Chapter 12
Luca
We finally reach the cabin. Evan doesn’t even look up when I pull into the long driveway. He’s’ been busy typing non-stop through four states.
“Evan,” I call to him. He doesn’t look up. “Evan.” I shake his shoulder. He finally looks up at me, eyes blinking. “We’re at the cabin. Grab Delilah, and let’s get inside.”
He follows me through the cabin door and lets Delilah out, who suspiciously starts sniffing at her surroundings while he goes straight to the small table and chairs, sits down, and starts writing without even looking around.
Granted, there’s not much to look at. It’s an open-plan space with one wall almost entirely covered by a stone fireplace.
A galley kitchen fits neatly in the corner, and the opposite corner is the door to the bathroom.
The only furniture I have are the table and chairs Evan currently sits at and the large California King bed that takes most of the cabin’s square footage.
Fuck. One bed.
I don’t even have a couch. I never took other people up here, so I was never concerned about getting any other furniture. And I was so desperate to get Evan to the safety of my cabin that I hadn’t even thought about the sleeping situation.
Heat fills me as I Imagine laying Evan down on that bed, my bed, and—
We can’t share the bed…. Can we?
One, I don’t even know if Evan would want that. Sure, we had sex, and for me, it was everything, but Evan seemed to be perfectly happy with his Grindr dates. Maybe I’m just another one of his hit-it and quit-it hookups.
And even if Evan would be willing to share my bed, the answer has got to be no. I’m not a prude. I’d done too many things—seen too many things—ever to be considered that. But share the bed with Evan? I can’t do that.
I want it too much. I want him too much.
With the shit that went down in Lexington and the situation with Cash and Johnny being held by Digger, I don’t know what kind of trouble is coming for all of us.
Add in the fact that Evan was being groomed as Patriots Now’s scapegoat in addition to still being targeted by the Reivers means I’m on code red fucking high alert.
There’s no room for me to get distracted, and since I left Evan in Chicago because my attraction for him kept me from being able to protect him the way I needed to, I definitely can’t afford those same distractions now.
Especially since I figured out I love him. Yeah, there’s no more “pretty sure” anymore. I have never been more certain of anything in my life. The sun is in the sky, grass is green, and I love Evan Kelly.
Seeing him on his knees yesterday, about to end his life to keep the crowd safe from the sniper, was the worst moment of my life, and considering I’ve had some suck-ass moments as competition for that spot, it tells me something. Again—I freaking love Evan Kelly.
I’ll do anything, risk anything, sacrifice anything to make sure he never goes through another experience like he did yesterday.
His safety is everything to me. So, no. I won’t be sleeping in that bed with Evan.
I can sleep out on the porch. If I clean them up, a few Adirondack chairs will make do as a serviceable enough place to sleep.
With Evan still obsessively typing at his computer, I bring in the supplies I picked up at a store in Beloit.
Then I do a perimeter check on my property and make sure the surveillance cameras I put up after I’d left the Reivers are all working.
They’re not as fancy as the equipment Eli gave me for Evan’s apartment, but after checking them out thoroughly, I’m sure they’ll get the job done.
Next, I set up what I call my “Reiver traps” that I use whenever I stay here.
A fine wire coil set up around the property that’s not already backed up against the bluff to injure anyone human-sized who tries to get here by foot in the dark.
I bury a few C4 caps that will cause small mini-explosions if I trigger them off.
Finally, I gather up my guns and other weapons I keep in a hidden compartment in the cabin’s floorboards, take them out to the shed behind the cabin, clean them up, and make sure they are all in good working order.
It may be overkill, but I always knew I needed to be prepared if Digger changed his mind and sent the Reivers after me, and I’m doubly glad I have that arsenal now that Evan is here.
Because if anybody comes after Evan, they’re gonna have to come through me first.
When I return to the cabin, Evan has miraculously stopped writing and is watching a video on his computer with a look of disgust on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
He motions for me to come over, not taking his eyes off the screen.
I hurry to put my weapons back in their hiding spot and join Evan at the table to find out what has him so angry.
