Chapter 17 Genevieve
Genevieve
All I smell is leather and campfire. For minutes, or hours, maybe, until finally he lets me go.
“What are you doing out here?”
His eyes are dark, glittering in the moonlight. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“I was looking for Art.”
“So you decided to wander through the woods alone in the middle of the night? Are you out of your mind?”
“Gee, you’re really astute at pointing out observations, Champ.”
“Someone was following you.” His hands clench at his sides. “Who the hell was that?”
“I don’t know.” My pulse is pounding so hard I feel it in my teeth. “I don’t know who he was, and I don’t know why he was following me, because nobody tells me anything.”
My voice echoes off the trees, and Lance moves forward, crowding me against the oak until my back scratches against the bark. His hand comes up, his finger resting on my bottom lip, and my breath hitches.
“Quiet. You want him to come back?”
I shake my head, which only makes my mouth brush against his skin, and we both sit in this weighted silence.
I keep my gaze on his silver chain, counting my heartbeats and trying to figure out what’s going on.
I’m shaking now, and I can’t stop. The adrenaline is crashing, and everything I’ve been holding in all night is tearing its way up my throat.
“You’re trembling.”
He takes one step back, close enough where the heat still pours off his body and blankets mine. I shove my hands under my arms. “I’m pissed off.”
“Because you were followed?”
“I found something. In Art’s office.”
“What do you mean you ‘found something’?”
I pull out my phone, my fingers clumsy as I swipe to the photo I took. The screen glows between us, and I practically hurl it into his chest. “Read it.”
He takes the phone from me, and his expression doesn’t change, but something in his posture shifts. “Where did you find this?”
“The bottom drawer in Art’s desk.” My middle tightens. “Did you know? Tell me what the fuck’s going on, please.”
He looks up from the phone, and his Adam’s apple bobs. “I didn’t know.”
“Did Art?” The question hangs between us and I want to grab it back, shove it into the dirt, and pretend it’s not there. But I need to know. “Don’t—don’t lie to me.”
“I don’t know.”
He hands me the phone, and I slip it in my pocket, my hands still trembling.
“That’s it?” I ask. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to tell me what the hell is going on.”
A branch cracks somewhere behind us, and I flinch. He flies forward, his body pressing against mine, and I swear the warmth sinks through my skin and simmers beneath the surface.
Lance is quiet for a long moment. His jaw works like he’s chewing on words he doesn’t want to say, and then he glances down and lets out a breath. Slowly, he releases me.
“Just because it’s in that office doesn’t mean Art knows.”
My stomach flips, dread pooling low. “Doesn’t it?”
He works there. He owns the place.
Lance steps back. “Freddy kept a lot of stuff in that place. And you know Art. He’s sloppy with keeping track of things. That email was clearly between Freddy and Brutus Myrddin.”
I mull over his words. “Who’s that?”
For a moment, he says nothing, then his shoulders drop and his posture shifts. “He’s the boss.”
“Of?”
“The Lye. of Freddy. Benny. Me…”
My chest cramps and I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
“Art?” His name’s heavy on my tongue, so I have to spit it out.
Lance sighs, dropping his head. “It’s complicated, Half-Pint.”
“So you know something.” I step closer, craning my neck and getting in his face. “You’re down there every night. You’re part of whatever this is, so don’t act like you’re innocent here.”
“You think I chose this? You think I want to be down there?”
I falter. Because yeah, I did. I do.
“I didn’t choose any of it, Genevieve.” He’s staring past me, into the dark trees. “And I can’t leave.”
My breath sticks in my lungs. “What do you mean you can’t leave?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No.” I grab his arm, my fingers barely big enough to grasp ahold of him. “Please. What do you mean you can’t leave?”
“It means what it means,” he says. “I’m not one of them, Half-Pint. I’m just the dog they keep on a leash.”
The dog they keep on a leash. The words sit in me wrong, like swallowing something whole that was meant to be savored. “You’re saying you’re not fighting down there by choice?”
He nods.
The moonlight catches the edge of a scar along his jaw that I’ve seen a hundred times but never really looked at. All this time, I thought he was part of it. And he still is, I guess, but if he’s not down there by choice, then…
My fingers twitch on his arm. This is a person. Warm and real. And someone—this Brutus guy—is forcing him into the cage?
“Come on,” he says. “We can’t stay here. Let me take you home.”
My hand drops away, and I wrap my arm around my stomach, not sure if I’m trying to shield myself from his touch or the truth. “I can make it home myself.”
I turn and start walking. I don’t look back, but I listen for his footsteps behind me.
They’re there.
When we get back to my car, the adrenaline drains.
I’m torn. I need to be alone, need to try and rearrange the puzzle pieces that have just been tossed into my brain, but I’m scared.
And I’m not naive enough to think Lance will listen to me if I tell him I’m fine.
Maybe if I say someone’s there already…Rosalie? No. We’re not friendly enough.
My limbs are still shaking, and I reach up to tweak my earlobe without thinking.
“You know, you do that every time you’re about to lie,” he says.
My hand freezes. “I do not.”
“Three times since we walked down here alone.”
“Maybe I just have itchy ears.”
He doesn’t smile, but his expression softens. “Maybe you’re full of shit.”
