Chapter 6
Jo-Leigh
***Four Years Later***
“Jo-Leigh Lewis.”
I can’t keep the smile off my face as I step onto the stage, heart pounding like it might burst. I cross to the center, reaching out to shake hands with the dean and then with one of my favorite professors, Dr. Blue, who always made space for my voice, even when I wasn’t sure I had one.
“Well done,” she says warmly, pulling me into a quick hug that catches me off guard.
I blink fast as she hands me the rolled-up piece of paper, the weight of it surprisingly solid in my hand.
I turn and smile for the camera—half posing, half stunned this is actually happening.
And as I exit the stage, I think I hear cheering. Armand maybe. Caroline passed away a few years ago after a short battle with cancer. Armand sold the restaurant and moved to California to be closer to his brothers. But he’s here today, for me.
The rest of the day is a blur. Dinner with Armand, who tells me how proud Caroline would have been.
Endless photos on campus, outside the restaurant, in front of a mural someone insisted was “very Columbia.” He squeezes me too tight.
Cries too easily. Makes me promise a dozen times that I’ll visit him in San Diego soon, because that’s what Caroline would have wanted.
And I will. Eventually. But the moment I’m alone in my dorm with my cap off and gown folded neatly in a bag I collapse onto the bed and break.
Tears spill before I even know they’re coming.
Four years of hard work, of survival, of becoming someone new and yet, here I am, still crying alone in the dark.
The last four years have been wonderful.
Truly. But I’ve never quite managed to shake the feeling that something was missing.
Or someone. And when that thought creeps in, so does Swag’s face.
He’s the reason I didn’t date. The reason I turned my head every time I heard a motorcycle.
The reason my heart still clenches when I hear a low, familiar rumble in the distance.
I thought I saw him once at MoMA of all places.
A glimpse across the gallery floor, just out of reach.
But when I turned to look again, whoever it was had disappeared. Like always.
That’s the only reason I can think of for why I open my laptop and send off the acceptance email. It’s the same reason I already applied for a license through the Louisiana State Board of Social Work Examiners. Took the exams. Passed.
In four days, I start my brand-new job. In Baton Rouge.
Will I be putting my degree to use? Yes. Will I be helping kids like the girl I used to be? Absolutely. Did I also take the job hoping fate might put him back in my path? Also yes.
It’s sad and pathetic, but it’s all I got. So, with a sigh, I start packing.
It’s hotter than shit when I land in Baton Rouge. The kind of heat that clings to your skin and makes every breath feel like soup.
No one’s waiting for me. And that’s okay. No one knows I’m here. I didn’t tell Armand. I didn’t want him to feel obligated to help me move when there’s nothing to move. Just one overstuffed duffel bag, a backpack, and a few stubborn dreams I haven’t managed to give up on.
When I left Louisiana four years ago, I sold my old car for a few hundred bucks.
Money I desperately needed at the time. But now?
It means I’m back in this heat, back in this city, without a vehicle.
Without much of anything except a degree, a job offer, and a quiet, stupid hope that maybe, just maybe, he’s still here.
That’s the real kicker. I don’t even know if he still lives in Baton Rouge.
I’ve tried to stalk him online—social media, local articles, forums—but came up completely empty-handed.
It’s like he’s a ghost. Like he never existed at all.
Maybe he moved. Maybe he’s halfway across the country.
Maybe this whole plan was just wishful thinking dressed up like fate.
And maybe my stay in Baton Rouge will be shorter than I thought.
I’m not sure where I’ll go if I have to move again. New York was fun, but it never felt like home. It was too big, too loud, and too much everything, really. Maybe I’ll go out West and give San Diego a try. I don’t know. But I don’t have to decide today.
I rent a small car at the airport and drive across town to the apartment complex where I’ll be staying.
It’s not in the best area. The paint’s peeling in places, and my neighbor’s got wind chimes made out of spoons.
But it’s what I can afford right now. And the best part?
