What’s Left of Us

Chapter Thirty-Nine

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Lincoln / Present

A coffee pot appears out of my peripheral and refills my mug, snapping me away from the dissociative thoughts drowning out the mindless chatter of the diner. “You look like you could use a second cup along with a good night’s sleep,” the owner says, propping her hip against the edge of the table.

Humming, I bring the cup to my lips and sip the bitter liquid. “I could say the same about you, Sandy. I’m surprised you’re working the night shift.”

She sets the coffee pot on the table. “Didn’t have a choice. Two of my girls called out, leaving me short-staffed. But it’s no matter. It gets me out of the house and a break from the hubby.”

Chuckling, I sip my coffee. “As long as you have a plan.”

“Are you getting your usual?”

I dip my chin, checking my watch. “And a chicken parm panini and steak fries with a side of marinara sauce.”

The familiar order has Sandy’s brows rising with interest. “Ah. It’s been a while since I’ve seen the two of you in the same place together. Should I hide the knives?”

My lips twitch at the implication. “Don’t call the police on us yet, or I’ll never live it down at the station,” I muse.

She hums, interest coating her expression, but chooses not to say a word. Patting my shoulder, she takes her coffee pot back to the machine and puts our order in.

Ears perking up when I hear the click-clack of heels on tile, I straighten my shoulders when my senses are filled with floral perfume. I only lift my gaze from my coffee when a body slides into the cushioned bench seat across from me.

One of my eyebrows quirks up when I see the oversized jacket wrapped around her, then to the silk scarf wrapped around her neck that hides half her face, before lifting my eyes to the brown hair tied back into an updo and out of her face.

“I wasn’t aware you were interested in undercover work,” I say, watching as she unbuttons her jacket and unwraps the scarf, hiding the bottom half of her face.

It’s the same scarf I used to bind her with months ago, making my lips twitch. An intentional choice?

She sets the scarf beside her. “What are you talking about?”

I gesture toward the getup she’s in. “You’re clearly wearing a disguise.”

She slowly undoes the buttons of her jacket to reveal the low-cut shirt underneath. I’m surprised Luca let her walk out looking like that.

“Are you done ogling my boobs?” she asks, taking my coffee and wrapping her unpainted lips around the edge for a sip.

She hates coffee, especially the way I drink it. Not that you’d know it by the smirk she offers as she sets it down and uses her manicured nail to push it toward me.

“I was hoping to see that you popped your wonder bra,” I remark casually, finally meeting her eyes. They’re not painted with makeup, her lashes aren’t pristine and curled, and there’s no liner that makes her amber eyes brighter like I’m used to.

The girl sitting across from me reminds me of the version who I fell in love with.

“Are you saying I’m prickly?”

“Like hugging a cactus these days,” I deadpan.

Humming, she drapes her coat in the spot beside her. “I seem to recall a time when you liked my prickly personality.”

Her eyes pan over to me, scanning my face. God only knows what she sees. I haven’t slept more than three hours in weeks and have had approximately two coffee pots worth of coffee with very little food with any nutritional value to soak it up with.

My eyes go back to her hair. “Back to your roots?”

Her hands go to the tips of the hair framing her face. “Sometimes you have to make sacrifices. The blond was a lot to keep up with.”

And I’m sure her father disapproved of the color. “I’m the last person you should be preaching to about sacrifices, Georgia.”

Her eyes lower to the table.

Scrubbing a hand down my tired face, I take a long sip of coffee and set it down. “You wanted to talk.”

“I guess the time for pleasantries is behind us,” she mumbles, staring at the glass of water I had Sandy pour for her. She reaches for it and wraps those long, lean fingers around the condensation-covered cup. “I overheard a conversation my father was having with somebody over the phone. Don’t ask me who because I don’t know. But he told the person that he knew they needed to take care of Michael Welsh before he talked more.”

My shoulders square.

She trails her finger up and down the glass, making insignificant pictures in the condensation and not paying me any mind. “You used to talk about Michael Welsh a lot, so I know you know him.”

When she picks her head up, she sees me staring at her. “Why are you telling me this?”

The eyes lacking makeup soften. “Whoever was on the other end of the phone wasn’t giving him any other options. He’s been paranoid. Angry. He fired three of his seasoned employees that were with him for decades at The Del Rossi Group. Leani is…” Her throat bobs. “I haven’t seen her so scared before. I go there to make sure she’s okay, but she’s not.”

“And what do you expect me to do about it? I’ve told you plenty of times before that it was only a matter of time before he dug himself into a hole he couldn’t get out of. I gave Leani the numbers she needed to call. I can’t force somebody to file a complaint.”

“I…” She stops herself, takes a deep breath, and releases the glass. “I wasn’t asking you to do that. I’m not asking you to help him or even her. I’m asking you to help me .”

All I can do is stare at her. She acts like there’s a difference between the two, but I know there isn’t. Helping her would be helping Nikolas Del Rossi, and I have no intention of doing that.

