Chapter 5 Isaiah #2
“No. It means”—Draven returned his pistol to his boot—“that this guy is setting us up. Again. He’s positioning us to take the fall for killing a Warrior. It means he’s hoping Tucker will solve his problem and take us out before we discover his identity.”
Dash pinched the bridge of his nose. “This actually might work to our advantage. Let’s see what kind of traction the Warriors get finding him. Because right now, we’re stuck.”
“Be careful,” Draven repeated. “Let’s get back to work.”
We all nodded, then broke apart. But I didn’t go back to my oil change. I ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, to check on Genevieve.
The door was locked. “Genevieve, it’s me.”
Footsteps came running. The door flew open and she peered over my shoulder to the parking lot. “Are they gone?”
“Yeah.” I nudged her into the apartment, closing the door behind me.
It didn’t take more than two minutes for me to rattle off everything that had happened.
“So everyone knows the kidnapper and Mom’s killer is still out there?” She closed her eyes. “Thank God. I’ve been worried about Bryce.”
“No more grocery store trips alone, okay?” Dash wouldn’t let Bryce out of his sight. I’d be sticking close to Genevieve too.
“Okay—no, wait. Shit. I got a job today.”
“You did?”
She nodded. “Jim, Draven’s lawyer, called me. I don’t know what Draven told him but he offered me a job without an interview or anything. I start Monday.”
“Great news.”
“It’s going to make it harder to not be alone. I won’t have Bryce’s flexibility on office hours.”
Bryce was part owner of the newspaper and worked with her father, the editor in chief. She didn’t have to be at the paper to write. And Dash, unlike me, wasn’t tied to a punch card. Those two could come and go as they needed.
“It would be easier if I could stay here all day, but I need this job,” she said. “Until I sell my condo in Denver, I can’t afford not to work.”
At some point, we’d have to discuss how we were going to handle money, not that I had much to share. But today wasn’t the day to divide utility and grocery bills. “We’ll figure it out,” I promised.
Maybe I’d follow her to and from work every day. I could check in with her more often. Whatever it takes.
I’d do everything in my power to keep her safe until we woke from this nightmare.
But damn, it would help if we knew who we were fighting.
The night after the Warriors visited the garage, I barely slept. Too many worst-case scenarios plagued my mind. I woke up stiff, sore and restless.
The couch was comfortable enough for an hour or two watching TV, but after seven hours of tossing and turning, I could pinpoint where the frame’s boards had worn down the cushion stuffing and where the seats sagged from use.
Genevieve had the bed and I wouldn’t take it from her, but the floor was mighty tempting.
Normally, my Saturday mornings were spent lazing around. I’d spend the morning in bed, catching up on sleep. I’d drink an entire pot of coffee while channel surfing. I wouldn’t bother getting dressed.
Except Genevieve was in my bed, and she probably wouldn’t appreciate me walking around in only my boxers.
So what the hell was I supposed to do on Saturdays now? Were we supposed to spend the day together?
We’d done okay in short bursts of conversation this week, but tension was rife in the apartment.
We ate dinner together, both of us doing our best to chew without noise.
I’d stifled numerous moans of pleasure as I’d devoured a few of her cookies.
We danced around who would use the bathroom first. And when the lights were off, neither of us dared make a move in our beds.
That was only for a few hours each evening.
An entire day was daunting, and the shop downstairs called my name.
I stood from the couch, stretching my aching back, then walked to the bathroom for a shower. When I came out, Genevieve was pretending to be asleep like she did each morning.
Her breathing was faster than it was at night. Her face muscles were taut. And her eyes stirred behind her eyelids. Still, I was grateful when she nuzzled deeper into the pillow.
It gave me a chance to escape the apartment without the fear of making eye contact or accidentally brushing up against her in the kitchen.
Come Monday morning, there’d be no escape. We’d have to figure out a morning routine to get us both to work on time.
But not today.
I wouldn’t leave Genevieve alone, but that didn’t mean I had to stay in the apartment.