“Fine. I’m freaked out, okay? I don’t like that I can’t go on a walk without being hunted through the woods. I don’t like that my whole life was apparently orchestrated by people I’ve never met. And I especially hate that it’s you who keeps showing up when everything falls apart.”
The unsaid thing floats in the space between us.
Because this should all be happening with Art. He should be here with me. He should be the one saving me from stalkers, comforting me when I’m scared, and telling me he’s not involved with bad guys by choice.
But he’s not here.
And Lance is.
He steps closer and takes my hands in his.
I blink down at where he’s touching me. His palms are warm and rough, calloused in ways that make me think about what those hands have done. What they’re capable of. What they’re forced to do.
“You’re still shaking.”
“I’m cold.”
“Liar.”
But he doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens, his thumbs brushing across my knuckles like he’s trying to steady me through sheer force of will.
“Let me drive you home,” he says. “Okay?”
I swallow hard and nod, not trusting my voice.
He releases my hands and shrugs off his jacket, draping it over my shoulders before I can protest. It’s warm and smells like that same leather and woodsmoke, and my body loosens when it engulfs me, and I hate that, too.
“I don’t need—”
“Shut up and get in.”
He opens the passenger door to my car and holds out his hand.
I take it.
His fingers close around mine, firm and sure, and when he lets go, it’s never been more obvious that he’s not Art.
The silence on the drive back feels like it’s choking me, but I don’t do anything to break it. I just pull his jacket tighter around my shoulders and stare out the window, watching the dark trees blur past.
When we pull up to my building and make it to my door, I fumble with my keys, my fingers still clumsy.
Lance doesn’t offer to help this time. He stands there like a shadow, watching the street behind us.
“You can go,” I say, finally getting the door open. “I’m home safe. Mission accomplished.”
His eyes flick past me into the apartment, and his nostrils flare. He stares at the stove, where the pot of marinara is still sitting, the pasta cold in the colander beside it.
“You haven’t eaten.”
“I was going to—how did you even—”
“Neither have I.”
The refrigerator hums, and I blink. Is he asking to come in? It’s just shitty, cold food. Art didn’t even want to stay to eat it, why would he want to?
He doesn’t wait for my answer. He just steps inside, moves to the table, and sits down like he belongs there.
“Okay, then.” I follow him, taking off his jacket and wrapping it around the back of a chair, and reheat the pasta in silence, hyperaware of him taking up space in my apartment. He’s too big for this room, like the air forms around him just because he’s existing.
There are a thousand questions on the tip of my tongue. About the email. About Art. About what he meant when he said he can’t leave.
But I don’t ask any of them.
I just plate the food and set it in front of him.
“You make this for you and Art?” he asks.
My stomach knots. “Yeah.”
“And he left to come check on me instead.”
“Yeah.”
Lance’s jaw flexes. He stabs a piece of pasta, twirling it slowly on his fork.
“You’re not allowed to judge my cooking based on this meal,” I blurt. “Art doesn’t really like homemade stuff, so this is store-bought and probably bland.”
“Genevieve.”
I tuck my hair behind my ear. “What?”
“Sit down.”
“Okay.” I move on autopilot and plop across from him, making sure to keep my knees tight and my feet tucked, so I don’t accidentally brush against his legs.
We eat in silence after that. Or rather, he eats and I push food around my plate.
I was supposed to be sitting here with Art tonight.
Laughing, maybe. Talking about nothing. Living in the delusion that everything was still fine.
Instead, I’m across from the one person in this town who makes me feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin, eating reheated pasta, and acting like this is normal.
Lance cleans his plate and carries it to the sink like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s done it a hundred times. Like he belongs in my kitchen, washing dishes while I sit here trying to remember how to breathe.
“I should go,” he says, drying his hands.
“Yeah.” My voice sounds strange. “You should.”
He moves toward the door, and I follow to lock up behind him, but when he gets there, he doesn’t open it. He stands with his hand on the knob, staring at the wood like it’s dangerous.
“You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
Warmth floods my chest. Gratitude, maybe. Or relief. Or something I don’t want to name because naming it means I’d have to think about why Art isn’t the one saying these words to me right now, and why I’m okay with the fact he’s not.
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
“You won’t.” He turns to face me.
I don’t need a babysitter. I’m perfectly capable of handling my own fear without some guy I can barely stand watching over me like I’m made of glass. But the truth is, I’m exhausted. And the thought of being alone in this apartment right now makes me feel like screaming.
So I don’t argue.
“Fine,” I say. “But you’re not sleeping on the floor.”
“I’m not sleeping at all.”
“Lance.” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“I’ll take the chair.” He nods toward the worn armchair that I picked up at a thrift store when I first moved in. “Get some rest.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
I grab a blanket from the closet and hand it to him.
He takes it without comment, settling into the chair with his back to the wall and his eyes on the door.
I crawl into bed still wearing my clothes, too tired to change, and pull the covers up to my chin.
The apartment feels different with him in it, smaller somehow, but also safer.
Like nothing bad could get through as long as he’s sitting there.
“Lance?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
He doesn’t answer. But when I glance over, his face looks soft, just for a second, before the mask slides back into place.
I close my eyes and let the exhaustion pull me under.