39. PAIGE
THIRTY-NINE
PAIGE
We chose the denial route on the ride back from The Window too. Truthfully, I had pretty much wanted to get back to the car from the second we left it.
The safety of another drive.
I let all the shit that just happened at The Window fly . . . well—out the fucking windows, which stayed open through our drive back to Ellis’s house.
I put my hand on Linc’s knee halfway through the ride. He didn’t close his hand on top of mine, but when I went to take it away—when I thought maybe he didn’t want my hand there—he grabbed it and placed it back on his knee.
“I could never think that about you.” I had to keep letting the words resound through my head. Remind myself that the flinching, wincing, and tension that came along with physical contact wasn’t for the reasons I thought.
My mind replayed the raw, anguish in his voice, and it cut through me—working hard to slash through the years I’d spent believing something different.
I think the connection—my hand—helped both of us, eventually. My thoughts settled and blended with the music, and after a while his shoulders relaxed. His breathing evened out, his posture slouched a bit.
And then it was . . . so good. So right.
Our escape.
But it couldn’t last forever.
That’s the caveat to escape. There isn’t a single place we can run away to, where this won’t be our reality. I have the realization as we pull into the driveway.
Just as the big gray cube comes into view from behind the massive gate, Linc pulls the car through the threshold and parks. I turn down the volume knob, softening Fall Out Boy’s “Centuries,” and twist my body toward him.
I’m not ready to go in yet. I can see the batmobile is also parked in the driveway, so that must mean Ellis is back from his meeting with Wade, and I just . . . need a second.
Linc doesn’t turn the car off, but with the engine in park, he timidly shifts toward me too. I keep my hand on his knee, holding the contact as I search for the easiest thing to talk about at the moment.
Start with easy, then work our way back.
Careful.
I clear my throat, my voice still quiet as I say, “That tip Beck was talking about?”
The deep brown color in Linc’s eyes only has a sprinkling of green, but it catches the light in a way that makes my fingers pulse on his knee. He jerks, and I mutter, “Sorry—” shaking my head as I start to pull my hand away, but he intercepts it by slotting his hand over mine. Keeping it there.
I gasp at the warmth of his hand, a little clammy, but as I peek up, I see him smirking, and he quietly mumbles, “Tickled.”
My own lips inch up my cheeks. That feels good too.
Not everything needs to be doom and gloom.
Not yet, anyway.
I take a breath, then hesitantly meet his gaze again. “It was ten thousand dollars.”
Linc’s eyes bulge and his mouth nearly drops.
My thoughts exactly.
Eyebrows flinching, I add, “And it wasn’t . . . a tip, really. I-I took it. It was on Sharktooth’s lap when they were . . . holding me down,” Linc’s eyes light with anger, but his dark eyebrows pinch downward, and I clarify who Sharktooth is—“Tariel.”
A tension bunches in his shoulders, and I don’t miss the tick of his jaw as the muscles in his neck strain.
I squeeze his knee, but when the tension stays, I use my voice, “Linc, I’m okay. It’s okay,” I tell him quietly and his eyes blink back at me.
He’s always been so protective. Of me, Maisie, his mom, Ellis—anyone he cared about. But this . . .
God, it breaks my heart.
It’s like the anger I felt watching Gram be sick. The helpless feeling.
It’s okay, I tell him, again, silently. Tears bite the back of my eyes, but I swallow hard, fighting them off.
He takes another breath, and I see him nodding, silently telling me he’s okay. Maybe he just needs a minute?
I go with that, giving myself a few seconds to breathe too.
I just can’t understand it. This . . . man.
The boy I knew— now, a man— is truly convinced he assaulted me seven years ago. But even now, he’s sitting here with murder in his eyes—ready to carry out the deed against men who almost hurt me.
It doesn’t make any fucking sense.
Why doesn’t he remember what I remember?
I take a breath, and pull back my shoulders—feeling a physical threat in my throat—one that aches to mention the subject I’ve been warned to avoid—just as I see the rest of the tension drop from Linc’s shoulders.
Careful. Start easy.
I refocus. After another beat, I turn the attention back to our distraction —The Window— telling him, “I mean, it’s fucking weird, right? Like, Beck knows that I know what happened. And I know that he knows what happened because he watched the tapes. So if everyone is aware . . . why be weird about it and refer to that money as a tip?”
Linc nods and the corner of his mouth quirks—an almost smirk.
I’m not sure if it was my very scattered, inarticulate observations about how everything just went down, or something else that gave him a blip of amusement, but it drops quickly.