The first thing I see is the main cage at the Reivers headquarters in Adeline, where all the big, illegal cage matches are held.
I fought in it many times, the last time being when I was in the culling.
I watch as Johnny and an injured, staggering Cash fight each other.
Johnny aims a series of short punches at Cash that, to my practiced eye, are obviously meant to cause the least damage.
Holding back, or not, each time Johnny’s fist makes the connection, the look of agony on his face from being forced to hurt his lover is clear.
I think back to my nightmare of hurting Evan, and I completely understand Johnny’s pain.
“What in the fuck is this?”
“It’s a live video feed. Digger is selling premium tickets and taking bets for a live-stream death match between Cash and Johnny.”
“That sick fucker. Please tell me that our guys are close to breaching the lockdown.” Though I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but here with Evan making sure he’s safe, I wish I could be in two places at once so I could be there trying to get Cash and Johnny out of this fucked up situation.
“Grave sent a report to Eli that they’re waiting for some heavy equipment to help them tear down the steel gate in place during Reivers’ lockdowns, but they should be storming the clubhouse in thirty minutes.”
“Good.” I don’t say it out loud, but Cash isn’t looking too good. I’m not sure how much more of this fight he can survive, even with Johnny’s pulled punches.
“I fucking hate watching this shit,” I say, though I continue to stand here, eyes glued to Evan’s computer screen while holding back the urge to turn away. I don’t want to see this. I lived it, but I somehow feel like I’m supporting Cash and Johnny, and I want to see our guys come in and end this.
“It's beyond brutal,” Evan says, looking nauseous at the violence he’s viewing. “But Eli has pulled the stream off of the dark web and is offering the live feed of it to all the broadcast news stations if they’ll air it live.”
“Holy shit,” I say, thunderstruck at what this means.
Digger is showing himself breaking fifty serious felonies on this live feed, not to mention showing all of his dedicated grassroots followers the true devil that lives behind his handsome face and right-wing rhetoric. “Holy shit,” I repeat myself.
The day is a long one as we watch this unreal situation playing out with a bunch of twists and turns that belong in an old black-and-white gangster movie. In the end, emergency services rush Digger and Cash to the hospital for emergency surgery.
As we wait to hear news about Cash, Evan writes.
He’s a warrior going into battle with only his computer and his natural ability with words.
And with each word he types, he gets more furious, and then he types some more.
He’s paced the small confines of the cabin again and again, ranting to himself, and then he sits down and writes another article.
He only stops to show me one of them. It’s a tribute piece on Evan’s dead bodyguard, Barry Tramor. “Do you think it’s any good?” he asks, bringing over his computer to the bed where I’ve been sitting since I haven’t been able to budge Evan from the table.
He sits knee to knee with me, impatiently slapping his hand on his leg as I read.
It’s a moving piece that introduces the reader to Barry, a former Army Ranger who left the service to help his sister raise his niece after she was widowed.
Evan goes on to tell how the die-hard Cubs fan volunteered on his days off at a Chicago animal charity that specialized in fostering, rehabilitating, and homing animals who had been involved in dog fighting rings.
Evan then introduces the Patriots Now narrative and their history of hate rhetoric and ties to the Reivers, and then he ties them to Barry’s death.
The article manages to be both a moving tribute to Barry and a damning indictment of the organization responsible for his death.
I close his laptop. “It’s great,” I tell him honestly.
“Really?” he asks, self-doubt in every syllable of the question.
It stuns me that someone who is so damned talented isn’t confident in what a writing badass he is.
“I want his sister and niece to read it and be proud of him and also know that the people responsible for his death are going to pay for what they did.”
At that, the fire is back in his eyes, and he returns to his cycle of research, pacing, and writing.
This lasts for days. When we learn Cash’s surgery had some complications, and the doctors aren’t sure he’s going to survive, it spurs him on even harder on his quest. I end up fighting Evan to make him take breaks from writing to slurp some water and shovel food down his throat.
