Hi everyone!

So here's the weekly update! It's an okay chapter. I don't hate it, but I don't love it.

But I've loved the reviews and follows and favorites I've been getting! I really appreciate all of them, even the two worded ones. Everything helps motivate me and make me feel good about my writing, so thanks to everybody that reviews or favorites or follows.

Other than that, I have nothing to say. The next chapter should be up next weekend.

Read and review!

"Shit," she repeats again after a moment. She runs a hand through her hair, pushing the loose strands out of her face. Yes, she wanted to get drunk last night, and she's pretty sure she completed the task based on how little she remembers and the pounding in her head, but she never thought she's get drunk enough to go home with Fang.

Fang just looks at her for a second, obviously trying to understand what was running through Max's head at the moment. When he fails, he just ends up asking, "What?"

Breathing out a sigh, Max shakes her head, only to groan when that makes her headache worse. "I knew I was going to do something stupid when I decided to go to the bar last night, but I didn't think I'd do someone like you."

Fang is automatically taken aback. "You think we hooked up last night?"

Max just nods. Talking was too loud.

"Max, look at yourself. You're still fully clothed. For God's sake, you still have your shoes on."

Her eyes finally break away from Fang's so she can take in her own appearance. He was right, all of her clothes were still on, just a little disheveled from the time she had spent asleep. Even her combat boots were still on, even though the lace was nearly falling out of the right one. Ignoring the urge to bend down and fix it, she brings her eyes back up to Fang. Even if they hadn't slept together, nothing about her morning is making any sense.

"Then why did I wake up in your bed?"

Fang sighs but answers anyways. "I took you home when you got a little too drunk last night. You were about to go home with some guy when I got there."

It takes a second, but the last night starts to come back to Max. She remembers crying, sleeping, and then going to the bar. She definitely remembers her first few drinks, and then things start to get hazy. She had started to talk to some guy, Seth or Sam or something along those lines, but Fang had interrupted as if he thought he was some sort of hero or something.

In a minute, Max's disorientation is replaced with anger.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" she spits, ignoring the pounding of her head and the warning her stomach is trying to give her.

Fang takes a step backwards, his eyes widening in bewilderment. "What are you talking about?"

Seething, Max hisses, "I am an adult! I know how to handle my alcohol!"

Still confused, Fang says, "You were about to go home with some guy while you obviously weren't in the frame of mind to make decisions like that!"

Max snorts at that. "I wasn't about to pass out, and I knew what I was doing when I started drinking! If I went home with him, it was because I wanted to!"

Fang begins to splutter, but Max continues to spit out her words, "You are not a hero, Fang. All that you rescued me from was an awkward morning with a stranger."

While Fang stands there, speechless, Max begins to move towards the door. Her head is still pounding, but she's much too proud to ask for aspirin or coffee.

Her fingers are grasping the doorknob when Fang finally gathers his wits and speaks up. "Max, come on!" he says, turning and trying to catch up with the fuming woman. "I'm sorry!"

Max pauses. The apology had surprised her. Fang did not seem like the type of guy who would apologize for anything, especially when he thought what he had done was justified. That thought was what made the idea of him begging for forgiveness so appealing.

She waits just long enough for him to reach her. He lightly places a hand on her shoulder, although he drops it when she flinches. "Max, I'm seriously sorry," he says, his voice not quite apologetic, but not emotionless or smug like usual. "I thought I was being a good guy."

Humorlessly, Max snorts. "No, you were being a dad."

"And I'm sorry."

Deciding that forgiving him would be easier, Max releases her hold on the doorknob. She has to forgive him if she wants to keep breathing. There is no way in hell she is taking Jeb down alone, and nobody other than Fang is willing to take the job. Nobody is crazy enough.

"Fine."

With that said, she turns and stalks back into the room. Without looking back at her companion, she asks, "Where can I get an aspirin? And a cup of coffee?"

MAXIMUM RIDE

The two end up seated at Fang's kitchen table. It matched the rest of the décor of Fang's apartment: white and I-asked-for-generic-at-Ikea. Coffee is brewing, and Max had downed a few aspirins, which calmed her down and helped her headache. What she really wants is her painkillers, but she took two yesterday, and she's just messed up, not suicidal. Taking too many will hurt her. And she doesn't want that. Not yet, at least.

