Page 32 of The Vagabond

MAXINE

I don’t think Saxon North would lie to me. I really don’t. And yeah, I know how that sounds. Crazy. Na?ve. Borderline delusional. But still—something in my gut insists on this one thing - he wouldn't lie. Not to me.

Omit? Absolutely. Conceal things behind those cold, heavy silences of his?

No doubt. But straight-up lie? No. That doesn’t feel like him.

It’s not his style. Saxon doesn’t bother with manipulation.

He’s a sledgehammer, not a scalpel. If he wants to cut you open, he does it with truth. Brutal, bleeding, unvarnished truth.

So when he looked me in the eye and told me he found a vial in my apartment—tucked away like a silent promise—I believed him. No hesitation. No questions. Because somewhere deep in my marrow, a part of me already knew.

And ever since, I’ve been treating Zack like he’s contagious.

Avoiding him. Dodging his messages. Blocking his number like it might somehow cleanse my phone of everything he’s touched.

Only to unblock it again five hours later because guilt’s a stubborn bitch, and part of me still clings to the idea that maybe—just maybe—I’d imagined it all.

That Saxon got it wrong. That Zack was still the guy who listened to my every word and didn’t push when I wasn’t ready to take our relationship further.

Knowing what Zack is capable of twists everything inside of me. The knowledge scrapes at a raw, feral edge deep in my chest — a part of me that doesn’t care about logic or kindness or history. A part that just knows: I’m prey, and he’s the predator I was foolish enough to mistake for a friend.

So I start staying later at work. Picking up extra shifts at the coffee shop just to avoid going home. I tell myself I need the cash, but that’s a lie I can stomach.

The real reason? I don’t want to be alone. Because if he comes back… I don’t trust myself not to let him in.

And still, Zack has been relentless.

Sweet texts at odd hours.

“Just checking in :)”

“Miss your face.”

Sad puppy-eye glances from across the street. Like I’m the one doing the hurting.

He even started showing up at the café again—ordering the same drink he always does, acting like there’s still something soft and unbroken between us. But there’s not. There never was. Whatever existed between me and Zack? It wasn’t real. It was bait.

I know there’ll come a time I’ll have to face it. To face him. But the part of me that’s still raw and cracked and stitched together with trauma hates confrontation. So I stall. I deflect. I procrastinate like it’s an Olympic sport.

But tonight? Tonight, the universe decides I’ve run out of rope.

It’s closing time. The last of the customers have trickled out, and I’m wiping down the counters, trying to pretend the knots in my stomach are not from dread, because tonight, I’m the last one leaving the coffee shop and I’m on my own.

When I lock the door behind me and step out into the night, I know immediately.

He’s waiting. Because I feel someone else’s presence near me.

Zack leans against the brick wall across the street, one foot propped up behind him like this is a goddamn rom-com. His arms are folded. His head tilts like he thinks he's still charming. But there’s something coiled beneath his posture—something that makes my skin crawl.

He straightens when he sees me, flashing that easy smile. The one that used to make me feel seen. Now it just makes me want to run the other way.

“Thought I’d walk you home,” he says.

My fingers curl tight around the strap of my bag. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.” His voice is soft, persuasive.

I nod once. Careful. Measured. Neutral enough not to raise suspicion, but not so detached that it makes him curious. Because I can’t afford to misstep. Not with the night folding in around us like a noose and no one close enough to hear me if I scream.

The air is cold—knife-edged and creeping—and there’s something about this moment that feels off-script. Like we’ve left behind the version of Zack I used to know and stepped into something uncharted. Something predatory.

So I don’t push. Not until I’ve figured out exactly what kind of monster I’m dealing with.

Because maybe he’s just a man playing a part.

Or maybe he’s the kind that smiles while he’s deciding how to hurt you.

And until I know for sure, I won’t give him a reason to hurt me.

No sudden moves. Just enough polite tension to keep things from snapping.

I need a better hand to play. I need backup. Saxon. I reach for anything other than the growing certainty that I’ve wandered into a cage and handed the key to the wrong person. Saxon was right all along; I wasn’t made for this cruel world .

I let my smile sit on my lips like a disguise. Neutral. Fake. And I pray he doesn’t hear the thud of my heartbeat giving me away as he falls into step beside me.

The night is cool, the scent of ground coffee beans still clinging to my clothes.

Zack walks too close. Close enough that his shoulder brushes mine when I try to keep a respectable distance between us.

I can smell his cologne—expensive, sharp, with an undercurrent I hadn’t noticed before.

