The Forgotten One (The Heirs #2)

Chapter Sixteen

Max pulled into his driveway and wondered if Sarah had it wrong.

His street was void of news vans and reporters, which had him smiling. “Overreacting. All of them.”

He tucked his truck into the garage and closed the door.

The media might not have found his house, but they had discovered his phone number.

From the time the driver of the SUV ditched the media following them and then dropped Max off where he’d parked his truck, his phone had rung three times from unknown numbers. Then, in the hour-plus it took to drive back to Palmdale, the phone hadn’t stopped buzzing.

He tossed the suit jacket onto his sofa and pressed play on the first of over a dozen messages.

The first message was from a local TV station asking for an interview. The second was from the Times . There was a morning show. Then a news station out of New York and another one out of England.

Every call had a name, a media something or other, and a phone number. Even as he listened to the messages, his phone kept ringing.

And ringing.

He put the thing on silent and left it on his kitchen counter.

Having the board meeting behind him felt good. And after seeing the different personalities and egos at that table, Max understood what drove Chase and Alex. Most of the faces on the board were either hostile or suspicious. Thinking about them had Max turning on his computer to look up Paul Yarros.

The man was a colossal dick.

And the way he’d talked to Alex ... hell no. Not on his watch. It had been a long time since he felt the need to physically act in an effort to protect someone he knew.

In another time, Paul would already be nursing a broken something.

While Max’s computer fired up, he moved into his bedroom to shed the semi-suit he wore to put on something more comfortable.

He looked through the new clothes in his closet and smiled. He’d never in his life had this many new anythings. Nick had covered as many bases as he could in a short amount of time.

Office attire, dinner clothes, casual, and a mix of all three. Max liked his flannel but had to admit there were a few things they’d purchased that felt like the million bucks they practically cost.

Like silk.

Seriously, Max had always envisioned silk as satiny, shiny, and something you’d see on a 1970s dance floor.

Nope. Not the case. The material was like a cool wind on a hot day. He’d worn a black silk dress shirt to the meeting and didn’t once break a sweat.

As he shrugged out of the dress pants, Max opted to keep the shirt on and slip into a new pair of jeans.

One leg in, and someone rang his doorbell.

He zipped up his jeans as he walked through the living room to open the door.

A light instantly blinded him as a microphone was thrust into his face.

“Mr. Smith. I’m Griffin Sayer from—”

Shit!

Max put his hand between the lens and his face. “No comment.”

“But—”

“Get off my property.”

Max closed the door on the reporter and twisted the lock.

One glance out the window suggested maybe Chase and Alex had a point.

One van had parked directly in front of his house; two more were setting up across the street.

As he watched, another car, much too nice for his neighborhood, parked facing the wrong direction behind one of the vans.

He glanced at his watch ... Aaron’s watch. It was just past noon.

Max closed the blinds, then walked into the kitchen, found a piece of paper, and wrote No Soliciting. No Reporters. No Comment . Then he opened his front door and taped the note on the other side.

The seat was pushed all the way back, Sarah’s feet on the dash of the compact van Kiev drove when out on an assignment. The van was just big enough for a few cameras and some equipment. Surrounding them were news vans that had satellite capabilities. Something RMI didn’t use.

“I don’t think he’s coming,” Kiev said as he popped another sour candy into his mouth.

“Told you it was a waste of time.” Sarah looked up from the game she was playing on her phone, scanned the street, and then went back to killing virtual monsters.

“Can’t you just call him and find out where he is?”

“Don’t you think I tried that?” She didn’t say she did, didn’t say she didn’t. Even Pinocchio’s nose wouldn’t have budged with that statement.

A few more minutes of silence crept by.

“Can you imagine what you’d do with all that money this guy suddenly has?”

“Nope.”

“Did he say what he was going to do with it?”

She glanced up from her game. “He didn’t say a thing about the money. Almost like it wasn’t a thing.”

“It’s a huge thing.”

“He’s just learned that he has a family. I’d guess that would hold a larger light on his life than a bulging bank account.”

“Depends on the family.” Another candy in the mouth. “Mine kinda sucks.”

“As difficult as family can be, I’d still pick them over nothing.” Sarah had barely brushed on Max’s past, which he had shut down instantly. Sarah didn’t press.

The news van in front of them started lowering its antenna at the same time a solo photographer jumped into his car and drove away.

“Wonder what that’s all about,” Kiev said.

Sarah shrugged, went back to her game.

Another car sped away.

“Someone knows something.”

“I say we hold tight until we’re told otherwise.”

Twenty minutes later ... they were told otherwise.

“He’s in Palmdale,” Patrick half yelled over the phone.

Sarah cringed. Not Palmdale. That drive sucked. “Is he talking to the press?”

“No. Looks like there’s a sign on his door telling us to go away.”

“Okay, then. No point in—”

“Start driving, McNeilly.”

“But—”

Patrick hung up.

Kiev started the engine.

“My money is on him not staying there,” she told him. “I say we grab a coffee and drag our feet.”

“You sure?”

No. “Do you want to drive all the way to Palmdale just to drive back once we learn he left?”

“Fine.” Kiev pulled away from where they were parked. “But not Starbucks. I’m over their coffee.”

Max tired of his cell phone dancing off the table and powered the thing down.