The lease is only six months. If this doesn’t work out and if Baton Rouge turns out to be a dead end, I won’t be stuck. At least not for long.
The apartment comes furnished with a couch and a bed. It’s all I need.
I don’t waste time unpacking, not that there’s much to unpack, but I do inspect everything. Closely. Mattress. Couch cushions. Corners. Seams. Checking for signs of bedbugs.
My skin crawls just thinking about it.
One of my foster homes had bedbugs. No one believed me until it was too late and the whole place had to be fumigated. I still remember the itching. The way I’d lie awake all night, too scared to sleep.
It’s a habit I never really shook. Checking and double-checking. Making sure the space I’m in is safe, even if it’s only temporary.
This place passes inspection.
Barely.
I make a mental list of things I need from the store. Bedding. Groceries. Toiletries. Just the basics. Just enough to get by until I get my first paycheck.
Grabbing my keys, I lock up behind me and head down the stairs to my rental. The sun is already baking the pavement, and the inside of the car feels like an oven.
The nearest store is a small, family-owned chain tucked between a laundromat and a payday loan place.
Not fancy, but it’ll do. A little bell jingles overhead as I push open the door, cool air washing over me in a wave of blessed relief.
I take a deep breath. Air conditioning. Yes, please.
And then I freeze. Crap. Did I even check the AC in the apartment?
I don’t think I did. It was a little warm in there, but I was too distracted to notice.
Great. Guess that’s one more thing to add to the list.
Grabbing a shopping cart, I start weaving through the aisles, ticking items off my mental list as I go. Shampoo, toothpaste, a cheap set of sheets, canned soup, cereal.
I’m halfway down the breakfast aisle when I hear it. A loud laugh. Followed by a deeper one. Rough. Familiar. My heart stutters. I freeze, then push the cart forward, just enough to peek around the corner.
And stop dead.
Swag.
He’s standing a few feet away, head thrown back in laughter, one hand gripping the edge of the cart. Another man says something I can’t hear, and he laughs again.
But—
It’s not him.
It is , but it isn’t .
This version of him is different. He looks the same.
Tall, broad, dark hair shorn short. But the warmth I remember?
The subtle softness in his smile, the tired kindness in his eyes?
It’s gone. This man is sharper. Harsher.
His expression hardens the second he’s not laughing, his mouth settling into something grim.
Cold. Where Swag used to feel like a storm you could still find shelter in, this man feels like lightning without warning.
My hand grips the cart tighter. I don’t know if he’s seen me yet. And I’m not sure if I want him to. But fate must have other ideas. Because he lifts his gaze like he senses me standing there. Our eyes meet.
And nothing.
No warmth. No flicker of recognition. Just a glance. Quick. Dismissive. Like I’m a stranger he’s already forgotten. I feel the blow low and hard, like something has been knocked loose in my chest.
Unconsciously, I tug at the hem of my shirt.
Have I really changed that much? Well, yeah.
A little. My blonde hair is longer now. I have it pulled back in two tight French braids.
I’m wearing makeup, which I never used to bother with before because I couldn’t afford it.
It’s not over the top, though. Just enough to feel put together.
My denim shorts are short, sure—this is Louisiana in May—but they’re not indecent.
My pale legs are just legs. And the loose t-shirt I threw on this morning doesn’t exactly scream “ Look at me”, but I didn’t think I needed it to.
I’ve always been curvy. That hasn’t changed.
But suddenly, I feel small. Invisible. Like I’m standing in front of him wrapped in a version of myself he’s already decided not to see. And I don’t like it.
Gripping the handle of my cart, I force myself forward. One step. Then another. My heart’s thudding like a war drum, but I don’t let it show.
The old me would have turned and went down a different aisle. Not the new me. No, she’s going to make him acknowledge me.
I stop beside his cart. Right next to him.
“Hi, Swag,” I say, voice steady despite the storm in my chest.
The man standing at his side lets out a low, impressed whistle. “And who do we have here?”