After a breath, he shrugs and slowly speaks. “I don’t know. But the whole thing seemed . . . off. We need to look into the police report. I imagine if they made one—that money would be considered evidence.”
An absent nod tilts my chin as I’m momentarily hypnotized by the sound of his voice. It’s the longest sentence I’ve heard him string together and the sound warms my chest.
But I take in his words, eventually, nodding. He makes a good point, but—”You don’t think they actually filed a police report?”
Linc shrugs again. He takes a second, his eyes move back and forth a couple of times, then he says, “I don’t know. We should talk to Ellis. I should—call Desmond.” His speech trips, just a bit, and I wonder if it’s because he wishes we could just stay out here too.
Stay out here and pretend.
In the driveway. An imaginary road trip.
When I don’t say anything, he continues to stare back at me. Not impatiently—not even with the creases of discomfort I’ve come to know on his face in this new reality.
He’s watching me with . . . care. Fascination. It’s an interesting combination of soft and protective, and it fills me with the same emotions.
“Can we listen to one more song?” I ask.
Linc’s throat bobs and his hand tightens around mine on his knee. His eyes float down and the same flicker from earlier lights in my chest.
I can tell what he’s thinking by the drop in his expression, the fine lines in his face creasing.
“I won’t play that one . . .” I reassure him.
Not yet, I think. It’s not the right moment.
Or maybe it is. But I’m not ready to listen to it yet either.
After another second, he nods, and I take a breath of relief. One more song.
“No, that’s sketchy as fuck ,” Ellis mutters, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge and letting the door drop close, then whines, “ Goddammit , why did I make myself agree to a dry night?”
I snort a laugh. I guess his hangover has lingered too.
Linc and I are sitting in the living room—him on the chair, me on the couch—as Ellis makes his way back toward us, and sits next to me.
I had just gotten done explaining what Beck offered me —should I decide to stay at The Window.
“Did they mention anything about you guys knowing each other?” Ellis asks.
Linc looks over at me, his eyebrow cocking in a way that makes my mouth tilt up. Right. I’ve now contributed to this little covert operation.
I pin my lip between my teeth with a shrug. “When they asked, I told them he was my brother’s boyfriend.”
Ellis snorts and Linc looks just as unamused as the first time it happened, but then he takes a breath and says, “T-Tell him about the tip.”
I can see Linc’s wheels turning. I’m not sure if it’s all this nonsense about The Window or the mountain of other, more important things we have hanging between us, but focusing on this stupid club’s scandal feels like as good of a distraction as any.
I quickly explain the whole thing to Ellis and before I’ve even finished, he stands.
“Ten thousand dollars?! You took 10K, and they—” He shakes his head. “No. This is fucked. We’ve definitely gotta talk to Desmond. He’s working with his charity in Bali right now, so I’ll have to wait till he calls. Has service . . .” His hands clasp the back of the couch, his chin dropping, shaking the blond waves tousled on the top of his head.
Ugh. I should have known better. My distraction had all the makings of something to give Ellis a riot. A lot of things do.
It comes with the territory of caring about shit as hard as he does. And I love that about him.
Gram did too. She always used to tell me, “A woman who feels is never broken, she’s just listening.”
Pronouns aside, I never felt that to be more true than with Ellis Casper. Always listening . . .
The thought of Gram slumps my shoulders. I’ve barely heard her today, and the thought pulls an ache through my chest. My body shifts in an attempt to hide the swell as my eyes flick up to my right, still seeing Ellis, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.
The sight pushes me to stand, rounding the couch, before I gently pull on his shoulder, then wrap my arms around him. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “No one got hurt.”
He nods, hugging me back. “I know,” he says, quietly, and while my face is pretty much buried in his chest, I can feel Linc’s eyes on me—his stare like a pencil outlining my figure.
Ellis clears his throat. “I just hate the idea of what could have happened. I . . .” When he trails off, I pull back slightly, but still hold his shoulders. He releases a heavy exhale and steps back from me. “I don’t think you should go back there, Paige. I know it’s not my place, and . . . what they’re offering you sounds good.” He leans a little closer, his voice a bit quieter. “But you’re worth more. You know that. And whatever they’re promising you comes with expectations. Even if they’re not saying it.”
Funny. I remember having a similar thought in the Veranda.
And I know he’s right. Ten thousand dollars is the most money I’ve ever had. If I break my lease in Hollywood, budget, and get another job quickly, it may be enough money to at least start making the repairs on Gram’s house.
It feels right. And maybe that’s what all of this has been.
