Chapter Twenty-Four
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Lincoln / Present
A rose gets shoved in my face as I walk down Main Street, and if it weren’t a middle-aged woman, I’d probably hit the person who crowded my personal space. “Buy your sweetheart a rose.”
“No thanks,” I grumble, sidestepping her and ignoring the wafting scent of the flower left behind. The woman who used to run the flower shop passed away a few years ago. The person who bought her out kept the name, but as my relationship with Georgia started deteriorating, so did my trips to the flower shop.
Turns out, flowers didn’t fix everything.
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” she calls out after me. “I picked and trimmed them myself. Five dollars for two, ten dollars for five.”
My eyes go to the flowers in the bucket by her front door that’s still full. I’m sure she’ll get a lot of last-minute shoppers who forget what day it is, like I used to. I tried being good about proactively doing things for Georgia, but my work schedule tended to crowd my memory. “I don’t have anybody to give them to.”
A dubious look twists the stranger’s wrinkled face. “A man like you? I don’t buy it. No, no. You have somebody. I have a sixth sense about these things.”
Great . A flower-selling psychic.
“I’ve got carnations too,” she notes, gesturing toward the basket of white flowers I’m all too familiar with.
My nose wrinkles as old memories resurface. “Pass.”
She walks over to me and passes me five roses. “Eight dollars for the man with sad eyes.”
Sad eyes? “I’m not sad,” I tell her, looking down at the red roses in her hand. Sighing, I pull out my wallet and pass her a ten. She knows damn well what she’s doing. “Keep the change.”
Before I walk away, she says, “You have people in your life. Today is the day of love. It doesn’t have to be romantic.”
Chuckling dryly, I grip the flowers in my palm. “It’s a commercial holiday marketed to couples. It isn’t about love at all. It’s about money.”
The woman smiles at me. “I suppose that’s why you think you don’t have anybody then. You’re confused about what this day is about.”
I’m sure a lot of business owners are saying that to get a few more sales. “Have a good day, ma’am.”
I make my way toward the coffee shop, where an extra-large cup of caffeine is waiting for me before my session tonight with my favorite psychiatrist. But the last thing I expect when I walk in is the sudden scent of Valentino perfume and the back of a familiar head.
My shoulders tense when I scope out the hand pressed against the small of her back, following the arm over to the person it belongs to.
When the man beside her turns, there’s a slick grin on his face.
Luca-Motherfucking-Carbone.
He slides his palm up her back and onto her shoulder, squeezing it once before trailing it back down. This time, he rests it farther south than before, leaving it on the curve of her ass. “Hello, Detective Danforth. Long time, no see.”
Georgia’s body tenses, moving slightly away from the youngest Carbone’s touch before turning in slow motion to meet my gaze.
I see red, snapping the flower stems in my grip until the roses fall to the ground in broken disarray.
It seems appropriate.
Symbolic, even.
Georgia’s eyes follow the discarded flowers.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I hiss, watching as Luca’s smile grows and Georgia’s frown deepens.
I hate Valentine’s Day.
*
It’s ten minutes past when my session starts, and I’m doing my best not to punch the smug nepo baby still smirking at me from the pickup counter.
“Er, sir?” the young cashier says, shifting on her feet. “Will that be cash or card?”
Snapping out of my stare down with the douchebag my ex-wife is standing silently beside, I turn back to the teenager waiting for me to pay for my drink. “Sorry. How much is it?”
When she repeats the number, a ten-dollar bill is handed to her by someone else. I stare at the gold Rolex and know exactly who it is before I even look at the custom suit that’s probably worth my mortgage payment.
“I’ve got it,” Luca says.
“I don’t need you to pay for my damn coffee.”
He puts the change he’s handed into the tip jar with a smile that feigns innocence. “I’d do anything for law enforcement.”
What a crock of shit. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m not interested.”
He holds his hands up. “No games here. Just respect. Putting yourself on the line of duty isn’t for everybody. You have to have a certain mindset to take those risks.”
To anybody else, this might sound like a regular conversation—like he’s complimenting me. But I know better than that. It’s a veiled threat delivered with a politician’s smile.
Honestly, I can’t blame Nikolas Del Rossi for liking Luca Carbone. He’s a great manipulator.
“You know, I never got to reach out and tell you how sorry I am for your loss,” he says, his words boiling my blood. His hand finds my arm, his fingers gripping my biceps. “It’s a shame what happened to your colleague. Such a tragedy that should have been avoided.”
You’re in public, I remind myself, suddenly glad I left my gun at home instead of holstered to my side. “A lot of things should have happened that day,” I reply, dropping my voice so only he can hear me. “There’s still time.”
His smile remains calm, unthreatened. “Not for everybody.”
My fingers twitch at my sides; then my eyes go to the woman still standing by herself with her eyes downtrodden, evading everybody around her like she wants to remain invisible.
I put my hand on Luca’s shoulder and squeeze once. Instead of threatening him or throwing the first punch like he wants me to, I walk around him toward Georgia.
