Chapter 16 Lance
Lance
The bruises have bloomed, purple and green spreading across my ribs where Brando caught me in the second round, and I have a dull throb behind my left eye that’s already turning colors. But the physical stuff fades. It always does.
It’s the rest of it that stays. The footage Benny catalogued before his body was even cold. Another chain wrapped around my throat.
Art wouldn’t hold that over me, though.
He wouldn’t.
Cavall is curled at my feet—ninety pounds of black fur and German shepherd instinct—a pink stuffed duck named Virgil wedged between his paws. He knows when it’s been a bad night, and he always presses his weight against me and lets out soft whines like he’s trying to hold me together.
My phone buzzes on the cushion beside me, but I ignore it.
It buzzes again.
I grab it, ready to chuck it across the room, but the name on the screen stops me.
ART:
I’m outside. Open up, dickwad.
Great.
I haul myself off the couch, cross to the door, and pull it open.
Cavall beats me, tail going.
Art’s standing there with a six-pack in one hand and a paper bag that smells like Chinese food in the other.
His tie is loosened, his hair’s mussed, and he’s got that boyish grin on his face, the one from when we were kids and he’d show up at my window with a stolen bottle of his mom’s wine and a plan to do something stupid.
“You look like shit,” he says.
“Thanks.” I step back to let him in, eyeing the to-go bags. “You bring egg rolls?”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” He shoulders past me and heads straight for the couch, dropping the food on the coffee table and cracking open a beer, before leaning forward to ruffle Cavall behind the ears.
“Sit down before you fall down,” he says.
I close the door, and move back to the couch, sinking into the cushions with a groan. “That obvious?”
He shoves a bottle at me.
For a minute, neither of us says anything.
We drink and the quiet settles between us in that easy way it never does with anyone else.
This is something most people don’t understand about Art and me. We don’t need to fill the space. He’s the one person in my life who’s always just let me exist as me. Two fucked-up kids from fucked-up families trying to survive a world that was never built for people like us.
“Heard you won.”
“Yeah. As planned.”
“Brando was a big guy.”
“Yeah. He was.”
Art takes a long pull of his beer, eyes forward. “You okay?”
I shrug, which hurts, but I don’t let it show. “I’m always okay.”
“Biggest liar I know.”
“Second biggest. You’re still ahead of me.”
He grins at that, and my shoulders loosen.
We eat straight out of the containers, passing them back and forth like we used to in high school when we’d party too hard and end up grabbing to-go food from that twenty-four-hour buffet.
Art tells me about some city council bullshit his dad’s been dealing with, and I half-listen, making the appropriate grunts at the appropriate times.
“Remember when we tried to build that raft?” Art says out of nowhere, chopsticks halfway to his mouth.
“The one that sank in thirty seconds?”
“It didn’t sink.”
“We almost drowned.”
“We were fine.” He waves a hand. “Excellent swimmers. You taught me how, remember?”
I grin because, yeah, I do remember. We used to do all sorts of stupid shit at Lovers’ Alcove.
“I may have taught you how to swim, but you still screamed like a bitch.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“Fuck you,” he says, but he’s laughing as he throws an egg roll at my head.
I catch it and take a bite, still grinning despite the ache in my jaw.
For a second, it feels like it used to. Like we’re still those two boys who thought we could outrun our problems.
His phone buzzes.
Art glances at the screen, then silences it without answering and sets it face down on the cushion, but I catch the name before he does.
Genevieve.
I take a deep swig of my beer, then play with the label. “Popular tonight.”
“Always am.” He smiles.
I clock it. File it away with all the other things I’ve noticed lately—the way he deflects when I ask questions, the circles under his eyes, the way his smile doesn’t reach all the way anymore.
He’s slipping. I can feel it.
And I don’t know how to stop it.
“Hey,” he says. “Sorry I didn’t stay last night.”
He doesn’t use the word fight. Doesn’t mention what I actually did. He just lets the sentiment hang there, incomplete.
“You shouldn’t have to go through it alone.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not.” He turns to face me. “I’m trying to figure it out, okay? I know I keep saying that, but I am. I just need more time.”
“Art, it’s been six years. I don’t expect you to solve this.”
“I won’t let you rot down there forever.”
Guilt flashes across his face, and his shoulders slump like the weight is too heavy to hide.
“You need to get yourself out,” I say. “Take Genevieve and go somewhere else. Let her find a restaurant to work at where she can actually cook instead of wasting away behind that bar. You go back to wheeling and dealing with aboveboard shit.”
His jaw stiffens. “You don’t think I can handle this?”
“I’m telling you—begging you—to get out before they turn you into something you can’t come back from.” Emotion clogs my throat. “There’s no hope for me, man. The sooner we both accept that, the better.”
“Your dad…”
“Fuck my dad.”
Art doesn’t say anything to that.
“Anyway.” He clears his throat, reaching for his beer. “Ginny’s probably pissed at me.”
“Yeah?” I keep my voice neutral even though my heart stutters. “When is Genevieve not pissed at something?”
He chuckles, leaning his head back.
“That’s just you, man. She doesn’t like you…probably because you call her by her full name when you know she hates it. I call her Genevieve once and she practically rips my throat out.”
Genevieve. I roll the name through my head the way I always say it, and wonder why she lets me and why I like the fact she does.
