20
That afternoon, Jake and I sit across the table from a man I barely recognize.
The last time I saw my brother was four years ago, and since then, he’s been moved to a unit that allows contact visitations on the weekends.
No glass partitions. No telephone receivers. Still no touching, except for a brief hello and goodbye hug.
I’ve been tongue-tied since the moment I walked into the visiting room and spotted him.
He and Jake fall into the easy camaraderie that’s always existed between them. Meanwhile, I can’t stop staring at the hardened, gruff-voiced man before me.
He sounds like he smokes two packs a day, and he looks like he spends all his time punching a heavy bag. Or other inmates. It’s not that he’s overly muscular. He just seems really strong. The mean kind of strong.
His sunken cheeks accentuate the blade-sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones. Dark circles underline his dark green eyes, and an undercurrent of violence hovers around him. His demeanor threatens anyone who dares a peek in his direction.
What has this place done to him?
“Conor?” His head cocks, eyes narrowed.
“Hm?”
“I asked you a question.”
Jake shifts beside me and rests an arm along the back of my chair. “Of course, I’m taking care of her.”
“He’s helping me through some things.” I tap my fingers on the table, wondering how much Lorne knows about Jake’s attempt at psychotherapy.
Lorne glances at my nervous twitching and meets my eyes. “When did you get the ink?”
Relieved by his question, I update him on the tattoo sessions, my schooling, and Miles York. “I played your guitar.”
“Yeah.” His cheek bounces with an almost smile. “Jarret told me. Wish I could hear you play.”
He asks about my classes, and I dive into the details of my lab work. The more I talk, the more I relax. He interrupts with the kind of inquiries and responses I expect from Lorne, and I start to feel like I’m chatting with my brother and not some convicted murderer.
I’ve never labeled him as such, even though that’s exactly why he’s here.
He murdered a man.
In less than two weeks, I intend to do the same thing.
Except the man he killed was innocent.
“Do you regret it?” My whisper creeps across the table and shivers along the dull concrete walls.
“No.” He sets his forearms on the surface and leans forward. “Your life is worth more than a hundred years served in here. Ten years is nothing.”
“ My life? What does that have to do with—?”
“Tell her.” Lorne glares at Jake. “Soon . She needs to understand my position on this.”
“I will.” Jake rests a hand on my thigh.
“I need to understand all of it.” I push his arm away and tick a furious glare between them. “The three of you have been plotting and scheming and riding roughshod over my life, and I’m done with it.”
“We’re trying to help you.” The heat in Lorne’s eyes is fiercer than my own.
“I don’t need help.”
“You have PTSD, Conor.”
I know he’s right and bury the thought. “Help me by telling me the truth. You guys say you’re protecting me, but I don’t know why I need protection in the first place.”
I glance around the room, knowing we can’t discuss this here. Conversations are monitored and recorded.
“Convince him to tell me.” I thrust a thumb at Jake. “Did you know he’s holding information for ransom?”
“What’s the progress on that?” Lorne asks Jake.
“She’ll know everything within the next two weeks.” Jake looks at me sidelong. “ If she behaves.”
“You can both kiss my ass.” I huff out a breath, exasperated. “I’m not standing on any more stumps. I’d rather hang my saddle on the fence and throw dirt at it.”
“I don’t envy you.” Lorne grins at Jake, and that smile sucks the irritation right out of me.
The back-road curve of his mouth brightens his eyes, returning the brother I remember, the happy boy who teased me as much as he protected me.
“I miss that smile.” My hand itches to reach for him, but touching isn’t allowed. “I miss you .”
He has four years left to serve. If he keeps his nose clean in here, he might get paroled in two years.
“I miss you more than you know.” His smile vanishes beneath darkening eyes and a furrowed brow. He lowers his stare to the scar on his palm and presses a thumb against it. “I wish I could be there when you honor our pact.”
“Me, too,” I say.
Jake grips my hand under the table, and I let him.
Lorne looks up, his expression soft. “I wish I could be a part of your healing process. Someday, I hope you forgive me for keeping you away.”
My heart squeezes. “Can we talk on the phone? Can I call you?”
“I’d love that.”
We catch up on little things until our hour is over. Then we end the visitation with the quick hug-and-release contact we’re allowed.
Jake collects his hat and belt from the security desk and walks me to his truck.
Thirty minutes into the drive home, he hasn’t spoken much, but I feel him watching me in that way he does. Monitoring, assessing, trying to read my thoughts.
“You should keep your eyes on the road.” I swipe through my playlist, looking for a new song.
