Chapter 18 Genevieve
Genevieve
When I wake up, gray morning light is filtering through the window.
There’s a blanket draped over me that I don’t remember pulling up. And a second one—the one I gave Lance—tucked carefully around my shoulders on top of my comforter.
I sit up slowly, blinking against the light, and find Lance still in the chair. His head is tipped back against the wall, his eyes closed, but when I shift on the mattress, they open instantly, as though he wasn’t really asleep at all.
“You stayed,” I say.
“Told you I would.”
“All night?”
“Someone had to make sure you didn’t go for another midnight stroll.”
A tired laugh escapes me. “I think I’ve learned my lesson.”
He scrubs a hand over his face and straightens, rolling his neck like it aches from sleeping upright.
“Thank you,” I say. “For staying.”
Lance nods, already pushing himself out of the chair. “I’ve gotta handle some things.”
My lungs cramp. He’s leaving me alone?
“And what should I do?”
“Sit tight.”
“Lance.”
He stops, his hand on the doorframe.
“What you said last night. About being on a leash.” I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “Does Art know?”
His jaw tightens, and that’s all the answer I need. My heart sinks into my stomach.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he says. “Just be smart. Whatever you found in that folder, whatever you think you know… Don’t go digging. These people don’t play nice with curious little girls.”
“That’s a cop-out, and you know it. It’s my life they’re fucking with.”
“Join the club.”
“I’m not a little girl.”
“No. You’re not.”
He pulls the door open, and I expect to see an empty sidewalk, but there’s someone already standing there.
A young guy with dark hair and wide brown eyes.
Lance gives him a nod. “Don’t let her leave.”
“Got it.”
I scoff, crossing my arms.
Then Lance is gone, and the kid walks in, locking the door behind him and turns to me.
“Um.” He clears his throat. “Hi. I’m Percy.”
I stare at him.
“Lance sent me.” He shifts his weight, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Clearly. How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“So he sent a literal child to be my babysitter.”
Percy grins. “He said you’d say that. He also said to tell you—and I’m quoting here—‘she can be pissed at me later, just make sure she doesn’t leave.’”
A laugh escapes me. “Unbelievable.”
Percy glances around like he’s scanning for threats, and he looks so young and innocent that my anger dulls.
Sighing, I stand up, padding to the kitchen. “Do you want coffee?”
His whole face changes. The tension drops from his shoulders, and he gives me a wide smile.
“Yeah. That’d be great, actually.”
I wave him toward the table and start the coffee maker, studying him while it brews.
There are shadows under his eyes that don’t belong on someone his age, and the way he sits with his back to the wall and his gaze on the door is the exact same way Lance sat in that chair last night.
“So,” I say, setting a mug in front of him. “How do you know Lance?”
Percy’s fingers tighten around the cup. “He told me not to tell you that.”
“You always do everything he says then?”
“Pretty much.”
“Tough break.”
His lips twitch. “Lance said he liked you.”
The coffee I just gulped down lodges in my throat and I cough, pressing a hand to my chest. “He did?”
“Well, his exact words were ‘she’s got a mouth on her,’ but I think he’s only noticing your mouth because he pays attention. And if he’s paying attention, that means he likes you.”
“Hmm.” I’m not sure what to do with that, so I shove it down next to the email, Art, my father, and everything else I’m choosing not to focus on until after I’ve had caffeine.
We drink our coffee together, and it’s surprisingly comfortable. Percy doesn’t try to fill it with small talk, he just sits there quiet and alert, occasionally glancing at the window.
“Does he do this a lot? Send you places?”
He stares into his cup. “He looks out for me. The least I can do is help him when he needs a favor.”
My brain latches onto his words. He looks out for me.
“What’s he gotta look out for you for?” I keep my voice light.
Percy shifts in his seat. “I don’t know. Stuff.”
“Stuff. That’s descriptive.”
“He told me not to talk about it.”
“That’s kind of his thing, huh?” I take a sip of my coffee. “But I’m not just anyone, you know? I’m his best friend’s girl.”
“Who’s his best friend?”
I freeze mid-sip.
“Art.”
Percy laughs like I just told a joke.
“What’s so funny?”
“Mr. Penngrove is Lance’s best friend?”
I scrunch my nose at him being called something so proper. “You’re not from here, then?”
“Nope, I’m just here while they train me up and—”
My breath catches, and Percy stops like he just said something he wasn’t supposed to.
“You’re a fighter.”
