Chapter 4 Genevieve
GENEVIEVE
“I’d like to talk to you.” Draven didn’t ask, he demanded.
I squared my shoulders and jutted my chin. Call it years missed of daughter-to-father defiance, but he wasn’t going to order me around.
He held my stare for a long moment, then his face softened. Was he cracking a smile?
“Is something funny?” I snapped.
“You’ve got steel, girl.”
No, I had pain.
And at the moment, I was desperately trying to keep from adding more to the pile. I was clinging to this calm, collected facade, hoping it would keep people at arm’s length. Because if one more person hurt me, I might crumble to pieces.
“What would you like to talk about?” I held my expression neutral. “Because if it’s about me and Isaiah, that is none of your business.”
He frowned.
I doubted many people told Draven to mind his own business. If not for the rage burning in my veins, I wouldn’t have had the guts to stand up to a man who held himself with such unwavering confidence and command.
Every movement he made appeared deliberate. He didn’t fidget with his fingers, and his eyes didn’t wander. Except there was something different about how he stood with me as opposed to the others. He seemed . . . nervous. His anxiety clung to the air.
If I wanted the upper hand, it was mine to take. Only, I needed him. I had questions and he was the man with answers.
“Ten minutes,” he said. “Please.”
“Fine,” I muttered, then turned to Bryce. “I’ll take you up on that coffee any time you’re free.”
“That would be great.” She put her hand on my arm for a brief moment, then left me and Draven alone. She was about five steps away when she stopped and glanced back. “Congratulations on your marriage.”
I smiled. “Congratulations to you too.”
When she rejoined Dash, he cast Draven and me a flat glare, then dismissed us completely to escort Bryce to the office.
Isaiah’s gaze met mine from across the room. His was full of silent concern.
I gave him a small shrug, then braced to address Draven. “Do you want to talk here?”
“Let’s go outside.” He held out a hand toward the parking lot.
I nodded, crossing my arms over my chest as I followed him into the sunshine and around the back of the garage.
The field behind the shop was a graveyard for old car parts. They littered the ground, from the exterior wall of the garage to the fence that bordered the property in the distance. The field had the potential to be a nice space, if not for the overgrown grass and abundance of rusted metal.
Draven led me to a wide cement pad with two picnic tables and a barbeque grill draped with a black cover.
I glanced around before taking a seat. Past the garage, at the end of the parking lot, there was a dark, ominous building situated in a grove of trees.
The windows were boarded up and the doors were locked with a thick chain and padlock.
All it was missing was a neon sign on the roof that blinked Keep Out.
“That’s the clubhouse.”
“Okay.” Was “clubhouse” supposed to mean something to me?
He took a seat across from me, resting his elbows on the table’s smooth wooden surface. “How much do you know about me?”
“Next to nothing. Bryce says you’re my father. I’m inclined to believe her, but I’d like a paternity test.”
He winced.
A paternity test? Where had that come from?
The thought hadn’t occurred to me until now, but I wanted that test regardless.
It would crush my heart into tiny pieces if Draven wasn’t my father.
Not because I’d grown fond of him in particular, but because if he wasn’t, I’d never find my real father now that Mom was gone.
“I’ll set it up,” he promised. “What else?”
“There’s not much else. I came home from work one day this summer to a cop car parked in my driveway. The officer told me that my mother had been murdered in Clifton Forge, Montana.”
The words came out in a dull, numb stream. I didn’t want to think about how many tears I’d cried that day. How my heart had broken at the officer’s words. So I stayed the robot, spewing details like I was talking about someone else’s life, not my own.
“I planned her service,” I said. “I made sure she was buried in the plot here where she’d asked to be laid to rest. Then I got in touch with the chief of police.”
“Marcus.”
“Yes.” Though I called him Chief Wagner. “He told me what he could about the investigation, and that a man named Draven Slater had stabbed my mother seven times and left her to bleed out in a motel room alone.”
He gulped. “Oh.”
I was pulling no punches. “Bryce came to Denver to ask me some questions. We talked mostly about Mom because she said she wanted to write a memorial article about her.”
Was that true? I’d forgotten about the memorial until now. Bryce had seemed so genuine in her desire to give Mom closure. I’d latched onto that idea with an ironclad hold and told her all the wonderful things about my amazing mother.
That was before. Now I wasn’t so sure half of what I’d told Bryce was real.
Bryce had eaten cookies with me as I’d cried over Mom. She’d sat by my side and looked at the old photos and mementos I’d collected from Mom’s home before putting it on the market.