While I’d been in the shower, I’d brewed a pot of coffee. With a steaming mug in hand, I went to the garage and unlocked the shop door with my key. I hit the code to deactivate the alarm, then flipped on all the lights.
The smell of grease and metal filled my nose. The air was stale from the night, so I walked to a panel on the wall to open up the first bay door, letting in some fresh air.
The natural light glinted off the tools hanging on the wall.
I inhaled a deep breath of the morning breeze, closing my eyes and letting it spread through my lungs.
Most people in Montana took for granted the abundance of clean air.
Then again, most people in Montana hadn’t spent three years in prison.
I set my coffee mug on a workbench and walked to my bike parked outside. I released the kickstand and pushed it into the garage.
I’d been fixing up this Harley since I’d bought it over a month ago. It was ten years old and the previous owner hadn’t treated it with much respect, more like a dirt bike than road bike. But the price had been reasonable, and the machine had potential.
After weeks of tinkering on it in my spare time, it was almost good as new. A few more adjustments and it would fit me perfectly. Leo had promised me one of his famous paint jobs once everything was as I wanted it.
Since I had an entire Saturday to burn, I got to work.
Lost in the machine, I didn’t hear Genevieve enter the garage until she cleared her throat behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder, and my eyes forgot their manners. They tracked her from top to bottom in a perusal that stirred feelings—and body parts—that had been dormant for a long, long time.
It was her legs. My God, she had sexy legs.
She was wearing white shorts cut close to the apex of her thighs.
The bright cotton was a stark contrast to what seemed like miles of tan skin.
Her tee was a pale sage green with a neckline that dipped low enough to make my mouth water.
Her hair, floating over her shoulders in chocolate waves, didn’t do a good job at hiding her nipples, which were peaking through her bra and shirt.
“Um . . . hi.” She pulled her hair over her breasts.
My eyes snapped to hers, catching the flush of her cheeks, before I turned to the bike and hung my head. Fuck. The tension between us was only going to get worse if I drooled over her every day. “Sorry.”
“No apologies, remember?”
I nodded and stood, and this time when I gave her my attention, I kept my eyes on her face. It wasn’t much easier to keep my body’s reaction to her in check with the glossy sheen she’d swiped on her lips. “What’s up?”
“The moving truck is almost here with my boxes.” She waved her phone. “They just called.”
Not almost. They were here. A large delivery van pulled into the parking lot. I waved them in as they backed up toward the stairs. Then we spent the next two hours hauling boxes into the apartment.
When we’d first opened the van, I’d made the mistake of thinking Genevieve hadn’t sent much stuff from Colorado. But now that the boxes were piled and crammed into the apartment, I realized just how small the space was.
“Thank you.” She swiped a bead of sweat from her brow. “That would have taken me forever alone.”
The van drivers hadn’t lifted a damn finger as she’d hauled box after box upstairs. Or as I’d hefted two at a time. They’d been hired to drive, not move. That hadn’t stopped them from gawking at her legs each time she’d come down the stairs. Fuckers.
“I’m going to go down and lock up the shop. Then I’ll help you unpack.” Though there was no way all that stuff would fit. We’d be tripping over boxes for a year.
“Oh, that’s okay. I can do it myself.”
She’d given me an out. I could get the hell out of here and avoid her for a few more hours, but there was no way I’d be able to focus on my bike knowing she was working her ass off alone.
“We’re going to have to learn to stay in the same space at some point. Maybe even get comfortable with one another to the point where we don’t pretend to be asleep when the other one is awake.”
She winced. “Noticed that, did you?”
“We’re married. Or pretending to be. We expect people to treat us like a married couple, so . . .”
She sighed. “I guess we’d better learn to act like it.”
“Yeah.” Starting with a Saturday of unboxing.
It took me a few minutes to lock the shop. When I returned, Genevieve had a chocolate chip cookie in her mouth and one on a napkin she’d set aside for me.
I ate it in two bites. “Good cookie.”
“Thanks.” She went to the plate where they were stacked, taking out two more from underneath the plastic wrap.
“Where do we start?” I asked before inhaling the second cookie.
“Most of these are clothes. How about the closet?”