“Trying to be.”
“Percy.” I lean forward. “Does Art know about this? About you?”
He shrugs, but it’s too stiff to be casual. “He handles the money, the schedules. He’s the one who told me when to show up for my first session with Lance.”
The room tilts, just slightly.
Art scheduled this kid’s training. Art is the one coordinating the logistics of an eighteen-year-old learning to cage fight.
“But Art’s not—he’s not like the people in charge, right?” I ask. “He’s just…managing?”
Percy looks at me with those innocent eyes, and it feels like he’s trying to figure out how much I know, how much he’s allowed to say, how much trouble he’ll be in if Lance finds out he talked.
Or maybe Art.
Nausea surges through me.
“Art’s a good guy,” he says. “He tries to make it easier for us. Gets us food, makes sure we see the doctor after. But he’s…he’s in it. You know? Just from a different seat.”
I don’t say anything. I’m not sure I can. I’m too busy trying to figure out how I didn’t know that the man I moved here to be with had gotten so involved in the underground of things.
You’re so naive, Ginny.
He’s told me that. Lance has told me that. And for the first time, I agree.
Percy fidgets with his mug handle. “Please don’t tell Lance I said any of that.”
“I won’t.”
His phone buzzes. He glances at it and stands, draining the last of his coffee.
“That’s my cue.” He carries the mug to the sink—just like Lance did—and sets it down.
Percy opens the door and Lance fills the frame, a paper bag in one hand, his eyes scanning the apartment before they land on me.
My stomach flips.
“Anything?” Lance asks Percy.
“All quiet.”
Lance nods, and reaches out, gripping the back of Percy’s neck, and gives him a small shake. “You eat today?”
Percy rolls his eyes. “It’s six thirty in the morning.”
“That’s not an answer.” Lance holds up the paper bag. “There’s an extra sandwich in here. Take it.”
“I’m fine.”
“Percy.”
The kid sighs, but he’s fighting a smile as he takes the bag and pulls out a wrapped sandwich.
“Get out of here,” Lance says. “And call me if they’re about to take you to a pop-up.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.” Percy tucks the sandwich into his hoodie pocket and glances back at me. “Bye.”
“Bye, Percy.”
He slips past Lance and disappears down the sidewalk, and Lance watches him go, standing in the doorway until the kid rounds the corner and is out of sight.
When he turns back to me, the softness is gone. But I saw it.
“You care about him,” I say.
“He’s a good kid.”
“Is he fighting?”
He halts halfway into the living room and drops his head. “I knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut.”
“How could you let them do that? He’s just a kid.”
Lance stares at me.
“You done?” he asks.
“No. Not at all.”
“What, you’ve been here for a year, and now that it affects you personally, you’ve suddenly grown a conscience?”
I don’t argue, because there’s some truth in what he was saying. Maybe I’ve been willfully ignorant, because looking too close at things and asking questions has always been something I was told not to do growing up, and maybe I brought that into adulthood.
But I’m done being that person.
“Teach me.”
His brow furrows. “Teach you what?”
“How to fight. How to defend myself.” I force strength into my voice. “I don’t want to be the girl hiding in the dark, too scared to do anything. I don’t want to be a victim.”
He stares at me for a long moment.
Then he laughs. A short, dismissive sound that makes my blood heat.
“No.”
“Why not?”
He crosses his arms. “You’re not built for it.”
“You don’t know what I’m built for.”
“I know you ran through the woods last night like a scared rabbit.” His eyes are hard now, any trace of softness from the night before completely gone. “That’s not a fighter. That’s prey.”
“Fuck you.”
“See? There it is.” He points at me and takes a step closer. “That temper. You think anger makes you dangerous? It doesn’t. It makes you sloppy. Predictable. Easy to take down.”
“I’m not asking for a lecture. I’m asking you to teach me.”
“And I said no. Go take a kickboxing class. Buy some pepper spray. But don’t come to me thinking I’ll be your knight in shining armor.”
“Then why are you even here?” I yell, anger burning hot in my veins.
“Don’t confuse obligation with me giving a shit, Genevieve.”
I step back like he’s shoved me.
“You know what? I want you to leave.”
He sighs. “Half-Pint…”
My pulse is pounding, and my eyes are burning, and I grab my phone and raise it like a weapon. “Leave, Lance. Or I’ll call the cops and tell them you broke in.”