The great and powerful Buffy, working some cosmic shift to set something in motion and finally get us to actually move on with our lives in real ways.
A plan.
No more Window. Back to Venice. Clean up the house. Clean up me.
But then there’s him . . .
Just as my eyes start to wander back over to Linc, Ellis’s sigh stops me. “Did Beck talk to you about anything Desmond mentioned?” he asks, looking in Linc’s direction.
And now that I have a reason to look at Linc, I do, and see that he’s again, watching me. Chills run down my spine under his attentive gaze before he finally blinks, then clears his throat. “N-No. Didn’t mention anything.”
Ellis blows out a breath. “Yeah, see, that’s fucking weird.” He swipes a palm down his face and then shakes his head. “And you haven’t really had any interaction with anyone aside from Jackson and Paige?”
Linc’s chest lifts with an inhale. “And Rio.” Ellis’s eyebrows pinch before Linc clarifies, “The o-one I’ve been using sign language with.”
Now my eyebrows lift. He’s been using sign language?
I feel my mouth pull up at the corners. Now that he says it, it makes sense. Rio isn’t exactly warm and fuzzy. I mean, she is, but she makes you earn it. And to my knowledge, she doesn’t really know the guards. Just Jackson.
She likes Linc—Cook. He’s using sign language.
I drift off into thought, wondering if he remembers when we were little—our ASL lessons with Gram.
Ellis clears his throat and I can feel him looking back over at me, breaking my mental musings as he says, “You’ve been at The Window for a year . . . is there anyone you can think of that might be helpful? Someone Linc can make a point to talk with next time he’s there—see if they have any information?”
Buffy bless, I’m the worst person for this, seeing as I barely remember my club name—but then I remember—”Selene.” Ellis’s eyebrows pinch, and I quickly explain, “She found your address for me. And she knew I was working the Veranda—which is weird ’cause as far as I know, they try to keep the events discreet. I think they’re worried we’ll kill each other, or something.”
Ellis’s eyes widen. “She found our address? Our real address?!” His eyes flick over to Linc and my gaze follows. “How the fuck did that happen?”
Linc’s eyes look wide, surprised, and Ellis looks back at me —tennis match conversations, and all— just before he shakes his head again.
Another beat passes and he sighs, “All right, well, Linc I definitely think you should try to talk to this girl, see what she knows.” He glances over toward the kitchen, his eyes peeking at the clock on the oven, then groans, “I’ve gotta start to go through some of the shit Wade found, but I’ll grab you guys if Desmond calls. I imagine it won’t be till tomorrow at the earliest.”
The abrupt change in subject makes my chest jump, and I quickly tell him, “Well—I—uh . . .” Dammit. I shake my head, trying again, “I’m probably going to pack up. Uh—I should go back to my apartment and take care of the lease.”
Ellis’s eyes squint down toward me, then dart over to Linc, and my gaze follows, seeing he’s standing.
When did that happen?
The twist of Ellis’s chin as he turns his face back toward me pulls my attention back to him, and he says, “Where will you go?”
I shrug, feeling awkward suddenly, but tell him, “I was thinking I’d . . . go back to Gram’s.”
His mouth stretches into a soft smile. “I like that plan,” he says sweetly, making me want to hug him again. “But there’s really no rush. It’s already dark. Why don’t you stay tonight, at least? Or—however long you want. We can help you grab the rest of your shit from the apartment when you’re ready.”
I look over at Linc, who is . . . unnervingly quiet.
And that’s saying something because he has the silent broody-thing down fucking pat.
Ellis sighs, “Anyway, like I said, I’ve really gotta try to work through some of this. See if it’s even worth it to have Wade keep looking.”
“What’d he find?” I ask a little too eagerly, clinging to distraction.
Ellis shrugs. “I don’t know. Some old roster of names from years ago. A couple of videos.” A heavy sigh pushes past his lips glancing up at the ceiling. “Three soft shell tacos and cheesy roll-up says it’s a dead end,” he mutters, then lowers his chin, looking back over at Linc.
Linc’s tense stance eases just a bit as he meets our friend’s eyes. The smallest smirk surfaces—the same one I’ve seen peek out a couple of times—and my insides do a small flip. Another beat passes, and Linc says, “Taco bets never end well for you.”
Ellis snorts a laugh. “This is true,” he says, starting off toward his hallway, then adds over his shoulder, “Maybe you guys should watch a movie or something,” and I can hear the smile in his voice. The lofty way he delivered the salutation.
Daring us to . . . watch a movie.