“I can’t do that, Peaches.”

The nickname has her eyes darting upward in surprise. “Can’t or won’t?”

Sighing, I say, “Georgia—” I close my eyes and count to three, remembering we’re in a public place. “I need you to be reasonable. You’re asking a lot of me about something you knew I wouldn’t be on board about. I have no reason to help either of you after what you’ve done.”

Her eyes remain locked on the water, not giving me an ounce of attention. It’s better that way. Those eyes make me do stupid things, and I can’t afford to make any more dumb decisions in my life.

The next time she speaks, her tone is nearly inaudible. “I thought I could help him.” Her tongue drags across her lips to wet them before her shoulders slouch. “I wanted to help him before it was too late. He may not be a good man, but he’ll always be my father.”

Her admission is one I’ve been waiting to hear for a long time. I knew she loved him, even when he gave her every reason not to. She was still there. Still trying. Still reaching out a helping hand for somebody who deserved every bad thing that came his way.

Ever so quietly, she says, “Luca could help me get the father I knew back. That’s why…”

That’s why she left me.

It’s the reason I always knew but never heard her admit. She’ll always choose Nikolas Del Rossi, no matter the circumstances.

Shaking my head, I lean back in the booth and grip the ceramic mug until my knuckles turn white. “I told you I’d help you.”

“Don’t lie to me, Lincoln.” She sounds so tired. So defeated. And, for once, I’m not sure I feel bad for her. Because she did this to herself. “We both know you never wanted to help him. You wanted to destroy him. All those years of you going behind my back to take him down in a way you could—”

“I did that for you .” I cut her off, gripping the edge of the table. “I did that for your freedom. For your happiness. You didn’t want to live the life he chose for you.”

“But that didn’t mean I wanted his life ruined, Lincoln! He’s family, no matter how convoluted that might seem to you.”

There will never be a day when we agree on this. She’ll always stand up for him, while I want nothing more than to stand back and watch him burn.

“So you let him ruin everybody else’s life instead,” I state, nodding emptily. “I guess you are a Del Rossi, after all.”

Hurt shadows her expression. It’s the last thing she wants to hear, but as I sit there and watch her gape at me, I realize one thing.

I don’t care.

I.

Don’t.

Care.

And goddamn, is that a freeing feeling.

“I’m trying to make a difference,” she whispers, her voice shaky. “You have no idea what I’ve had to do to make sure things change. For Leani. For you. For me.”

Her eyes grow distant as they glance to the window into the dark night.

But what about what I’ve done?

“I came here to tell you what I heard. Not just for me or him. But so more people aren’t pulled into the mess he’s made,” she murmurs. “I’m doing what I can to make sure my father doesn’t destroy more people’s lives.”

I watch her, loosening my hold on the table and leaning up. “The problem is,” I murmur with a sigh. “I don’t think I believe you.”

Her lips part at the words I’ve never spoken before. Thought, sure. But I never said them aloud. It would have put the final nail in the coffin a long time ago if I did.

“You don’t want him to cross lines that he can’t go back from,” I say. “But he already has. There’s no changing what he’s done. To us. To other people. You want the truth? The only way to help him is to stop him.”

She closes her eyes.

“I get it, Georgia.” My throat bobs. “Family is important, and we can’t help who we love regardless of what they do.”

When she finally looks at me, there’s an emptiness in her eyes that feels permanent. She’s doing this because she loves him, and it’s the same reason I tried helping her. Because I thought it was love. But what if it wasn’t? “I guess we know that well by now, don’t we?” she murmurs.

Two plates appear in front of us by Sandy, who studies the tense expression on our faces before shaking her head and walking away. But not before I hear the older woman murmur “a damn shame” under her breath as she goes.

Georgia lowers her eyes to study the panini in front of her.

Her usual.

“I guess we would,” I finally answer, picking up my burger and taking a bite.

She watches me in silence.

Swallows her words.

And then dips a fry into the side of marinara sauce because she prefers that over ketchup.

We eat in silence, just like most of the meals we shared at the end of our relationship. We held everything back then. Let it build and build and build until the feelings combusted.

It ruined us.

We walk out to the parking lot together and stop at my truck parked in the back lot, blanketed by the trees. “I’ll look into the Welsh thing,” I tell her.

It’s the only thing I offer. The only thing I can. I may not like Welsh, but that doesn’t mean I want to see him with a target on his back.

Georgia kicks a pebble, watching it tumble underneath the undercarriage of my truck. “For whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Leaning my back against the door, I ask, “For what?”

Her eyes lift. “For everything. I thought we would be enough to drown out the noise. I never thought we’d wind up here.”

Didn’t she though? “You could have tried harder, Peaches.”

Her eyes sadden. “You could have too. I asked you to stop. I asked you to choose me.”

I had tried. Time and time again, I tried to glue the pieces back together, only to realize they were for the wrong puzzle. “What you refuse to accept was that I did choose you.”

“No.” Her throat bobs. “You chose my father.”

