Chapter 8 Delaney
DELANEY
Question of the day – what’s your favorite color?
It’s a tie between minty green and pink.
But not a bright, obnoxious pink.
A pale pretty pink.
Did you always want to work with flowers?
That’s a second question, Beneventi.
We agreed to one a day.
Humor me, Bambi.
I’m waiting to get my hamstring worked on, and I’m bored.
Are you okay?
Fine.
Just need to get stretched.
Now focus. Flowers.
Fine. Yes.
I wanted to be a landscape architect.
I never got further than a few classes at community college.
—Text from Ryker to Delaney
“You doing okay, Lane?”
I drop the stem strippers to the wooden work top with a ridiculously loud thunk. Oops. It’s not like it’s Genevieve’s fault I’m so sick of being asked this that the words themselves make me want to scream. “I’m okay.”
Still a lie.
Still hoping if I say it enough, it’ll eventually be true.
The gorgeous woman leans her hip against the table, her wild red hair curling in every direction. She’s not buying my answer, but she’s not calling me out on it either. I’ll take that as a win for now. “Ryker’s out front for you.”
Damn. I guess I lost track of time.
“Are you sure it’s okay if I leave?” I almost wish she’d say no. That she needs me here so I couldn’t leave, but Gen would never. In the two months since this woman hired me, she’s been nothing but kind.
“It’s the police, Lane. You can’t just reschedule them. Go. Get this over with.” She slides her hand next to mine without touching. Silently supporting.
I’m fairly certain she’s seen her own share of trauma.
You learn to recognize the signs in other people.
Like the way she’s careful never to push.
“You won’t be able to start to heal until this part is over with.
And you can’t press charges until you’ve given your statement.
Don’t let him get away with this, Delaney. ”
Knowing she’s right doesn’t make it feel any better.
Squaring my shoulders, I push away from the bench and my half-finished arrangement. “Thanks, Gen. I can come back after—”
“Absolutely not. Do this, then get something to eat and veg on the couch with that fiancé of yours.” Genevieve raises her brows like she truly believes there’s something going on between Ryker and me. She knows there’s not but hasn’t called me out on it yet.
Most of our friends know this thing between us isn’t real, even if they’ve been kind enough to go with the flow. At least as far as I know. Ryker hasn’t mentioned anything. And since I use the term friend very loosely, I guess it works for now.
On unsteady feet, I make my way to the front of the shop to find my new fiancé looking at the arrangements in the refrigerator. He must not hear me coming until I’m nearly next to him, when his head snaps up. “Hey, Lane.”
“Sorry to make you wait,” I tell him and try to sign. I’ve spent all my extra time these past few days trying to improve my ASL. YouTube has become my best friend. And it’s not like I’m sleeping anyway. I might as well be productive.
His smile is beautiful. A funny word for such a masculine man, but seriously, it fits.
Full lips tug up a truly handsome face. The kind you’d find on a movie star in an action flick.
Blue eyes practically shine as they scan me from top to toe, and I swear, his whole body relaxes.
Like now that he’s seen me . . . sees that I’m safe, he can relax.
It makes no sense. A backward black baseball hat covers nearly jet-black hair and makes those chiseled features stand out even more.
Add all his ink to that and the fact that he’s actually a good guy, and my God, it makes for one truly sexy package.
And that’s coming from someone who rarely thinks that way.
But with him—there’s no denying.
“You got the words right, Bambi.”
My cheeks flame with a mix of embarrassment and pride.
“I’m trying. I know you have your hearing aids in most of the time, but I don’t want you to have to read my lips when they’re not in.
You shouldn’t have to work to speak to your wife.
” Self-conscious, I want to look away but can’t. “I’ll get there.”
Ryker’s warm breath skims along my ear as he leans down. “Thanks.”
Why does that one simple word go such a long way?
An hour later, we’ve been separated and interviewed individually.
Olivia told us it would happen, but I still wasn’t prepared for what it would feel like to relive the worst night of my life. And that’s saying something—because I’ve had a lifetime of bad nights.
No child should live in fear of their father or the people he brought around.
Or the drugs and the guns and the death.
Detective Brooks rises from across the table, seemingly satisfied with my answers even if he’s unwilling to give me any of his own, when Olivia storms in. “Excuse me. Why were you questioning her again?”
“We had a few follow-ups to go over, and you were with Mr. Beneventi,” Brooks warns.