I hoped she’d been sincere.
Did I even want her to write that article for the paper? Not really. When we went for coffee, I’d ask her to delay the piece, assuming it had been real in the first place. Besides, would the people of Clifton Forge even care about a woman buried in the local cemetery?
Mom’s burial request had been a footnote in her last will and testament. She’d purchased the plot years ago.
I hadn’t known she had such a fondness for the town where she’d gone to high school. All my life, I’d thought of her in the context of Denver. Even after she’d moved to Bozeman for her job, in my mind, her home was in Colorado.
I’d visited her in Bozeman a few times. The town was fancier than Clifton Forge. It catered to tourists and college students, but it had suited Mom. She’d seemed happy.
So why had she come to Clifton Forge and ruined everything?
Before asking questions, I finished catching Draven up on my side of things so he had some context to provide me answers.
“I kept up with Chief Wagner,” I said. “I learned that you were released on bond and they hadn’t scheduled the trial yet.
He gave me the name of the prosecutor, who I talked to briefly before getting passed off to the victim witness advocate on the case.
Then, when I was ready, I flew to Montana because I wanted to visit Mom’s grave.
That didn’t work out so well for me, did it? ”
His shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry. You should know this is all my fault.”
“Oh, I do.” Whenever I needed to place blame, it landed on Mom and Draven.
His gaze met mine, begging for me to cut him a break.
No fucking way.
“Think I’d better start at the beginning.” He blew out a long breath. “I’ve known your mother since we were kids. Went to high school together. She was a year younger and best friends with my wife—my girlfriend at the time.”
My heart rate spiked. This was it. Now I’d find out why. Why me? Why Mom? Did I want to know? The way Draven spoke—his voice raw and his words dripping with sorrow—this would not be a cheerful tale.
I already knew the ending.
It was time to fill in the gaps and learn why Mom had been ripped away from me and why she’d lied to her daughter for twenty-something years.
“You good?” Draven asked.
I nodded. “Keep going.”
“After high school, Amina left town. Chrissy and I got married. Life went on and I didn’t think much of it when your mom and Chrissy lost touch for a while.
Then she came up to visit. Did it about once every summer.
Chrissy liked it. She loved showing off the boys and bragging about our kids to her friend. ”
“Wait. Boys?” My eyes bulged. I wasn’t aware Draven had other children besides Dash.
“I’ve got two sons. Dash is the youngest. Nick is the oldest. He lives in a town called Prescott about three hours away. You’ll meet him one day.”
Great. I didn’t need two brothers who hated me. “No rush.”
“Nick’s a good man.” Draven shot me a glare. “So is Dash. This is . . . you took them by surprise too. They’re adjusting.”
“Aren’t we all?” I deadpanned, then waved for him to keep talking.
He blew out a long breath. “Chrissy stayed home with the boys. I ran the garage, and I was the president of a motorcycle club.”
“Like Sons of Anarchy?”
“That fucking show,” he grumbled.
Was that a yes? I waited for further explanation, but he gave no indication he’d give me one. But the clubhouse made sense now. As did some of the information I’d gleaned from Chief Wagner when I’d asked about my mother’s murderer. The windows were boarded up because their club was no more.
“Didn’t your club break up?”
He nodded. “The Tin Kings disbanded about a year ago.”
“Why?”
“Reasons. Things I won’t get into with you.”
“More secrets.” I huffed, clenching my jaw tight. I was so goddamn sick of the secrets. Theirs and mine.
“I’m not telling you because I’m trying to hide it. Truth is, it’s not safe. The less you know, the better.”
“Safe?” I growled. “Two months ago I was safe. I had a good life and a mother who loved me. I hadn’t been . . .” I stopped and took a breath. “It’s too late for safe.”
“I’m so—”
“No.” He didn’t get to say he was fucking sorry. “Continue.”
“The club put a strain on my marriage. I loved Chrissy more than life. The boys too. But I . . . I lost myself. Chrissy and I hit a rough patch. Your mom was up for a visit, came to a party at the clubhouse and we—”
“Stop. Don’t say it.” If he said it out loud, I wouldn’t be able to forget the words.
These people were destroying my mom. They were tainting her good memory. My mom wouldn’t have partied with a motorcycle club. My mom wouldn’t have conceived a child in that filthy, rotten building. My mom wouldn’t have had sex with her best friend’s husband.
But she had.