out on their asses with a demand letter for final payment and a cancellation of our contractual agreements.

  These people weren’t my friends; we didn’t go golfing on the weekends or hang out at family barbeques. It was strictly business
and never personal. I had power over the most influential people in the world, and it fueled me, made my dick hard when I took away their choices and demanded respect. The more resistance they gave, the more I established my stronghold, until the contract was over and the job was done. My clients were wealthy, upstanding citizens to the outside world, when in truth, they were the scum of the earth. The money made them feel invincible, until they fucked up and had to dig their way out from the messes they created. I knew these people well, long before I decided to open my business and become a publicist. I lived in their tiny little bubble filled with champagne and caviar and saw firsthand what one demented human being was willing to do to another when they thought no one was watching. I relished the frantic phone calls as they begged me to help them out of a jam. I tortured them, made them feel small and vulnerable, just as I’d felt when I was held under their thumbs as a boy. I was a god to these people, until one voice mail after many years of silence rocked my well-crafted routine, my illusion of power, and catapulted me straight down to the depths of hell.

  I sat alone in my office that day, earlier than my secretary, who always arrived just before eight with a warm smile and a fresh cup of steaming hot coffee. Betty was efficient at her job, anticipated my every need and followed instructions to the letter. She had been my right-hand woman since I started O’Neill’s and knew the type of clients I would and would not accept. She handled the rejects with grace and decorum, which was more than they deserved if they fell on the no-go list. I paid her well for her discretion and generously shared the spoils of this retched business we found ourselves in. She was privy to my clients’ secrets, but she was not acquainted with mine. Those were kept under lock and key until the day one phone call forced them back and I was helpless once again to stop the train wreck. I listened to that message over and over again until I memorized each and every word of it. The tone was businesslike, a potential client seeking representation from the best in the business. A delicate matter that needed a “gentle” touch, they said. I was asked to return the message as soon as possible to discuss the particulars of the situation. I never did.