When he returned my phone this morning, he informed me he called Miles and arranged to have my belongings packed up.
I don’t own much—just a laptop and clothes—so there should only be a few boxes.
Since I don’t have a place to live at the moment, I didn’t argue when he said the boxes would be shipped to the ranch.
“I need to find an apartment.” I continue to scroll through my music selection, dismissing all the cheery songs.
“It’s only an hour drive between the ranch and school.” He glances at me. “When we were kids, that was our plan. You were going to stay with me at the ranch and drive to school every day.”
“I’m not moving in.”
“You already have.”
“You’re delusional.” I keep my gaze on the phone, protecting myself from the enchantment of his gorgeous brown eyes.
“I know I haven’t earned your trust or forgiveness, but I will. ”
I pretend to ignore him.
His hand clenches on the steering wheel, and he punches the gas pedal, jerking me back against the seat. “Stop fucking with your phone and look at me.”
My search for a song ends as Not Ready To Make Nice by Dixie Chicks crosses my screen. I press play and throw him an arched eyebrow.
As he listens to the lyrics, a black cloud shifts across his face. The cords in his neck stretch. His lips pull back, and his hand snaps through the space between us. “Give me the phone.”
I angle it out of his reach.
“Now!” He roars, making me jump.
Anger flashes in his eyes, and something akin to fear carves through me. I quickly hand it over.
He powers it off and secures it in the console, with his elbow resting on the lid. Then he turns his gaze to the road.
Swallowing past a tight throat, I find my voice. “What just happened?”
“I’ve been too soft on you.”
“Too soft—?”
“You needed a couple of days to adjust to being home and around me again. I gave you that.” His eyes lure and capture mine. “My goodwill has come to an end. It’s about to get very real for you.”
A chill whispers across my skin. “You’re making me uncomfortable.”
“Expect more of that. More discomfort with a whole lot of tears and pain and catharsis . Cross those arms all you want. You’ll stand up to the challenge, because the Conor I know never backs down.”
I uncross my arms. “I’m not that girl.”
“That’s right. You’re stronger, fiercer, and so goddamn ornery it makes me hard.
Really fucking hard.” The hoarse rasp of his voice curls through me like a slow burning flame.
“I fell in love with your resilient spirit, and you’re still in possession of that.
If you weren’t, I’d do this another way. ”
My reflexive reaction is to punch him in the nuts, but I’ll save that fight for when he tells me what he’s planning.
“In two weeks,” he says, glancing between me and the road, “we’re going to commit the same crime that put your brother in prison.”
“Except Lorne killed an innocent man. Wyatt Longley lost his life for no reason.” I hope to God Jake isn’t getting cold feet. “Levi Tibbs doesn’t deserve to breathe.”
With one hand on the steering wheel, he places the other on the seat between us, palm up. “Give me your wrist.”
“No.” The hair on my nape stands on end, and I scoot closer to the door. “I can’t do that.”
“Put your wrist on my hand and I’ll explain how Lorne killed a bad man.”
“What?” My scalp tingles. “What do you mean?”
“Your wrist.”
My pulse thrashes, like the wind whipping against the windshield. The tone of his voice is so damn demanding, but that isn’t what moves me. It’s the love in his eyes, assuring me without speaking, protecting me without taking.
Something dormant in me answers, compelling me to gamble on that love.
I lift my arm and rest my wrist on his palm.
The strong muscles in his hand remain slack and loose, his fingers slightly bent but not clenched. I wait for the memories to rise, but Jake’s words distract me.
“Andy and Wyatt Longley shouldn’t have been near the ravine that night. They had no business traipsing around in the south pasture at all.” He scowls. “They were there to help two hitmen sneak on and off the property and dispose of the bodies left behind.”
“Bodies?” My stomach knots. “Mine and Lorne’s?”
“Yes.” Not a single twitch or crease of maybe I’m wrong in his stern expression.
“You have proof.”
“Three years ago, I recorded a conversation between my dad and Andy Longley.”
“You were spying on them?”
“By that time, I was spying on everyone . Their conversation didn’t elude to criminal activity, but something about it made me suspicious. So I confronted Andy and extracted a confession.”
“How?”
“I relieved him of his teeth. With my fist. Then I relieved him of his job.” He sets his jaw. “Only reason I let him live is because he let Lorne live. He was armed the night of your birthday and could’ve easily shot Lorne for killing his son.”
Pounding explodes in my ears. Is Jake in the habit of not letting people live?
“Does Lorne know?” I ask.