Page 10 of Property of Max
With their backs turned, I allow myself a moment to really look at them. Tank is massive. Tall, broad, with a long beard that frames his mouth and short, neatly trimmed hair. He looks like the kind of man who could wrestle a bear and win, yet there’s an ease to the way he moves that makes him seem almost gentle.
And then there’s Max. Dark hair, close-cropped beard, eyes sharp and intense, like he sees far more than he lets on. He’s not as tall as Tank, but he doesn’t need to be. Power clings to him in a quieter, more dangerous way, the kind you feel in your bones without him saying a word.
I take notice of the leather cuts stretched across their backs. Iron Shadows.
The patch is unmistakable. Around here, you can’t walk two blocks without seeing it somewhere. On a jacket, a T-shirt, or a sticker slapped across a bike. Palm Springs belongs to the Iron Shadows, and everyone knows it.
We also know not to mess with these men. They’re not cruel, and they keep our streets cleaner than the cops ever could. But we’ve all heard stories. Whispers of what happens if you cross one of theirs.
I bet their women and children feel safe in ways I’ve never known. Loved in ways I’ve only dreamed of.
“Alright,” Tank says, dusting off his hands as he and Max walk back toward us. “Chair’s locked in place.”
I let out a shaky breath I didn’t realize I was holding, and bend over to lift Micah.
“Allow me,” Max says, stepping in gently, his hand brushing against mine as he moves me aside. His voice is calm but careful. “Is there anything I need to worry about when lifting him? A part of his body that hurts or shouldn’t be grabbed?”
My throat goes tight. “No,” I whisper. “Well… you have to support his head. And I’m sure his bones ache from not being able to move them. But he’s never mentioned anything about it.”
The words linger like ash on my tongue, and a thought I hate sneaks in.Or maybe he does hurt, and he just stays quiet because he doesn’t want to add to the guilt I already drown in.
“If I do something that hurts you, let me know,” Max says softly, looking straight into Micah’s eyes. The sincerity there makes my heart ache.
“He can’t,” I admit quietly. “He has locked-in syndrome. He communicates through the tablet on his chair, but that one died when the battery died.”
“He can blink, Mama,” Bree pipes up from her spot beside us. She crouches closer to Micah’s face. “Uncle Micah, if Mr. Max hurts you and you need him to stop, just blink three times.”
Micah blinks once, deliberate and steady.
“That means yes,” Bree explains matter-of-factly. Then she grins. “Or I guess right now it meansokay.”
I can’t help it. I smile, even with my heart lodged in my throat. Leave it to Bree to build a bridge where the rest of us stumble.
“Alright, buddy,” Max says, his voice low and steady as he lifts my brother into his arms. He adjusts Micah carefully, shifting his weight until Micah’s head rests against his chest.
Lucky brat.
“Mr. Tank, can you lift me as high as your arms go?” Bree pipes up, bouncing on her toes. “I wanna feel like I’m flying!”
“Brianna,” I scold, heat rushing to my cheeks.
Tank’s beard twitches with a smile as he glances at me. “Only if it’s okay with your mama.” His tone is gentle, almost playful, but respectful all the same.
Max and Micah are nearby, watching the exchange. My brother’s weight looks effortless in Max’s arms, but I know how heavy he is. Reluctantly, I nod. “Fine. Just be careful.”
Tank’s big hands sweep Bree up in one smooth motion, and her laughter bursts out like sunlight. She stretches her arms wide, hair flying around her face.
I glance back at Max, nerves tugging at me. He meets my eyes. “He won’t hurt her,” he says softly.
Something in his tone settles the worry coiled in my chest. My gut agrees even before I whisper, “I know. But, dang, she’s up so high.”
Max chuckles under his breath, then crouches and lowers Micah gently into his chair. I rush forward, automatically adjusting his head, his arms, his legs, until everything is in its place.
“Can you slide his bottom back a little more?” I ask, frowning when Micah’s head doesn’t sit where it should.
“Got it,” Max murmurs, shifting carefully until Micah is exactly right.
“Perfect,” I sigh. “Thank you so much.”
