Chapter 29 Gianna
Gianna
PRESENT
‘No crotch rocket today?’ I tease.
Ryker closes the door to the glossy black Raptor he’s rolled into the garage, claiming he wants the paint brightened. It doesn’t need any detailing. It’s perfect. But I inspect the vehicle anyway, peeking my head through the open window to look over the interior. My eyes close as I inhale.
God, I love that scent.
A warm, Ryker hug of bergamot, leather and wood.
I open the door and sit, wrapped in a nostalgic hug, as Ryker takes the driver’s seat.
The night of Lucifer’s Dream, I didn’t get a proper chance to look at the Raptor.
Now, I run my fingers along the ceiling, mirrors and centre console.
The truck’s exactly as I remember, save for the upholstery and glove compartment that looks slightly ajar.
I barely brush its handle and it falls open.
His black chrome skull mask grins at me.
My fingers run along the harsh scars marring the smooth chrome. They’re rough and deep.
‘Why did you keep this?’
Ryker’s fingers trail over mine as they trace over the black chrome.
‘Because you made it,’ he whispers.
My insides pull tight. This mask should make me sad, it should make me cry. It should be nothing but a reminder of the worst night of my life. For some reason, though, it isn’t.
‘This mask is like you, you know?’
Ryker looks puzzled and as he brings a hand behind his head, his biceps flex with the movement. ‘Why’s that?’
I study the mask again. Sometimes the things that we hide behind are the things we become.
‘You have scars like this,’ I whisper.
He swipes a few stray curls from my face. Even with dust in my hair or paint on my cheeks, he looks at me like he regards me as a prized jewel.
‘We’re all that mask,’ he says. ‘Our scars are our stories. Sometimes they come from a mistake that led to a mess, sometimes they come from other people, but they’re still our stories.’
I shake my head gently. ‘You’re starting to give Mr F a run for his money with such deep and meaningful explanations.’
Shutting the mask back into the glove compartment, I continue examining the truck’s interior. I flip my sun visor down, startled when a polaroid falls into my lap. I pick up the photograph and flip it around; my jaw drops. It’s the one from the art room all those years ago.
‘God, you don’t throw anything away, do you?’
‘You’re my girl,’ Ryker says easily. ‘You’ve always been my girl.’
His hand wraps around mine and brings it to his lips. He kisses each one of my fingers, making my breath stick in my throat.
I open the door and climb out. ‘I have to take the Mustang and get home. I left Chuckie there today.’
‘I was going to ask where my best bud is.’ Ryker steps out too and leans against a pristine E-type Jag in the next bay, resting one ankle in front of the other. ‘Why didn’t you bring him in? He’s always here.’
‘He gets restless in the shop if I have a full day of resprays.’ I nudge Ryker off the chassis. ‘Don’t ruin the bodywork.’
The side of his mouth pulls up in a sassy smirk, but he pushes off the vehicle. Reaching around my waist, he hauls my body into his and the breath all but leaves my lungs.
‘I’d never ruin your bodywork, baby. I cherish you.’
‘Stop distracting me.’ I wiggle free from his hold. ‘Chuckie, remember?’
‘Lucky he’s my bestie, or I’d be jealous.’
My mouth drops open. ‘He is not your best friend. He’s mine.’
‘Semantics.’ He waves airily, giving me his full-wattage smile. He’s such a piece of work. He knows what that smile does to me.
‘Stay at mine tonight?’ I ask.
‘Wherever you go, I go, baby.’ He links his fingers with mine and we head toward the Mustang.
‘Don’t be leaving that truck here,’ Mr Fernando calls out as we pass his office. ‘Take it offsite till it’s ready to be worked on. I have full bays in the morning and can’t allocate the space.’
‘Mr F.’ Ryker salutes. ‘As you wish.’
‘You given up on that smoking yet?’ Mr Fernando flashes a look from where he’s seated, shuffling a few papers around his desk.
‘I have,’ Ryker admits, looking down at me wistfully.
‘You have?’ I repeat.
‘You were right. Secondhand smoke is bad for you. So yes, I have.’
My chest swells and I try to fight the shit-eating grin threatening to take over my face.
‘Good.’ Mr Fernando gives a curt nod. ‘Now move that truck.’
* * *
When I reach the entrance of the urban village, Ryker’s Raptor is right behind me as we follow the road and pull into my driveway at the end of the street. I step out, admiring the two vehicles that hold special memories, before my attention is pulled toward my front door. It’s flung wide open.
After Ryker’s surprise visit, I gave Monique a key and started locking my door.
‘What the hell?’ I rush forward, but Ryker pulls me beside him, his rough hand around my elbow. It’s then that I see it. Panic surges through my chest.
The door isn’t just open, it’s been kicked in, the wood splintered around the lock.
‘I’ll check it out.’ Ryker tightens his grip, his whole body rigid.
I’m about to let him, then my stomach surges into my throat.
Chuckie.
I tear my arm from his grasp, and sprint inside.
‘Chuckie!’ I call, my voice shrill.
My eyes flash around, taking in the broken mirror, soil scattered across the floor from shattered pot plants, and knocked-over lamps.
Ryker stays by my side, half a step in front of me and alert as he registers the mess. I try to calm my breathing, but it’s as if I’m inhaling water.
‘Chuckie?’ I call again.
He doesn’t come.
Please.
Please, god. No.
Glass crunches underneath our feet from the smashed coffee table. The silence is so loud that every step, every breath echoes. My hand darts out to the wall, fumbling for the light switch. I flick it on, but it doesn’t work.
‘Chuckie—’ My foot slips. I catch myself from falling, but the jolt triggers another spike of adrenaline. I look down, picking up what I’d stepped on.
A silver mask.
Warm liquid seeps into my skin before it drips from the mask and onto the rug. The sudden ache in my chest sends me collapsing to my knees. Shards of glass cut through my skin, but I’m numb. Bile burns in the back of my throat at the sight of what’s smudged onto my fingertips.
Blood.
I somehow manage to move into the kitchen where drawers are hanging open and cracked crockery is strewn across the tiles. Everything in here is broken.
Chuckie.
What the fuck happened here?
I look back at Ryker standing by the shattered table. He’s staring down at the puddle of blood next to the mask I’d dropped.
This isn’t a burglary.
It’s Erik.
I blink the tears away, rushing back to the front door. Maybe Chuckie’s escaped outside.
Then a small whimper comes from the bedroom. Ryker’s by my side as we find Chuckie shivering underneath a pile of clothes in the walk-in wardrobe.
‘Chuckie!’
Ryker attempts to pull him out, but Chuckie’s high-pitched yelp ties my stomach in knots. Ryker leans forward to attempt again.
‘Wait!’ I reach for his arm. ‘He might be badly hurt.’
I pull out my phone and swipe, smearing blood across the screen. I hit the call button and she answers on the third ring.
‘Dr Aimee?’ My voice shakes. ‘It’s urgent.’