“Let me clear some space.” I didn’t have much, just a few button-down shirts and my nice pair of jeans. I hauled them off the hanging rod so she could have the entire thing.
“What about you?”
I shrugged. “I’ll fold these and put them in a drawer. You take the closet.”
Today, we’d get her moved in so she wasn’t living out of the suitcases in the corner. And after today, maybe it would sink in.
This wasn’t temporary. I lived with Genevieve. I was married to Genevieve. There was no sense mourning a single life or my own space. The reality was, we were in this together.
I finished another cookie, then dug out a pair of scissors from a drawer in the kitchen. I picked one box marked shoes—safe enough—and cut open the tape. The box was full of Genevieve’s bras and panties.
An image of her wearing the bra on top popped into my head. It was pale pink lace without padding. Her nipples would show through.
My mouth went dry.
“What’s that one?” She came to my side and peered into the box. “Oh.”
I shook my head, forcing the mental picture aside, and cleared my throat. “According to the label, shoes.”
“Not shoes.” She giggled, covering her mouth with a hand as her cheeks turned pink.
Her laughter gave life to the apartment. So did the cookies. Maybe this place would feel like a home with Genevieve here, not a box that bore an uncanny resemblance to a prison cell, minus the bars.
Genevieve swiped the underwear box away and kicked it toward her suitcase.
Then we opened the next box in the stack, this time finding shoes.
She put things away as I opened and collapsed boxes.
I ate five more cookies as she did her best to shove her wardrobe into the closet.
There were ten boxes to go but the rod was crammed full.
“This is a pitiful excuse for a closet.” She frowned. “But it’ll do for now. At least I have clothes to wear at work this coming week. I’ll have to get a rolling rack or something. Is Prime a thing in Montana?”
“My mom uses it all the time.”
“Your mom lives here?” Her jaw dropped. “In Clifton Forge?”
“No, in Bozeman. That’s where I grew up.”
“Oh. Does she”—her hand flung between us like a ping-pong ball—“know about us?”
“Not yet.” And I wasn’t telling her anytime soon. “What’s next?”
Genevieve didn’t seem to mind that I shut down discussion of my mother.
She scanned the boxes, her gaze landing on a set of plastic totes stacked in front of the couch.
“Most of the stuff in those tubs was from Mom’s house.
Pictures and mementos. She loved taking pictures, but that was before the digital age, so they’re all prints. ”
Her voice broke. The pain she hid so well most days swallowed her up. The anger she clung to fell away and her eyes flooded. With everything that had happened, I’d forgotten she’d just lost her mom—her only real parent.
“Would you mind if I put up a picture of her?” Genevieve asked, blinking away the tears.
“Not at all.”
She went to the couch and sat on the edge, dragging a tub closer. As she opened the lid, curiosity got the better of me and I joined her on the seat. Her frame crumpled as she reached in for the photo on top.
“That’s her?” I asked, looking at a picture of two smiles. I’d seen Amina’s picture in the newspaper after her murder, but she was much younger in this one. Genevieve sat on her lap, laughing as Amina held her daughter close. “She’s beautiful.”
“She was.” Her fingers skimmed her mother’s face. “She would have hated this for me.”
It was the brutal reality.
My mother would hate this for me too.
I stretched into the tub, reaching for a bundle of pictures wrapped in a rubber band. But as I leaned in, Genevieve did too. Our arms brushed, the heat from her smooth skin radiating across mine. A zing reverberated through my chest, hot like the spark of metal grinding on metal.
“Sorry.” We both turned to apologize. Our noses brushed.
My gaze dropped to those glossy lips. All I had to do was lean in a fraction of an inch and capture them. One fast spin and I’d have her beneath me on the couch, her breasts heaving against my chest.
The desire to kiss her sent me reeling backward, scrambling off the couch for the kitchen. I grabbed another cookie from the plate and shoved the entire thing in my mouth.
The only sweetness of hers I’d have on my lips would be from these cookies.
I didn’t get to kiss Genevieve. I didn’t deserve that kind of beauty.
Not after all the ugly I’d caused.