Something dark that lingers, impossible to hide, even under layers of fabric.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, casually. But his tone is off. Light, but weighted. Like a piano wire stretched too tight, about to snap.

“Been busy,” I mumble.

He hums, not buying it. “Avoiding me.”

I don’t answer. I don’t look at him. I keep walking. The silence thickens. It drapes over us like smoke, suffocating and waiting to catch fire.

“You ever going to tell me what’s going on?” he finally asks, sighing in resignation. “I thought we were getting along pretty well.”

That nearly breaks me. Getting along? He was going to drug me. Take advantage of me like so many others before him. And now he’s standing here, talking like we were on the cusp of love instead of fucking betrayal.

“Not tonight,” I say quietly. “I’m tired.”

He laughs, one sharp breath of disbelief. “Tired.”

We reach my building. I pause at the foot of the stairs, praying he takes the hint.

“I should get some sleep.”

He lingers. Watches me. There’s something calculating in his eyes—like he’s trying to decide if I’m lying, or if I’m just weak enough to fold.

“Of course,” he says finally. “Sleep well, Max. ”

He turns, pulling out his phone. But something about the way his thumb flicks across the screen makes my instincts scream. He lifts the device to his ear, murmurs something I can’t hear, and takes a few steps away.

That’s when I hear the shuffle of shoes behind me. I turn sharply. Two men in dark suits stand on the stoop of my building. Eyes sharp. Clean-shaven in that way that practically screams Federal Agent.

“Maxine Andrade?” the taller one asks.

I stiffen. My fingers wrap around my keys like a makeshift weapon.

“Who’s asking?”

The shorter one lifts a badge. “FBI. We’d like a word.”

My blood goes cold. My breath hitches. I glance back, and see Zack melting into the shadows as he walks away.

“About?” I ask tightly.

“We’d prefer to have this conversation inside.”

“Do you have a warrant?” They exchange curious glances. “You can’t enter my home unless you have a warrant.”

That’s when Zack returns—reappearing beside me like a bad omen. He eyes the men suspiciously, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

“Maxine, everything okay?” he asks.

The badge is flashed again, more for show than anything else. “Private matter.”

“She’s not going anywhere with you,” Zack says, stepping forward.

And suddenly I don’t know who I’m more afraid of—the two men in front of me, or the one beside me.

“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “They were just leaving.”

The shorter Fed frowns. The taller one shifts, half a step closer.

“We’re with a Federal task force. We need to talk to you. ”

My stomach drops. My heart pounds.

“What do they want, Maxine?”

I ignore Zack’s question and direct my attention to the two Feds waiting expectantly in front of me. “I can’t help you,” I whisper. “Please leave me alone.”

“We can protect you,” one of them offers, as if that’s some magic spell that’ll change everything.

“Who says I need protection?” My voice cracks at the end, and I hate that they hear it. “Just leave me alone.”

The agents look between themselves, and then at Zack. And just like that, without another word, they disappear into the night.

“What did they want?”

I offer him a small shrug. “Damned if I know.”

Zack exhales, unconvinced I’m being honest. “Maybe you shouldn’t stay here tonight. In case they come back.”

“I’ll be fine,” I lie. Inside, my heart trembles.

He studies me, like he knows I’m full of shit. But he doesn’t press. Just gives me a tight nod and turns, walking off into the dark.

I don’t move until he’s out of sight. Not even a breath.

Then I fumble with my phone. My hands are shaking. I stare at Saxon’s name for half a second before I hit call.

He picks up on the first ring.

“Max?”

“The Feds were just here,” I whisper. “I think they’ll be back.”

A long silence travels down the line, heavy and cold.

“Are you okay?”

“They wanted my help. Just like you said.”

“Maxine…” His voice is steel now. Lethal. “Do not give them anything. If the Aviary even thinks you’re cooperating, they’ll come for you. ”

“I know.”

“Are you safe? Where are you?”

“I’m outside my apartment. Zack was here; I think he spooked them.”

“Why was Zack there?” He asks me, and I can just see the crease between his eyes.

“That’s irrelevant, Saxon. He’s gone now.”

“I’m coming,” he says, no room for argument. “Wait for me inside. You hear me?”

“I hear you.”

I hang up. For a moment, I just stand there, lungs dragging in the cold night air like it might steady the war inside my chest. It doesn’t.

I press my back to the door, hands clenched, eyes locked on the street. Waiting.

For the one man I shouldn’t need. The one I pretend I don’t wait for. The one I know — deep down, raw and unspoken — is the one who’ll come in a heartbeat. Not to save me or hold me. But to tear this city apart, bone by bone, and leave it burning at my feet.