Closing my eyes, I drop my head back and let the cool air caress my face.

Georgia’s hand cups my cheek, bringing my head down until I’m facing her. She steps into me until her chest brushes mine. The pad of her thumb rubs against my bottom lip before her hand settles on my jawline.

“You and I were good at a lot of things that made us work back then,” she says, her other hand reaching between us and grazing the growing bulge trapped behind the zipper of my jeans. “We were good at this.”

She lets go of my face and reaches around me to open the back door.

“What are you doing?” I ask, the question no more than a whisper that gets lost in the wind.

“I don’t know,” she says while walking around me and climbing into the back.

Her hands go to the coat she didn’t button before we left, peeling it open and draping it over the back seat.

“Georgia,” I all but groan.

She slides in and pats the spot beside her.

I find myself walking over, hovering at the open door, and watching as her hands go to the hem of her shirt before peeling that off next.

My throat thickens with a swallow.

“We were good at making each other feel good,” she says, her striptease continuing as her hands go down to the button of her jeans and popping open the button before slowly sliding down the zipper until a pair of black panties peeks through.

Lifting her hips, she pushes them down her hips until she’s in nothing but a bra and panties. The cold air pebbles her nipples, making the hard peaks poke through the material of her bra.

She gets onto her hands and knees and crawls over to me. I stay frozen where I’m standing outside the truck cab, my cock thickening as I stare at her cleavage inches from my face and the familiar necklace hanging between her breasts.

“But the thing we were best at,” she finishes, getting onto her knees and curling her fingers around my shoulders, “was pretending like this was more .”

Her words are a knife to the heart, shoving the dull blade into the beating organ and twisting the handle.

Was that what we were doing? Pretending? Lying to ourselves and not just to each other?

“What are you doing?” I ask again, the pain thick in my tone. I keep my hands to myself even though hers trail down the sides of my arms and squeeze my biceps in exploration.

Her mouth closes the distance between us, her lips lightly carving a hot path over my jawline up to my ear and stopping at the lobe. “Saying goodbye,” she answers, her warm breath letting a sharp one escape me.

The words go straight to my chest, but I don’t have time to let them sink in before her mouth is on mine and her hands are pulling me on top of her onto the back seat.

I’m not sure how I manage to close the door behind me, but the next thing I know, I’m wrapped around the warmth and scent of Georgia Del Rossi. And when I press my nose into the top of her head, I smell something familiar.

My shampoo.

I move my mouth over hers, our lips battling for dominance.

There’s barely any room, but we make do with what we have.

Because we are good at this.

Always have been.

Probably always will be.

But that doesn’t matter.

One second, my jeans are on, the next, they’re halfway down my hips, and my boxer briefs are with them. My erection springs free, and I groan when Georgia’s cold palm wraps around it and strokes.

There’s a lot I want to do to the girl underneath me, but there’s no room or time.

Georgia must know that too, because she wiggles out of her panties, wraps her arms around my arms and her legs around my waist, and brings my mouth down to her.

She says, “Fuck me,” against my lips, arching her back up until my cock is nudging her entrance.

I know the moment I inch my tip inside of her that it’ll be for the last time, so I savor every second.

Every thrust of my hips.

Every drawn-out moan.

Every whispered sigh.

I take it all.

Put it to memory.

Because she’s rewriting our ending.

After tonight, this moment is what’s left of us.

Two imperfect people.

Two skilled liars.

Her nails scrape down my clothed back, but the pressure brings me closer to the edge. She meets my hips every single time, her legs clenching around me as her mouth forms an O that I stare at as my pumps shake the truck cab.

I lift myself up using my hands as I find my release, watching as she breaks apart with me, but the weight is too much for my arm.

The pain I felt before becomes tenfold, and I nearly crush her when it gives out under me.

“Lincoln?” she asks in concern as I pull out of her.

I hiss when her fingers go to the injury covered by the plaid shirt. She’s never seen it because I’ve never allowed her to.

“No,” I say, yanking my jeans back into place and opening the door. “Don’t.”

She watches me with wide eyes as I scrape a hand through my hair and try pushing past the sharp ache radiating from the bullet wound.

My eyes go to that damn necklace. “Why do you still wear it?”

Her hand goes to the silver chain. “For the same reason you hold on to your ring.”

Did she feel it in the pocket of my jeans?

“Go back to him,” I tell her, voice thick.

Luca.

Once she’s dressed, she wraps her jacket around herself and stands in front of me. “I guess I was wrong. We’re also good at lying to each other.”

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

She doesn’t say another word.

Doesn’t try to spoil the moment.

Instead, her hand brushes my forearm as she walks to her car, climbs in, and drives away.

I watch until her taillights fade into the distance, with a weight lifting from my chest.

With every goodbye comes a new beginning.

That’s what I’ll take with me.

As I climb in, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then I slam my hands against the steering wheel.

Tonight wasn’t just about Michael Welsh.

It was a farewell to a chapter everybody we knew was desperate for us to close.