Chapter 18 Catherine
Chapter eighteen
Catherine
The Bellini jet hadn’t even made it halfway out of New Mexico before I rerouted. Family could wait. Regret could wait. This, whatever the fuck it was, couldn’t.
I paused at the door, counting my own breath.
Through the crack in the blinds, I saw shadows moving, heard a glass set down hard on plywood.
My old nerves were back, the ones I got from walking into a hostile courtroom, but they hit different now.
This was the first time I’d ever done something truly reckless for my own sake.
I knocked. Once, then twice. Inside, silence.
A minute later, the door opened. Seneca filled the frame, shirtless, jeans half-buttoned, a line of dried blood trailing from his jaw down to his collarbone. He looked like he’d been awake all night, and like he’d kill anyone who threatened to change that.
“Judge,” he said.
I tried to smile. “You gonna let me in or stare until the mosquitoes drain me dry?”
He stepped aside, and I walked past him, careful not to brush against his bare skin.
The trailer’s living room was worse than I could imagine.
A sagging couch, a coffee table built out of milk crates, and a single lamp jury-rigged to an extension cord that snaked across the linoleum.
It looked like nobody had touched the place since the last time it got raided.
The only change was Jenna, standing by the window, arms wrapped tight around herself.
I looked at her, then at Seneca. “So this is what a truce looks like.”
Jenna’s mouth was a tight line. “You came,” she said, soft, like she didn’t quite believe it.
I shrugged off my coat, and for once, I didn’t care about the stains on my shirt or the rip in the knee of my jeans.
I’d dressed for anonymity, not for a bench or a gala or a hit squad.
My hair was still up, but barely; a few dark strands stuck to my neck with sweat.
I tossed the coat on the couch, then sat beside it, legs splayed like I’d never worn a skirt in my life.
For a second, nobody spoke. The only sound was the fridge, ticking and whirring, trying to keep up.
Seneca found a half-empty bottle of bourbon and poured three fingers into a cloudy glass. He held it out to me. As I reached, his fingers brushed mine, just enough to spark a chemical reaction under my skin. I saw him flinch, but neither of us said a word.
Jenna watched the whole thing, her eyes moving back and forth like she was mapping a crime scene.
She’d always been good at that—seeing the angles nobody else saw.
But tonight, the mask had slipped. Her hands trembled, and when she looked at me, I saw real hurt.
Not the calculated, weaponized kind. The real thing.
“So?” Seneca said, standing in the slant of lamplight. “What’s the move?”
The drink burned, but I needed it. “I’m here to listen, though I think it’s an insane idea.”
“I thought you’d be on a jet to Jersey by now,” Seneca said.
“I was going to.” I ran my thumb over the rim of the glass, looking for chips. “But I refuse to let others run my life. I have the final say in my story.” I eyed them both. "Even with you two."
Jenna let out a long, slow breath. “Your father’s going to shit a brick.”
“My father doesn’t own me.” I forced a smile, though it felt like I was stretching rawhide over broken bone. “Neither do you.”
I looked at them, the man I’d almost died with and the woman I’d spent years trying not to want. “I’ve been thinking about both of you since I walked out,” I said, voice soft. “I tried to forget, but I couldn’t.”
Seneca’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t look at me. “You’re not the forgetting type.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not.” The bourbon did its work.
My muscles loosened, and I leaned back, letting the old trailer creak beneath me.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It was surgical.
Everyone waited for someone else to make the first cut.
"But I'm also not the type to share. Honestly, I want one or the other. Not both. I can't do it."
Jenna stepped closer, her high heels sinking into the cheap linoleum, and sat on the arm of the couch, one leg crossed over the other. She met my gaze, and for the first time in years, I saw the real woman behind the courtroom legend. “So, you came back for him,” she said.
I shook my head. “I came back for both of you.” I held up my hands. "Wait, that's not what I mean."
Jenna looked down at her lap, twisting the gold ring on her finger.
“I hated you for leaving,” she said, voice raw.
“But I hated myself more for wanting you to stay.” She looked up, and the fire in her eyes was back, even if it was banked.