“What’d you do to piss her off this time?”
“She wanted to do this whole dinner thing tonight. Cooked and everything.” He leans back against the couch. “I told her I had to check on you. She wasn’t exactly thrilled.”
She cooked for him and he left?
My mind flashes to her kitchen. To the way her face lit up when I ate her stew, like watching me do it was her favorite thing.
I set my beer down and clear my throat, trying to get the sudden dryness to go away. “You should’ve stayed, dude.”
“This coming from the guy who coined the term ‘bros before hos.’”
“Yeah, but… She’s Genevieve, right? The girl you love.”
Art swallows and nods. “Since when do you care about her feelings?”
“I don’t.” The lie scrapes against my tongue. “Just saying, if you want to actually keep a girl in love, you’ve gotta give her more than your mediocre dick. They like flowers and all that fancy shit.”
“I give her flowers.” He frowns. “And good dick. Some might even say elite.”
I roll my eyes. “Right.”
“Besides, it’s not like I’m always bailing. I just had to check on you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I’ve had worse. You planning to ditch her after every fight just to ease your guilt?”
He sighs. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
“Me trying to take care of my best friend the same way he’s always taken care of me. Is that all right with you?”
My ire softens, and I blow out a breath. What the fuck am I doing? Of course he should be here. He’s my best friend, and he’s just doing that.
Being a friend.
Besides, I have no business fighting with Art over Genevieve, of all people.
She’s not my business.
“I should head out. Let you get some sleep.” He stands up and stretches, his back popping. “Early meeting with my dad tomorrow. Can’t wait to hear about all the ways I’m still disappointing him.”
“Silver Spoon Survivors’ Club?” I ask.
“Founding members.” He grins, fist-bumping me.
At the door, he pauses. Then he crosses back, pulling me into a rough hug.
I freeze.
“We’re okay,” he says into my shoulder. “Right?”
My arms hang at my sides for a second before I bring one up and grip the back of his neck.
“Yeah, Art. We’re good.”
He lets go and disappears out the front door.
The silence is worse now, and I sit, staring at the empty space where he was, replaying our conversation.
Cavall nudges his head under my hand. I scratch his ears, and he lets out a low whine before padding across the room to grab Virgil from where he fell behind the couch. He drops the duck at my feet and settles back down, pressing his weight against my legs.
She wanted to do this whole dinner thing tonight. Cooked and everything.
I told her I had to check on you.
He left her alone to sit with me and eat Chinese food and pretend everything’s fine.
I should feel grateful.
Instead, something heavy coils in my chest. Something that belongs to him, not me.
I keep seeing her in that kitchen, waiting for someone who chose egg rolls and my broken ass over a meal she made with her own hands.
And it’s not even that he left. It’s that I wish I’d been the one she was waiting for.
That thought punches me right in the sternum, and I shove it down so hard my ribs scream.
“Fuck,” I mutter, scrubbing my hands over my face.
Art’s. She’s Art’s. And I’m the guy who just begged him to take her and leave town so they can build a life together.
I can’t do this. Can’t sit here in the dark with her face in my mind and Art’s voice in my ears. I grab my jacket and head out the back door. Cavall’s already up, his ears forward, ready to follow.
“Bleib.”
He stops, but his eyes track me, his tail low between his legs.
“Not tonight, buddy. You stay here.”
He lets out a huff and sinks back down, Virgil squeaking when he rests his chin on top.
I don’t know how long I walk. Long enough for the beer to go warm in my stomach and the cold to eat through the leather of my jacket. The trails back here connect to everything: Lovers’ Alcove. Upside Down Rock. All the places I go when I need to disappear.
Tonight, I just need to walk until my brain shuts up.
My boots crunch against the leaves, and the rhythm of it quiets the noise in my head.
Then I hear it. Footsteps. Fast and uneven, the sound of someone running.
Every muscle in my body goes taut.
She bursts through the tree line maybe fifty yards ahead, stumbling over roots, flashlight beam swinging wildly.
Genevieve.
What the fuck?
I’m already moving toward her when I see the second figure, maybe thirty yards back, moving fast but not running, like he doesn’t need to rush.
I don’t think; I just cut through the trees at an angle, closing the distance as fast as I can. She doesn’t see me. My hand closes around her arm and I yank her sideways, off the trail and behind a massive oak, clamping my other palm over her mouth before she can scream.
She thrashes against me, so I pull her tight against my chest.
“It’s me,” I breathe into her ear. “Genevieve, stop. It’s me.”
She goes rigid.
Her back is pressed flush against my front, her head barely reaching my chest, and her heart is hammering so hard I can feel it through her jacket. She’s shaking, her fingers digging into my forearm like she’s not sure if she should claw me off or hold on tighter.
And despite everything—the adrenaline, the person stalking her, the fact that she’s Art’s and I just spent the night telling myself to stop—I notice every inch of where we’re touching.
The curve of her spine against my torso.
The soft give of her waist under my arm.
Her scent wrapping around me until I can’t breathe anything but her.
Through the trees, her pursuer slows to a stop, his head swiveling.
I don’t move, and my arms tighten around her.
“Shh. I won’t let him get to you.”
She gives a soft nod, her lips pressing into my palm.
Neither of us take a breath.
Eventually, the footsteps start again, moving away from us, and the man disappears into the dark.