Chapter 3
Jericho
Those fucking emails have eaten away at me for days. Despite the fact that I haven't checked the account again, I can still picture her words typed out in black and white.
They've bothered me so much that I've reached out to an old friend I made through my years working for ICE. I don't need people around her wondering why I'm looking backward instead of moving forward with my life.
I've been waiting to hear back from him because I requested him to look into Aspen's life, although I know I have no business checking up on her. I've stayed away because everyone in that organization, other than Damien Gaines, thinks I'm dead, and it's best for everyone if they keep believing that.
I don't know why I think knowing more about her life now will make that itch disappear, but it's the only way I know to scratch it at the moment.
"Excuse me," I tell the other guys in the living room as I stand when my phone rings.
I've been sitting here for the last two hours, pretending to be interested in the show playing on the television, but I couldn't even tell you what is on the damn thing.
"Hey," I say when I step outside on the porch and connect the call.
"You sure you want to be looking into shit like this?" Ricco asks, and I knew I was going to get this shit from him.
The guy, just like many other connections I have, knows exactly how dangerous Damien Gaines and the organization he's leading can be.
They don't like people snooping around, and they never hesitate to silence anyone they think is speaking about them.
"It's not like I can get social media updates," I mutter, knowing it was a risk to reach out to him after all this time.
"True," he says. "Aspen Reese, now Gaines, is Damien Gaines's wife. They've been married for almost eight years. They have a seven-year-old son named—"
"A kid?" I snap. "They have a fucking kid."
"Eli Gaines," Ricco confirms.
I feel like the weight of the world is pressing down on my shoulders. The news drops me to my ass on the front porch steps. She actually had a kid with the bastard. Despite knowing she moved on with her life, I don't think I ever pictured her doing it so spectacularly with a man she claimed to hate. I knew they'd end up married. Her father guaranteed she would although she always fought against the idea, claiming to be scared of him.
"Jericho? You still there?"
"I'm here," I mutter, head dropped into my palm as I fight the sudden wave of a headache.
"You seem upset. Is there something I should know about?"
I scoff. The man isn't linked to me other than this favor I've called in and a few jobs years ago that he helped me out on. It always comes at a cost. He's not a friend, and this information search is costing me a pretty penny. Hell, I can't be a hundred percent sure the guy won't run to Damien and tell him I was looking into Aspen's life. He's not exactly one of those folks who's always keeping his nose clean, and I'm sure every guy that crosses the line has a price.
"Is there anything else?"
"I couldn't find a shipment list of them bringing in drugs or guns, if that's what you're asking."
I shake my head, pinching the bridge of my nose as irritation swims inside of me. "I knew you wouldn't find shit like that," I grumble.
"You'd be surprised what people put in their digital calendars," Ricco says.
"Anything of importance on Aspen?"
"Nothing else on her. She doesn't get out much. Goes to the hair salon once a week, but that's about it. They have staff that does the shopping. They don't have any deliveries to the house. Their son is in some sort of prep academy, but as I expected, the name and location are hidden. Gaines wouldn't want anyone having access to him."
Of course, they'd have their kid in a special school at such a young age. That's what money does to people. It keeps them from raising their own kids because they have other important things to do.
"Thanks, man. You got your fee?"
I know he did. The payment had to clear before he'd even call me back. At the end of the day, he's a businessman, and he's not going to waste his time.
"Yep. Let me know if you need anything else."
The line goes dead. I know I could call him back right now at the number he called me from and it wouldn't connect, or some grandma in Oregon who has had the number for a decade would answer the phone.
As I stand on the porch and stare off into the snow-dusted trees, I consider that maybe I went into the wrong line of work. Ricco doesn't put his life on the line. I bet he's never been shot at, much less actually shot. He's never had a knife to his throat or one slicing down his face because he trusted the wrong woman.
As much as I know I'll hate myself more for doing it, I head back into the house and up the stairs to my room. I flip my laptop open and, once again, log back into the email account. I pore over every word again. As sad as she seems, I know she chose this life.
I begged her to run away with me, to get out from under her father and his promise of her to another man.
But who was I to her? Another grunt in her father's army. She was accustomed to prestige and more money than she knew what to do with. She didn't want a man who was sharing an apartment with three other goons who also worked for her father.
I didn't have anything to offer her. I promised to keep her safe and told her we could have a life where we didn't have to look over our shoulders and wonder if the police were going to come knocking on the door. But it was clear the day that Damien caught us together that she didn't want that. A life that consisted of working hard for your money as a law-abiding citizen didn't interest her. The easy money that came with selling guns and drugs was more appealing, even if it meant marrying a man she didn't love. He was able to give her everything she wanted.
I couldn't see her need for so many material things when I was standing in front of her. I was blinded by her beauty and the soft words she whispered to me. All I could hear from her lips were the dreams she had. Thinking back now, I realize they were tainted by her lack of experience in the real world. Money isn't just handed to you. Someone has to work for it. It was very clear when she kept her eyes locked on the floor while Damien was scarring my face that she wasn't interested in contributing to the life she whispered about when we had time alone.
I guess it's just my shitty luck that the girl I went into the organization to flip got one over on me by making me fall in love, risking not only my career but also my life to try and pull her from the organization.
Reading the emails for a third time, I realize she is still just as manipulative and self-centered as she always has been. There isn't one mention of Damien or their son, Eli. There's no reason for her not to mention either one of them. As far as she knows, I'm dead. I don't know why she'd leave that information out, especially because she hints at the organization causing her suffering, and her husband is the head of it.
She speaks of wanting to escape, but I know from firsthand experience that she'd never do anything to inconvenience herself to get away.
Irritation begins to transition into anger, and within minutes, I'm more outraged than anything else.
Yanking the chair out from under the desk, I drop into it and start typing.
I pour out every minute of frustration that I've felt over the years. All the hatred flows from my fingertips, and I'm so livid I don't even worry about the typos. I fucking hate her. I hate that she made me love her, only to turn her back on me at the last moment. I hate that I've wasted so much fucking time thinking of her and worrying about her despite her betrayal. I fucking hate that she let a man she swore she hated touch her.
I hate that I ever fucking met her because my life would be a hell of a lot different if I never had.
I hate that if I concentrate hard enough, I can feel her skin under my fingertips, and all it takes is one deep inhale and I can smell her skin.
I type it all out, my mouse hovering over the send button when I'm done, the email looking angry and aggressive, all the red lines rotating the errors fitting for my mood. They're like all the tiny cuts her memory has made on my body, both the email and I bleeding red.
I hit send, but then the memo pops up on the bottom, asking if I want to unsend. Like the fool I am, I click yes, sending the email to draft rather than to the woman whom it's directed to.
I roar with frustration, standing so quickly from the desk that the office chair rolls backward, crashing into my bed frame.
I head to the door, thinking a walk in the woods might clear my fucking head, or maybe I'll find a fucking bear willing to put me out of my misery.