All my worries about the cabin’s one bed were wasted. Each night, I sleep out on the porch, and in the morning, I come in to find the bed still made and Evan snoring, his head resting on the table. I wake him up, and it starts all over again.
I know this can’t go on much longer, but some instinct tells me to let Evan continue like this for a little while more. I sense it’s his way of processing everything.
On day three of our stay at the cabin, I walk the perimeter, making sure there aren’t any signs of anyone being where they shouldn’t. When I’m sure everything is as it should be, I return to the cabin to find Evan staring blankly into his computer.
Bending down on my haunches so we are close to eye level, I call to him. “Evan?”
He looks up at me like he’s lost. I look at his computer screen and then move the cursor up. The last several pages he wrote are pure gibberish.
Okay, it’s finally time to end this.
“Evan.” I move his chair back. “It’s time to rest.” As I stand up, I bring him up with me, and as I start walking him to the bed, he realizes he isn’t sitting in his chair anymore and starts resisting me.
“I can’t stop.”
“You’ll get some sleep and write more tomorrow,” I tell him, though I’m pretty sure once I get him in bed, he might sleep through most, if not all, of tomorrow.
“I can’t stop,” he says, tears forming in his eyes. “I’m too angry to stop.”
“Angry?”
“Yes, angry,” he hisses, pulling out of my grasp and whirling around at me. “I’m so fucking angry at the men who are so full of hate and fear that they burn people’s houses down, plot to bend the world to their sick ideals, hurt men like Cyrus and Cash, and kill Barry.”
He starts pacing the room. “I keep thinking I can burn out the anger with my words. Make the world right again, but I ran out of words, and I’m still so goddamned angry.”
I come up behind him and wrap my arms around him in a move that feels like pure instinct. His heart beats wildly in his chest. He’s overtired, traumatized, and needs to calm down for his own well-being.
“I think I know something that will help,” I whisper into his ear.
He tenses in my arms. “No drugs. I hate how they make me feel.”
“No drugs,” I promise. “We’re just going to breathe together. Close your eyes and relax your body into mine.” He continues to stand stiffly against me, but then slowly, I feel his body melt into mine.
“Good,” I say as I lower my right arm and slide it beneath his t-shirt onto the soft skin of his stomach just above his belly button.
His stomach muscles flutter under my touch, but I keep my hand in place, letting him get used to the weight of my hand there. Then I place my left hand on his chest and pause till he gets acclimated to my hand clasped over his heart.
“Let your breath flow through your chest and deep down into your belly,” I tell him, letting the words vibrate gently in his ear.
I can feel the air filling his stomach. “More,” I encourage.
“Now, slowly, breathe in through your nose.” I silently count to five as he follows my command.
“Now, slowly breathe out.” I count out his exhale.
“You did great,” I tell him, knowing how well he responds to praise. “Now, let’s do it again.”
I talk him through the simple breathing technique again and again until I feel his heartbeat slowing, the back of his head nestling into my shoulder, and his body begins swaying into me because he’s half unconscious.
“Time for bed,” I say. Evan murmurs something nonsensical in response as I bend down, scoop him into my arms, lay him on my bed, and cover him with a heavy blanket.
Looking down to make sure he’s settled comfortably, I’m amazed at the possessive thrill running through me at seeing him lying there, safe in my bed.
I turn to go, but Evan’s hand shoots out and grabs mine in a strong grip. “Don’t go.”
“I’ll be sitting at the table keeping watch,” I assure him. “I’ll keep you safe.”
“I need you.”
Evan was right when he said words were his weapons. His “I need you” hit me straight in the heart. I have a whole arsenal under the floorboards, but all those weapons are useless compared to his dangerous use of three little words.
“Just for tonight,” I say, wondering if it’s an oath or a lie as I slip off my boots, lift the blankets, get under the covers, and lay my head on the pillow.
“Hold me.” He whispers the request, but it goes off like a bomb in my head. “Please.”
I move over and wrap him in my arms. Evan sighs, settles his head back on his pillow, and immediately falls into sleep while I lay there breathing in the scent of him like it’s oxygen and wondering if I’m ever going to let him go.