He spent an hour surfing through channels on the TV. Saw his face more than once, either leaving Stone Enterprises or the pictures they’d sent with the public statement. There was footage of Chase and Alex leaving the office and, later, pulling into the gates of the Beverly Hills mansion.

Every time Max moved the curtains aside to see if the vans had left ... they’d multiplied.

He attempted to settle into a movie ... made it thirty minutes and realized he had no idea of the plot or even the names of the main characters.

There were things he could do in his garage, but to do that, he’d have to take the truck out to move around ...

Maybe he could look at real estate?

He sat staring at an open browser, asking himself what city ... Where did he want to live versus have to live?

He stalled.

Another knock at the door pulled him away from his computer.

“Dammit.”

He ignored it.

The knock continued.

“Go away!” he yelled.

“Mr. Smith? It’s Tucker.”

Max closed his laptop and answered the door, doing everything he could to keep his face from the cameras poised and waiting.

“Is everything okay?” Tucker asked, hesitating.

Max motioned him inside. “Come in.”

“I was worried when I saw the news people.”

Max peeked through the curtain.

“Some of the neighbors are talking with them. Did something happen?”

“You didn’t see the news?”

“No. Are you in trouble?”

Max shook his head. “If you thought I was in some sort of trouble, you probably shouldn’t be knocking on my door.”

“I didn’t think it was anything bad.”

Alex and Chase were right. Max was going to be held hostage in his own house with absolutely nothing to do.

Max didn’t idle well. This wasn’t going to work.

“I-I inherited some stocks, and the media thinks that’s a big deal. Guess nothing important is going on in the world.”

“Stocks? Really?” Tucker asked.

Another peek, and the neighbor across from him, the ass Max didn’t get along with, had a light shining on his face and a microphone moving back and forth between the reporter and him. “Fuck.”

“You said to come by and see if you had any work for me.”

“What?” He let the curtains fall. He needed to get out of there.

The mansion. It was big enough to not feel like he was in a fish tank.

“Work, for the truck,” Tucker said.

Max looked back at Tucker. “Right ... wait. Yeah ... there is something you can do.”

“Okay.”

Max walked into his kitchen and opened the catchall drawer. He found the spare set of keys to the house and handed them over.

“I have to get out of here for a few days. Come by, pick up my mail. Keep an eye on the place. Can you do that?” Max wrote down his phone number.

“Yeah, sure.”

“What’s your number?”

Tucker rattled off his phone number as Max jotted it down.

He then started toward his bedroom. “Feel free to have anything in the kitchen. Except the beer. I don’t need those people out there thinking I’m contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”

“I don’t really drink.”

Max paused, looked at Tucker in disbelief. Did this kid think he was dumb enough to believe that?

“No. My, ah ... my dad drinks a lot. I’m not interested.”

The doubt left Max’s stance. “Okay.” He pulled out a duffel bag and started shoving a few articles of clothing into it. He then moved to his bathroom and grabbed his shaver, a toothbrush, and a comb. “Don’t talk to the reporters, and don’t let anyone in the house.”

“I can do that.”

Max put a flannel shirt over the silk one and tugged on his riding boots before pushing his arms through his leather jacket.

“I’m going to go out through the garage—close the door as soon as I leave. Stick around for an hour. Longer if you want. But when you leave, turn off the lights. And if there are reporters still out there and they ask you where I went and when I’m coming back, just say, ‘No comment.’”

Tucker smiled as he followed Max around. “Like in the movies? That’s dope.”

Max grabbed his bag, tapped the back of his jeans where he’d put his wallet ... Shit, his phone. Back in the kitchen, he grabbed the phone and a charger.

They walked into the garage. Max removed his wallet, grabbed a couple of hundred-dollar bills ... then a third. What the fuck, he had a ton more where that came from.

He handed the money to Tucker.

“But you didn’t charge me for the truck.”

Max chuckled. “Piece of advice, kid. When someone hands you money and all they’ve asked you to do is lock up when you leave, take it.” Max paused. “Unless they’re in a gang ... or the mafia.”

Tucker chuckled and pocketed the cash.

Max grabbed his helmet and threw his leg over his bike as he clipped the helmet in place.

“Ready?” he asked.

Tucker stood poised and ready at the garage door control.

“Thanks. I appreciate this,” Max told him.

“No problem, Mr. Smith. Good luck getting away from them.”

“Why do you think I’m taking the bike?”

The kid smiled.

The garage rattled to the rafters when Max turned the bike over.

Max opened the garage door and punched it the second he could.

The people standing around started to move.

Max aimed for the opening at the front of his driveway and weaved around the media and spectating neighbors and didn’t look back to see if Tucker had closed the door.

“He left Palmdale.”

Sarah smiled at Kiev as they listened to Patrick on the speaker.

“You don’t say.” Max had listened to her after all. She smiled, completely and utterly amused by how the day was playing out.

Kiev put on his blinker and started merging off the freeway.

“The others are at Aaron Stone’s estate. Go there.”

“I’m telling you, he isn’t going to—”

Patrick hung up.

“Bastard.”

Kiev laughed.

“Turn around—let’s go to Beverly Hills.”

Sarah sipped her black coffee and leaned back in her seat.