Her shoulders stiffen when she sees the tip of my dirty Wolverine work boots. She was the one who bought them for me. I wear them every day when I’m not on duty. I’ve been tempted to throw them out, but if I threw out everything Georgia gave me over the years, I’d have to buy a whole new wardrobe.
“You were right,” I tell her, dropping my voice so only she can hear. “He’s not me, and he never will be.”
Through her lashes, she peeks up at me with those damn eyes. They’re glassy, pleading like she wants to say something. But what could she possibly say to me to make this okay? There is nothing.
“I expected a lot from you, but not this.” I have no doubt she can feel the fury radiating from me, despite my best efforts to keep it off my face.
Luca Carbone will not get the reaction he wants from me.
“I tried saving you once,” I murmur, shaking my head in disappointment. “But I don’t know if I have the energy to save you again. So now is your chance to tell me if you need it.”
Her lashes flutter, and the softest exhale escapes her lips before a quiet, “Lincoln…”
It’s a shame what happened to your colleague. Such a tragedy that should have been avoided.
“Tell me,” I urge, knowing our time is limited. I take another step closer, wanting nothing more than for her to beg me to take her with me—to get her far away from the person who caused us so much pain. “Tell me you need me. Because if you don’t…” I swallow, feeling the eyes of Luca Carbone burning holes into my back. But fuck him. Fuck him and fuck her family. “If you don’t, this is it, Georgia. If you let me walk away today without you, our memories will be what’s left of us. I can’t keep doing this with you. Not when he’s here in your life. Not after everything.”
Tell me he’s forcing you.
Tell me it’s blackmail.
Tell me you have no choice.
A man like Luca Carbone will only allow what he deems his to have so much freedom before suffocating it like a fire. To him, Georgia is an item. An object. Not a person. He sees her the same way Nikolas does—as a pawn to be traded and used when they see fit.
So why the hell is she here with him?
“Lincoln,” she whispers. “I need you…” Her eyes flicker toward Luca. When they find my face again, she takes a deep breath. “I need you to let this go. Let this all go. It’s for your own good.”
For my own—
“Who the hell are you?” I ask, my head moving back and forth as I stare at the stranger I used to call mine.
When she just stands there, I realize I’m not going to get what I want from her. There is no silent plea in her eyes, no desperation to get out. As those amber eyes skate over me, there’s not even an ounce of lust or love like there used to be. They’re hollow. Distant.
Standing before me is an empty shell of a woman I don’t even recognize anymore.
Luca Carbone steps in. “I think you’ve said enough, Detective. Don’t be desperate. It isn’t a good look on you.”
He’s baiting me.
Seeing what I’ll do.
My eyes stay on Georgia when I say, “I’ve said all I need to.” Finally, I peel my gaze away from her and toward the asshole in a tailored suit. “It’s ironic,” I tell him. “You’re telling me not to be desperate when you’ve been chasing after Georgia for years, waiting for her to finally choose you. It must be hard to swallow knowing she never fully will.”
Luca steps toward me until the toes of his polished shoes are pressed against my muddy boots. “And why is that?”
I simply smile. “Don’t you know? You’ll never be me.”
His eyes darken as I shoot him a smug smile, going to step around him now that there’s nothing left to say.
He stops me, grabbing my bad shoulder and squeezing the exact spot blanketed by scars until I suck in a harsh breath. “Whether you like it or not, I’m not the enemy.”
Nostrils flaring open at the pain shooting down my arm that he applies pressure on, I grab his wrist and yank him away from me. “You could have fooled me.” I step away first. “Enjoy my sloppy seconds, Carbone. And be sure to tell your father I said hello.”
As I walk toward the door, I dump the coffee he bought into the trashcan.
It’s twenty-five minutes past my session.
But I don’t care.
I get in my truck and drive in the opposite direction of the therapist’s office until I park next to a line of motorcycles lining the side of The Barrel.
Sliding onto the stool at the bar, I don’t bother looking up at the bartender, who’s always here on Wednesdays, and say, “Don’t ever serve me Johnnie Walker again. Even if I ask for it.”
I don’t have to look to know she’s studying me with an inquisitive brow. “On a break with Johnnie Walker?”
We both know it’s not Johnnie Walker I’m breaking up with. “Something like that.”
She hums, pouring an IPA from the tap and sliding it in front of me. “It’s about time you pulled your head out of your ass.” When I try passing her cash, she shakes her head. “That one is on me.”
Tucking the money into the tip jar, I take a swig of my favorite beer. “Thanks, Shelly.”
All she does is dip her chin and continue stacking cups on the back shelf.
“How come you never hit on me?” I ask, sipping the drink. “I’ve seen you hit on everybody else around here.”
Shelly stops what she’s doing and props her hip against the counter. “Baby, I can smell damaged from a mile away. There are some people I won’t touch with a ten-foot pole, no matter how hot they are.”
“You think I’m hot?”
She snorts. “Men like you are heartbreakers. I see it all the time. Even if I hit on you, we both know you wouldn’t have done anything.”
She’s not wrong.
“Plus,” she adds. “A girl needs good tips.”
Her wink makes me chuckle.