“We’re all the same, Catherine. We don’t know how to let go of anything. ”
Seneca laughed, low and hollow. “A judge, a lawyer, and a biker walk into a bar. We’re a fucking joke. Fuck this.” He started toward the door.
I took another drink. “The punchline writes itself, although I don’t believe this story, our story can't be written at a keyboard. There’s more to it. More meaning.”
I looked at my hands, the blunt nails and faded polish. For all my training, all my discipline, I was still a Bellini at heart, wired for blood and loyalty and destruction. But I’d never been good at pretending I didn’t want something.
I let the words hang, waiting to see if anyone would pick them up. Jenna did.
She slid off the armrest and sat beside me, so close I could feel the heat of her skin. “You always said you wanted out of the family business,” she whispered. “Maybe this is your way to finally get out.”
I turned to her. “And you? You want me out, or in?”
She didn’t answer with words. She reached out, slow, deliberate, and put her hand over mine on the couch. Her nails were chipped, and her fingers shook, but her grip was iron.
Seneca watched, his face a battlefield of pride and pain. He reached for the bottle, then set it down without pouring. “You’re both insane,” he muttered.
“Maybe,” I said. “But I’m here. That has to count for something.”
Jenna’s eyes searched mine. “It does,” she said. “It counts for everything.”
The lamp flickered, and the trailer groaned in the wind.
I felt the weight of the night settle on us.
The three of us, bound by history and habit and a need we couldn’t quite put a finger on.
I let go of the glass and let my hand find Jenna’s.
Seneca’s hand, rough and scarred, landed on top of both of ours.
We sat that way, silent and steady, for what felt like forever.
I’d never felt more exposed, or more alive.
We must have sat in that standoff for an hour, maybe two. My mind measured the passing time in the way the bourbon line receded, in the way Seneca’s fingers kneaded unconsciously into my knuckles, in the way Jenna pressed her thigh harder into mine every time the silence threatened to break.
It was Jenna who moved first. She shifted her hand from the table, let it slide up Seneca’s forearm, tracing the mapwork of old scars and black ink.
She did it slow, like she was afraid of breaking something.
Seneca tensed but didn’t stop her. He just watched, eyes following the lazy path of her fingers, until they landed in the pit of his elbow and curled there.
I let my own hand drift up, covered her small fist with my palm, then slid it over his biceps, feeling the twitch of muscle underneath. He didn’t look at me, not yet, but I saw the way his jaw flexed, the way his chest rose and fell just a little faster.
“Remember that day in my office?” Jenna asked, her voice raw.
Seneca grunted, not quite a yes. “That’s when it really started. It was more than just a hard fuck around your office.”
“It was a test,” Jenna said. “That’s what people do. They test each other before diving all the way in.”
“If you’re looking for me to say something deep, meaningful, something you can slap on a meme and pretend, I’m not about to do that.
” He looked at each of us. “But this is what I will tell you. With me, in my arms, you’ll never want another.
And, by the way, this isn’t normal, and I’m okay with that. ”
The truth was, I didn’t want it to be normal. I wanted the ache, the madness, the way it made my head spin to know that every word, every touch, could be a spiral into each other’s souls. "I'm sorry," I said. "I can't do this." With that, I walked out the door.
***
I lit a cigarette on the way to the car and as I reach for the doorhandle, a hand landed on my shoulder, turning me fast enough to send the cigarette flying. I stared into Jenna's eyes, the green transitioning from light to dark and then back to light again.
"Don't leave," she begged. "I know, deep down, you want this as much as I do."
"Why, Jenna? How can you possibly want to share him? Or me?" She pressed me against the car. "Fuck. How can both of us be in love with someone we barely know? I know you love him?"
"Because what we do know is that he's a protector. He cares. About both of us." She buried her face in the crook of my neck.
"Damnit." I looked toward the door and Seneca stood there watching. He nodded and went back inside. "I want to talk to him first."
Jenna backed away. "Okay. Catherine. It's the right thing to do."
I moved from between Jenna and the car, my hand around hers, and I pulled away. Inside, Seneca had gone back to the table.
"Fucked up, isn't it?" He had two whiskey glasses half full. He handed me one and I didn't bother sipping.
"This works out great for you," I said. "Two women sucking your dick."