Seven Days of Friday (Women of Greece Book 1) by Alex A. King Page A
Authors: Alex A. King
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legs?”
22
Max
G ood food .
Uninterrupted sleep.
Satisfying sex.
Most men need all three to thrive.
Max has all three, but he’s not thriving.
He watches Anastasia dress. First time she’s been over in three days and he just feels tired.
Her lens is focusing, zooming. “Why don't you redecorate this place? It's so . . .”
“Masculine?”
“Boring. You don't even have pictures.”
She leans forward, drops her breasts into the lace cups. He feels nothing. The urgency he felt earlier has evaporated, same as their sweat.
“What for?” He rolls over, grabs his own clothes. “I sleep here, that's all.”
“You should think about buying a house.”
He thinks about the money rolling, rolling, rolling in his bank account for exactly that.
“Maybe one day.”
“How old are you, Max?”
“You know how old I am.”
Her cleavage disappears behind the shirt’s buttons. Only a promise remains.
“What will you do when you get married?”
When we get married, she means. He can’t miss the thin, whining undercurrent of Anastasia winding up for another fight. What he thinks is that she likes the arguing more than she likes the sex.
“Then I guess my wife and I will buy a house to raise our children in.”
“Your wife? Are you planning on making someone else your wife?” Pencil skirt next, thin belt through the loops. “Max, are you seeing another woman?”
“I'm too tired to see anyone else.”
True.
Long days at the hospital. Long nights with Anastasia.
She’s sucking the life out of him through his balls.
And then there are the phone calls from Mama.
Have you proposed yet?
No.
Have you bought a ring?
No.
Why not?
Yeah, Max. Why not?
Because he doesn’t love her, he just loves fucking her.
Anastasia zeros in on her handbag. She pulls out a severe black tube, wields the lipstick, the make-believe dagger.
“That's not an answer, Max. That's avoidance. Do you know what I will do if I find out you are cheating on me?” Lipstick slashes through air.
I don’t care, he thinks. Just hurry up and do it and go away.
“Max?”
He grabs her wrist, holds it still. “There's no one else. I promise.”
She smiles, that bitch. “I know. I just wanted you to know how I feel.” Now she’s someone else, a smiling angel. “Let's go and get coffee.”
He’s tying his boots when the phone beeps.
“Sorry,” he tells Anastasia. “No coffee this morning.”
Her cold gaze stalks him. “Always the hospital.”
“Baby, it's my job. When we get married it will buy you lots of nice things.” When, not if. Is he trying to placate her or sabotage his life?
“Promise?”
“Of course.” And they’re out the door.
Alone in his Jeep at last. He looks in the rearview mirror and sees a stranger sitting where he’s sitting. The other guy is holding up a noose.
Don’t make me use this, he says.
Then Max laughs, because what is he so afraid of? A life with a beautiful woman?
Fool.
----
A child dies on his watch. Not because of negligence or lack of skill. It happens because sometimes it happens – and fuck you, God.
He tells the parents, but they don’t want to know.
He understands; he doesn’t want to know, either.
----
T he ghost of Max gets away early, but not much. He and Anastasia have plans for dinner at a café near St Nicholas Square.
St Nicholas, patron saint of sailors and children.
Maximos Andreou, patron saint of nothing, wanders like a man lost. He looks at jeans. Skims titles in a bookstore. He stops at a jewelry store’s window, temporarily blinded by the glare.
No price tags. What a racket.
So, he goes in.
Why? Because there’s no good reason not to. The store wants money and he has money to spend.
Anastasia is winding his hormones around her pinky, but after today . . .
Max doesn’t care.
He wants a wife and family to come home to. He needs to see something warm after a day like today, his own child to distract him with play, a woman to curl up on the
22
Max
G ood food .
Uninterrupted sleep.
Satisfying sex.
Most men need all three to thrive.
Max has all three, but he’s not thriving.
He watches Anastasia dress. First time she’s been over in three days and he just feels tired.
Her lens is focusing, zooming. “Why don't you redecorate this place? It's so . . .”
“Masculine?”
“Boring. You don't even have pictures.”
She leans forward, drops her breasts into the lace cups. He feels nothing. The urgency he felt earlier has evaporated, same as their sweat.
“What for?” He rolls over, grabs his own clothes. “I sleep here, that's all.”
“You should think about buying a house.”
He thinks about the money rolling, rolling, rolling in his bank account for exactly that.
“Maybe one day.”
“How old are you, Max?”
“You know how old I am.”
Her cleavage disappears behind the shirt’s buttons. Only a promise remains.
“What will you do when you get married?”
When we get married, she means. He can’t miss the thin, whining undercurrent of Anastasia winding up for another fight. What he thinks is that she likes the arguing more than she likes the sex.
“Then I guess my wife and I will buy a house to raise our children in.”
“Your wife? Are you planning on making someone else your wife?” Pencil skirt next, thin belt through the loops. “Max, are you seeing another woman?”
“I'm too tired to see anyone else.”
True.
Long days at the hospital. Long nights with Anastasia.
She’s sucking the life out of him through his balls.
And then there are the phone calls from Mama.
Have you proposed yet?
No.
Have you bought a ring?
No.
Why not?
Yeah, Max. Why not?
Because he doesn’t love her, he just loves fucking her.
Anastasia zeros in on her handbag. She pulls out a severe black tube, wields the lipstick, the make-believe dagger.
“That's not an answer, Max. That's avoidance. Do you know what I will do if I find out you are cheating on me?” Lipstick slashes through air.
I don’t care, he thinks. Just hurry up and do it and go away.
“Max?”
He grabs her wrist, holds it still. “There's no one else. I promise.”
She smiles, that bitch. “I know. I just wanted you to know how I feel.” Now she’s someone else, a smiling angel. “Let's go and get coffee.”
He’s tying his boots when the phone beeps.
“Sorry,” he tells Anastasia. “No coffee this morning.”
Her cold gaze stalks him. “Always the hospital.”
“Baby, it's my job. When we get married it will buy you lots of nice things.” When, not if. Is he trying to placate her or sabotage his life?
“Promise?”
“Of course.” And they’re out the door.
Alone in his Jeep at last. He looks in the rearview mirror and sees a stranger sitting where he’s sitting. The other guy is holding up a noose.
Don’t make me use this, he says.
Then Max laughs, because what is he so afraid of? A life with a beautiful woman?
Fool.
----
A child dies on his watch. Not because of negligence or lack of skill. It happens because sometimes it happens – and fuck you, God.
He tells the parents, but they don’t want to know.
He understands; he doesn’t want to know, either.
----
T he ghost of Max gets away early, but not much. He and Anastasia have plans for dinner at a café near St Nicholas Square.
St Nicholas, patron saint of sailors and children.
Maximos Andreou, patron saint of nothing, wanders like a man lost. He looks at jeans. Skims titles in a bookstore. He stops at a jewelry store’s window, temporarily blinded by the glare.
No price tags. What a racket.
So, he goes in.
Why? Because there’s no good reason not to. The store wants money and he has money to spend.
Anastasia is winding his hormones around her pinky, but after today . . .
Max doesn’t care.
He wants a wife and family to come home to. He needs to see something warm after a day like today, his own child to distract him with play, a woman to curl up on the
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