Chapter 23 Faith
FAITH
I’d been staring at Ryker’s forearms for the last five minutes.
Not my finest moment, but also not my fault. The man had one tattooed hand draped casually over the steering wheel while the other rested on his thick thigh. Dragons coiled around both forearms, intricate and dark, winding up toward his biceps.
Dragons.
Of course Ryker had dragons inked on his skin. The man spent his entire life slaying them. Other people’s dragons. Fighting battles that weren’t his, defending the defenseless, charging into fires most people would run from.
The tattoos enhanced every shift of muscle as he drove, every flex of his fingers on the wheel. It was hypnotic. Distracting.
His lips curved. “See something you like?”
My eyes snapped up to find him watching me with that knowing smirk, the one that said he’d caught me red-handed and was thoroughly enjoying it.
“Your tattoos,” I said, aiming for nonchalant and missing by a mile. “They’re … detailed.”
“Uh-huh.” The smirk deepened. “That’s what you were thinking about? The detail work?”
Heat crept up my neck. He laughed, low and warm, and something in my chest loosened. Until he pulled into the group home’s driveway.
You can do this, I told myself for the zillionth time.
“Come on.” He killed the engine and climbed out. “Let’s get this done.”
He smirked, and damn if it didn’t make my stomach do a little flip. Criminal defense attorneys shouldn’t be allowed to look that good in worn jeans and a soon-to-be paint-splattered henley. It was basically entrapment.
The foster home was eerily quiet when we entered with just the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen.
“Where is everyone?” Ryker asked, his voice echoing slightly in the empty foyer.
“Job applications, counseling sessions, programs.” It was why I was okay coming here today; I’d never talk about my past or my court situation if any of the kids were around to hear it. I led Ryker toward the stairs, hyperaware of how close he was following.
“And they actually follow the schedule?”
I whipped around so fast, he nearly crashed into me. “They’re good kids.”
“I didn’t mean …” He raised his hands in surrender. “I just meant, you know, teenagers. Not exactly known for their compliance.”
“These ones are different.” I started up the stairs again, trying not to notice how his presence seemed to fill the narrow stairwell. “They’ve been through enough to know that structure helps.”
“Speaking from experience?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not yet.
The bedroom was exactly as I’d left it days ago, before my world imploded. Paint supplies stacked in the corner, drop cloths still folded, blue painter’s tape waiting to frame the windows. The cans of paint sat there, mocking me with their cheerful label. Electric Lime.
If I squinted, I could almost pretend the last few days hadn’t happened. Almost.
“I’ll say it again,” Ryker said, surveying the room. “We could do this at my office. Or anywhere with actual chairs.”
“Right, because nothing says bare your traumatic past like fluorescent lights and a conference table.” I grabbed a drop cloth and shook it out, the plastic crackling.
“The only way I can talk about any of this is if my hands are busy. I considered doing this during a hike—I love hikes, by the way—but it’s supposed to be rainy and cold, so why not be productive, you know? ”
His eyebrow quirked up, lips twitching.
“Not like that,” I said, heat rushing to my cheeks.
“You’re blushing.”
“It’s hot in here.”
“Sure it is.” His gaze traveled down my outfit, and suddenly, my paint-appropriate leggings and tank top felt like a tactical error. “Though dressed like that, you should be plenty cool.”
Oh. Oh, we were doing this now? Fine. Two could play.
“Problem with my outfit, Counselor?” I bent to smooth the drop cloth, maybe taking a beat longer than necessary.
I heard his sharp intake of breath. “No problem at all.”
“Good.” I straightened, tossing him a roll of painter’s tape. “Make yourself useful.”
He caught it one-handed, and why was that attractive? Everything this man did was becoming a problem for my concentration.
I connected my phone to the old Bluetooth speaker, scrolling through playlists. Anything to avoid thinking about what came next—the truths I needed to tell, the way everything might change once I did.
“Let me guess,” he said, applying tape to the window frame with surprising precision. “Something angry. Screaming vocals. Drums that sound like someone attacking a trash can.”
“Because I’m so dark and twisted?” I selected my painting playlist, and the opening notes of Fleetwood Mac filled the room.
“Classic rock?” He actually looked disappointed. “That’s unexpectedly normal.”
“What exactly did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Death metal. Gregorian chants. The Frozen soundtrack on repeat.”
I laughed despite myself. “And what does the sophisticated Ryker Kincaid listen to while preparing devastating cross-examinations?”
“Take a guess.”
“Classical. No, wait …” I studied him as he worked, the way his shoulders moved under his shirt. The way those delicious tattoos shifted every time his muscles flexed. “Country. All those sob stories about trucks and heartbreak.”