Now that she's calmed down enough for the fury to simmer down, she can think properly. And thinking properly has only led her to confusion. Because as soon as she had been able to think straight, she had realized there was a strange feeling pumping through her chest. It was warm and made her want to hug something, which was strange and unwelcome.

And it scared the shit out of her.

It's too similar to what she felt for him but it can't be the same because nobody is like that man. Well, she hopes nobody is like that man.

But it can't be the same, because there's no way in hell that it's love. All of her love is stale and useless by now. She had harvested it all up inside of her, too afraid to ever give it away. There's no way she was feeling it now.

So she dismisses it entirely, and decides to pay no attention to the feeling at all. She'll allow it to become a dull throb in her chest that means nothing to her. After all, she did the same with the pain that plagued her after what happened. She just stopped paying attention to it, and now it barely registers at all.

"How do you like your coffee?" Fang asks, stunning Max from her thoughts.

"Black."

A second later, a steaming cup of coffee is placed in front of Max. Ignoring the way it burns her hands through the mug, Max takes a long sip. It was hot and helped rid her of the nauseous feeling in her stomach.

Fang sits across from her, an identical mug in his hands. Neither of them knows what to say, so silence ends up speaking. But it's still comfortable.

It should feel awkward. After all, Max just woke up in his bed, yelled at him, and then almost stormed out of the apartment. But it was comfortable. It felt like she had known him for a long time, and they had spent many mornings just like this, sipping coffee in silence. It shouldn't be like that. She should've left after she had yelled at him. Now, she wants to ask for another cup and stay longer.

That isn't a good idea. Just because she's going to be working with this man, doesn't mean she should trust him. After all, it is still her job to kill him. And he might still want to protect himself and kill her. But she still feels trust surging through her veins when she looks at him. And she wishes desperately that she could banish it, but she can't. She's beginning to actually like this man, even if he is a major asshole.

"I should probably get going," Max says after she's finished her coffee. Reluctantly, she stands and places her empty mug in the sink.

Fang nods, ignoring the urge to protest. That urge shouldn't even be there in the first place. He shouldn't want her to stay unless they were going to get actual work done, which didn't seem to be the case for today. So why is there a voice in his head whispering for him to stop her from leaving?

Fang just sits there while Max walks out of the apartment. When the door slams, signaling Max's departure, he nearly flinches. After a minute, he just takes the last sip of coffee, places his mug next to hers in the sink, and sits back down at the table.

He wants to chase her down the hallway and ask her to stay. He wants to talk to her, which is possibly the strangest thing for Fang to want, considering talking is one of his least favorite things. He just wants to be with her.

Sighing, he dismisses the thoughts and lets his head fall into his hands.

MAXIMUM RIDE

She's crazy. Absolutely insane. Positively senseless. What the hell was she thinking?

Why had she sat in Fang's apartment, sipping coffee and looking into his eyes as if they were a goddamn married couple? Why hadn't she just left? Why hadn't she wanted to leave?

She's sitting in her house, raging silently to herself. All of the sadness inside of her that had built up from hearing her name had mutated into anger. She wants to hit something. Without a thought, she slams her hand into the table. Satisfaction runs through her when she hears a crack and some of her pent up anger is released.

She wants to do something to take her mind off of her feelings, but planning to kill Jeb feels too morbid, drinking is definitely off the table, and she has no other ideas besides those two things. A little pathetic, really.

After a minute of thought, she decides to go out to her shooting range and try to distract herself. It might not work as well as the painkillers do, but at the moment, the only thing the painkillers could do would be relieving her headache. She wouldn't forget about her past for a few hours, she'd simply get rid of the pounding in her skull. And why would she waste the pills if all they'd do was their job?

So she just stalks to her backyard and grabs her bow.

The dirt is packed into a clear path when she steps outside. There is a patch of dying grass, which Max turns away from as soon as it catches her eye. It's the last of the grass he had planted with her. She wants it gone.

The smooth feel of her bow is comfortable, and she embraces the tranquility it gives to her. This is normal for her, unlike waking up in a man's apartment. Although, for the first few weeks after it happened she slept with every man that moved and bought her a drink; which was more men than she'd like to admit. She had wanted to rid herself of the feel of him. Any other man's hands would do, as long as they didn't resemble his. She slept with anything different than him.