“You know what? Fine.” He drops the paper bag on the table and storms to the door. “And next time someone hunts you down in the middle of the night, call them then, too.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m standing on my doorstep, my nails biting into my palms, and my entire body vibrating with fury.
Don’t confuse obligation with giving a shit.
Fine. I won’t.
I slam the door. The blanket he draped over me last night is still on the bed, soft and warm and smelling like him. I grab it and hurl it across the room and scream as it lands in a heap by the window.
Don’t go digging.
Everyone keeps telling me to stay small. Stay quiet. Stay put.
My phone is in my hand before I’ve made a conscious decision.
I pull up my dad’s contact and hit the video call button. It rings four times, when his face fills the screen, bleary-eyed and rumpled.
“Mon chou?” He squints at the camera.
“Papa.” My voice cracks, and he goes still. “I need you to tell me the truth.”
He reads my face, that careful lawyer’s gaze cataloguing everything.
“What happened?” he asks.
“I found an email. In Art’s office.” I swallow. “About getting me fired. About getting me out of Boston.”
His brow furrows. “What do you mean? Art’s talking to people about you getting fired?”
“It’s more than that. It’s almost like it was planned or something. Like they got me fired so that I’d move here.”
The silence stretches so long I think the call might have frozen.
“Papa, do you know who Brut—”
“Stop.”
My heart stutters. “What do you mean stop? This is serious.”
He glances off-screen, and when he looks back, his face has changed. Work mode.
“You know what, mon chou, this isn’t a good time. I’m swamped, and I want to be able to listen to you fully without my mind running in a thousand directions.”
“Oh.” A knot swells in my throat. “Okay.”
“I love you to the moon, Genevieve.”
Everything stops. My heartbeat falters, the air in my lungs freezes. “What did you just say? I couldn’t hear you.”
He nods slowly. “I said what I always say, mon chou. I love you to the moon.”
I bite back the sob. The code word. The one he said would never come. The one we picked because he’s terrified of heights and would never willingly be so high above the earth.
“I love you, too.”
“Now, you just relax and stay there, be in love and happy with Art. Do you understand me? You’ve made a wonderful life together, and it should stay that way. You know we don’t let others see when there are cracks beneath the surface.”
He’s saying it like he’s talking about the weather, but I’m hearing every word differently now.
Don’t say things on the phone. Don’t show them you know something. Act the same as you have been. I’m in danger.
The room narrows to the size of his face on my screen.
He’s telling me everything is wrong. He’s telling me to pretend.
My hands are shaking so hard the phone rattles in my grip.
I nod, because I can’t speak.
“That’s my girl.” His voice breaks, just barely. “We’ll talk soon. Everything is going to be fine, mon chou.”
A tear rolls down my cheek. “I love you, Papa.”
“And I love you. Always and in all ways.”
The screen goes dark.
I sit on the edge of my bed, phone in my lap, staring at nothing.
I love you to the moon.
He’s in danger. Real danger. The kind he spent my whole life shielding me from, and now it’s here, and the only thing I can do is sit in this apartment and pretend I don’t know.
I can’t tell Art. Percy’s words keep circling my skull like vultures. He’s in it, just from a different seat. And even if Art’s not the one pulling the strings, he could get stuck in the crosshairs.
And if my father’s right, if his words are telling me what I think, that I need to act normal, then telling Art’s a risk I can’t take.
I can’t go home to Boston. I can’t run. I can’t call the police because I don’t even know what I’d report. Hi, my dad’s a mob lawyer and someone’s been watching me and I found a suspicious email in my boyfriend’s desk that’s also above a fighting ring that nobody here knows exists.
Which leaves me alone in this apartment with a cold stove and a crumpled blanket and the lingering sting of don’t confuse obligation with me giving a shit.
I look at the throw on the floor. The one that still smells like leather and campfire. The one that belonged to the man who told me he doesn’t care about me two hours after staying awake all night to make sure nothing happened to me.
I’m still angry.
But I’m also terrified. And I’m out of people.
Lance is already inside whatever this is.
He knows about the cage, the fights, the people in charge.
He told me himself he’s on a leash. Which means telling him what my father said wouldn’t be dragging someone into danger.
He’s already there. He’s been there longer than I have. He’s the only one I can trust.
And I hate—hate—that he’s the only person I can say that about.
I pick up the blanket, fold it, and set it on the chair. And then my stomach lurches. I barely make it to the bathroom before my knees hit the tile and everything comes up.
Coffee, fear, and the last shred of the life I thought I had.