“Pop music.”
I nearly dropped my paint roller. “You’re joking.”
“Britney, Taylor, Ariana.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Very motivating for destroying prosecutorial arguments.”
“You’re telling me you listen to ‘Shake It Off’ while reviewing murder cases?”
“Allegedly.” That smirk again. “Can’t prove it in court.”
I pried open the paint can, and the sharp, clean scent of fresh paint hit me. The lime green practically glowed in the light streaming through the window.
“That’s …” Ryker stared at the color. “That’s very green.”
“Electric Lime, according to the label.” I stirred it with a paint stick, watching the neon swirl. “Jess picked it out. Said her room in her last placement was gray. Everything was gray. She wanted color.”
“Well, she’s definitely getting color. That’s visible from space.”
“Says the man who probably has a beige apartment.”
“Navy blue actually. Very sophisticated.”
I smiled.
We worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, the music filling the space between us. I rolled the lime green onto the wall, and even I had to admit, it was kind of perfect. Loud. Unapologetic. Exactly what a kid who’d been told to be quiet and invisible needed.
I understood that impulse. The need to take up space after years of making yourself small.
But I could feel the weight of unasked questions, the elephant in the room, wearing a prison jumpsuit with my name on it. Every brushstroke was another second closer to the conversation I’d been avoiding.
“This is nice,” I said quietly, surprising myself. “Normal.”
“Normal?”
“You know, two people, painting a room, talking about music.” I dipped my roller in the paint tray, the lime green coating the foam like liquid highlighter. “Like something regular people do. Couples even.”
The word hung in the air between us. Couples. As if we were anything close to that. As if I wasn’t his client, accused of murder. As if he wasn’t the only thing standing between me and life in prison.
“Faith …”
“I know what you’re going to say.” I attacked the wall with perhaps more vigor than necessary. “This is inappropriate. You’re my lawyer. There are boundaries.”
“Actually, I was going to say you’re getting paint on the trim.”
I looked down. Sure enough, lime-green specks dotted the white wood like misplaced stars.
“Shit.”
He moved behind me, his hand covering mine on the roller handle. “Like this. Smooth strokes.”
His chest pressed against my back, his breath warm against my ear, and every nerve ending in my body went on high alert.
This was bad. This was very, very bad. Because in moments like this—with his hand guiding mine, the paint scent mixing with whatever cologne he wore, the solid warmth of him—I wanted to forget everything else.
I wanted to do what I actually wanted to do.
Date him. Like normal people. Find out about each other’s pasts slowly, over coffee dates and movie nights and all those ordinary things that extraordinary circumstances had stolen from us.
And kiss. Lots and lots of kissing.
Some time, in the far, far future, I could start to reveal my past. One rose petal at a time. By then, he’d know me a lot better, and hopefully, maybe, he wouldn’t see me different …
“Faith.” His voice had gone rough. “We need to talk about what happened. About your past. About that night.”
The roller slipped from my hand, clattering to the plastic-covered floor. Lime green splattered across the drop cloth like evidence.
I turned, and the space between us evaporated. His eyes searched mine, and what I saw there wasn’t judgment. It was something that looked dangerously close to understanding.
“If I tell you everything,” I said slowly, “you’ll never look at me the same way.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you’ve been looking at me like …” I gestured vaguely between us. “Like there’s something here. Something that has nothing to do with attorney-client privilege.”
He didn’t deny it.
“But once you know everything about me …” I turned back to the wall, picking up the roller with shaking hands. The lime green dripped slowly back into the tray. “That’ll change.”
“Faith.” He took the roller from me, set it aside. His hands cupped my face, forcing me to look at him. “I know this is scary. But I need the truth. All of it.”
For a moment, we just stood there, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones, the music playing softly, paint fumes making me lightheaded. Or maybe that was just him.
I’d spent my whole life hiding the worst parts of me because I believed no one could love me if they knew the truth. And now the one man I couldn’t lose was demanding to see it.
But maybe it would be okay. Ryker was still here, even after that night in the woods. Rationally, nothing I confessed was as bad as that night.
Still, doubt lingered in my mind, planted there after years of rejection and being told I wasn’t good enough. Years of people then using my mistakes and bad decisions as evidence that I was a bad person, unworthy of being loved.
I couldn’t handle it if Ryker looked at me differently. He might stay, out of obligation to help me through the trial.
But his heart might abandon me.
Just like most everyone else in my life had.
“Okay,” I whispered.
“Okay?”
I pulled away, grabbing the roller. The lime green gleamed wet and impossible on the wall—too bright, too bold, too honest.
“Then let’s get this over with.”