He’s just as tall as Swag—maybe taller—but bulkier, built like someone who could lift a car if it annoyed him.
His dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail, which somehow suits him perfectly, and his eyes are dark, curious, and amused as they slide over me with open interest. He waits for me to answer, smiling like we’re already mid-conversation.
I lift my chin, heart pounding, and hold out my hand.
“I’m Jo-Leigh,” I say. “And you are?”
“I’m Talon,” the man says, still smiling.
My nose crinkles. “Talon?”
“Yeah,” he grins. “It’s my club name.”
Right. Club . He’s in the MC with Swag. It clicks into place.
“Well, nice to meet you, Talon,” I say, offering him a polite smile.
Then I glance at Swag. Waiting. Hoping for something.
But he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he glares at me.
Actually glares.
The intensity in his eyes sends a chill up my spine, unease prickling along the back of my neck. Okay then. I should take the hint. Turn my cart around. Leave with what little dignity I’ve got left. But before I can piece together an excuse, another guy strolls up to their side.
“They’re bringing out the kegs,” he says casually, scanning the items in the cart. “Did you get the shit for the dip?”
Then his gaze swings to me, and he smiles like we’ve known each other forever.
“Hey, babe. Who are you?”
This one’s tall, too—because apparently that’s the uniform—but leaner.
Less brute strength, more clean lines. His blond hair is trimmed close to his scalp, and he’s got that effortless swagger that instantly reminds me of Channing Tatum in a cut-off shirt.
And I’m not mad about it. Not even a little.
Before I can answer, Talon cuts in smoothly.
“This is Jo-Leigh. She knows Swag.”
His eyes flick to Swag, sharp with curiosity, before sliding back to me with a grin. “Ooo. Is that so?”
He steps forward slightly, his energy warm and bold, like the sun right before it burns you.
“I’m Pretty Boy,” he says, his smile widening. “So, friend-of-Swag, you coming to the party tomorrow?”
“Party?” I echo, confused.
At the same time, Swag snaps.
“She’s not fucking invited.”
The words hit harder than they should. Sharp. Loud. Meant to sting. And they do. Something twists in my chest, cold and deep. I dip my head, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
“Nice to meet you, Pretty Boy.”
Then I grip the handle of my cart, turn, and walk away. I don’t run. I don’t cry. Not here. But every step feels heavier than the last.
I’m almost to the end of the aisle when I feel it?—
A hand on my cart, pulling it gently to a stop. I glance to the side and find Pretty Boy standing there, eyes softer now, serious in a way I didn’t expect from someone with a nickname like his.
“Hey,” he says. “He didn’t mean it.”
I follow his gaze over my shoulder. Swag is still standing there. Still glaring at me like I set something on fire.
“I think he did,” I say quietly. I offer Pretty Boy a small, tired smile. “It’s okay.”
But he shakes his head. “No, really. You should come.”
Before I can argue, he reaches for my hand. His touch is confident but careful. I watch, heart thudding, as he pulls a pen from his pocket and scribbles something on the inside of my wrist. An address.
“Starts at nine,” he says, meeting my eyes. “Wear something sexy.”
My breath catches.
Not because of the words but because of the way he says them. Like I already belong there. And just like that, I’m holding a choice. A name on my skin. And a party I’m not supposed to be at.
“I don’t have anything sexy,” I murmur, glancing down at myself.
Pretty Boy eyes me slowly, his grin lazy and full of promise.
“I think you do, babe.”
Heat blooms low in my stomach. My breath catches and before I can talk myself out of it, I nod.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “See you tomorrow.”
“Atta girl.” He winks, then turns back toward the guys. “Don’t forget we need fruity drinks for the chicks.”
Talon snorts. “Already handled.”
But it’s not Talon I’m looking at. It’s Swag. He’s still watching me. Still glaring. But now it’s different. Darker. Daring me. Testing me. I lift my chin, meet his eyes dead-on. He doesn’t know me anymore. And that’s his mistake.
Because I will be at that party.