With a sigh, she releases the arrow, and watches it bury itself in the center of the target. Welcoming the peace that flows through her, she shoots two more in succession. They land less than a centimeter to the left and right to the first, making her smile.

The headache is fading, and she can now walk without feeling her stomach turn. Her skull no longer feels like her brain is bouncing back and forth between it.

She goes to her punching bag next, where she goes when even the painkillers don't make her feel numb. She can lose herself here; bring out all the pain on the heavy, black bag.

Kicks and punches and elbows and knees fly at the material, stinging her skin enough to make it red. But she doesn't care. She doesn't even notice, really. It is making the feeling in her chest fade until she can only focus on the sound of her skin hitting the surface of the punching bag.

She hits her stopping point after sweat is dripping down her skin, staining her shirt, and her body aches. Her fingers feel odd when she stretches them, as they had been curled into fists for hours. Massaging them, she reenters her house and pulls on a simple pair of leggings and a sweatshirt that was given to her by him. Usually, she would throw it away with disgust, but today she couldn't care less. She wants to forget; to sleep; to do anything but think.

Her slow breathing gently reminds her how tired she is when she sits on her couch. For a second, she finds herself comparing it to Fang's bed, and how much more comfy his bed is. It was warmer and softer, and didn't smell like the whiskey she had spilt on it the other day.

She shakes her head. She doesn't need to think about Fang right now. When she does, the weird, warm feeling returns to her chest. She's beginning to both hate and become accustomed to it. It had been years since she had felt it for real, and now here it is, appearing out of the blue for someone that she is supposed to kill.

No, she's just eager to give it away. That's what it is. That has to be what it is. She can't really feel anything, much less what she felt for him, towards the man she formally met a day ago. It's impossible.

Yet, here she is again, thinking about it. What the hell is she doing? This is slowly becoming pitiful. She is becoming pitiful. It's like she is a teenager with a crush, and it's getting so that it's running her life.

Maybe she should just sleep. Maybe she should get that bottle of vodka from her kitchen. Maybe she should take a few painkillers. She runs through options in her head, dismissing them as quickly as they come. One seems too foolish while another just doesn't feel right. She wants to do something but everything feels wrong.

There was a time she lived without a single regret. Where did that go? Why is she so different now?

There seems to be a lot more questions than answers for Max, so she lies down in order to go to sleep like she always does when life becomes overwhelming. Usually it's just a simple mechanism in order to stay alert (a tired person can't watch their back well), but when her brain goes haywire like this, it's helpful to stay sane.

Sleep doesn't come, of course. Her eyelids would begin to weigh her down, but they would refuse to close after a moment of complete exhaustion. After what seemed like a lifetime of this cycle, Max shrieks in frustration.

"I just want to sleep!" she screams at her empty house. "Why can't I sleep?" she falls back to the couch after a moment, burying her face in her hands. She feels broken. She feels abnormal, and scared, and all of the events of the past day finally crash down on her.

If she doesn't succeed, she will be hunted down by her past friends. The man that had been like a father to her would try to kill her. So she has to kill him, right? She has no idea. She feels hopeless and confused and lost. The warm feeling would be better than this, she decides, and picks up her phone.

There are countless numbers in it, including past clients, assassins that she had worked with in the past, Jeb, and finally she gets to the one she wants. Fang.

It rings three times before he picks up. "Max?"

She bites her lip. Why did she call him? Was it because she had been freaking out? Even then, why is he the one she turns to for help? Usually, she'd just go to the bar and watch all of the people scramble to get laid, which she finds slightly entertaining and hilarious.

So why did she call Fang?

"Yea," she replies after a moment. "Uh, I just think we should actually get some work done," she stammers, stumbling over her own words. God, she sounds like a stupid teenager. What happened to her?

"Yea," Fang says, sounding surprised that Max had called. "Do you want to come over? We could plan over here. You know, actually get some work done instead of yelling at each other."

I want that, she realizes as shock coats her senses. Why does she want that? Why does she have so many damn unanswered questions? "Yea, I guess that works," she answers after a full moment of the battle within. She has calmed herself enough to speak smoothly, and she kind of sounds like her old self again.

"Alright, come on over," Fang says, hanging up not a second later. It is simple for him; he just decides and moves on. Like Max used to.

She stops herself from screaming at the empty house before clicking her phone off and beginning to walk.

She should not want to see Fang right now, but she does.

Oh, and there's that warm feeling.

Great.