“It’s fine,” I try to calm the situation. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
“It is a big deal when they question you without your attorney present,” she snaps and slaps a hand against the table. “Don’t do it again.”
The warning clear as day.
Can she do that?
I guess so since he doesn’t seem the least bit bothered when he flicks his eyes my way. “Second time you’ve been in here in a few months, Ms. Rousseau. Maybe try to stay out of trouble, so we don’t have to make it a third.”
I rock back on my feet, feeling those words hit as hard as if he’s slapped me himself.
My father is a bad man.
He’s been a bad man most of my life.
But that’s him, not me.
I helped send him to jail after he kidnapped Ashton.
But I didn’t have a damn thing to do with that happening.
Just with bringing it to an end.
“Are you insinuating Ms. Rousseau was in any way responsible for what happened to her, detective? That anything that happened to her was her fault? Because if you are, I swear on my legal license that I will have your badge before my head hits the pillow tonight. And I promise you, I’ll sleep like a baby after. ”
I take it back.
I don’t want to be Ryker when I grow up.
I want to be Olivia.
I mean, she’s probably only a few years older than me, but damn . . . she’s impressive.
“Come on, Delaney.” She gently guides me through the door.
“Ryker’s done, and we’re leaving.” When I turn, I catch her nailing Brooks with a glare so lethal, I’m surprised he’s still breathing.
“If you have any further questions, you can contact my office. But I would advise you to consider your next words to my client very carefully because I will not hesitate to slap a lawsuit on this precinct so fast your head will spin.” She stares at me until I take the hint and move through the door I’m blocking, and I turn in time to catch her smile and wave. “Have a nice night, detective.”
Once we’re in the hall, my shoulders sag with relief. That was awful. “How’s Ryker?”
The hesitant look in her eyes is concerning. “He’s waiting in the lobby.” She leans closer. “Remember, you’re in love and getting married. Now go sell this, Delaney.”
I pull back, reading between the lines.
They’re watching.
When I was a little girl, I played Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. I had dark hair and a hand-me-down costume from one of the waitresses at my parents’ bar. Apparently, that’s all I needed to get the part because I learned quickly just what an awful actress I was.
Here’s hoping I’ve gotten better.
We round the corner, and I see Ryker leaning with his back against the wall and his thick arms crossed over his chest. His gray Kings tee pulled tight. My dark knight.
Here goes nothing.
I walk right into his space, fighting through the hesitation trying to hold me back.
“How’d it—” He freezes as I wrap my arms around his shoulders and bury my face in his neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Are you okay?” I ask, careful to speak quietly against his ear.
His strong arms pull me closer, hold me tighter. Lifting me from my feet. I ignore the spark of pain in my ribs and focus on the strange unfamiliar comfort I’m wrapped in instead. “Yeah, Bambi. I’ll be fine. Are you okay?”
“Yes. But I want to go home,” I admit quietly.
He sets me back on my feet. “Then let’s go home.”
Ryker sits down next to me, a bowl of popcorn in hand, and picks up his tablet.
“Do you want me to change the channel?” I ask, pausing the newest season of my favorite Netflix show.
“Nah. I’m just going to read.” He holds the closed tablet up as if to say, Hey, look. I’ve got an ebook.
I take a moment to think about my question and try to sign the words, hoping I don’t mess them up. “What are you reading?”
He opens the cover and powers it on, then flips it around.
“Wait—that’s a romance book.” I study the cover and the familiar name at the bottom of it. “A spicy romance book.”
Seriously, you could knock me over with a feather right now.
What the hell is he doing reading a spicy romance book?
Ryker’s cheeks pink, and it might just be the most endearing thing I’ve ever seen. “Hasn’t Ashton told you about book club?”
“She has.” I take the device out of his hand and skim the synopsis. “But . . .”
“But what?” he asks and takes it back. “Are your reading tastes too elevated for romance? Wait—you’re not a reading snob, are you?
Because I’ve got to tell you the guys and I didn’t expect to like them, but they’re pretty good.
I like the fantasy ones better than the sports romances though.
I like the action, and half these authors get the sports wrong. ”
Huh. That was not what I was expecting.
“We just started this one,” he adds. “You should read it too. We meet for drinks and food and talk about them after.”
I’ve heard about book club. Ashton was adopted into it and has been bugging me to join. Maybe I should have asked more questions.