Chapter 13
GENEVIEVE
“What’s the plan for today?” Isaiah asked from the couch. “Want to hit the first coat on the walls?”
“No,” I groaned into my pillow. The last thing I wanted to do today was paint.
Sleeping this Sunday away sounded like a much better plan. I was tired and . . . awake. Maybe I could sneak in an afternoon nap.
After meeting with the Warriors yesterday, I’d had a hard time calming down. I’d been sure they’d return to call me a liar.
Isaiah had done his best to assure me that I’d been believable, but doubts had kept me from falling asleep. Had they heard my voice shake? Had they heard my toes bouncing on the floor? Had they noticed how hard it had been to keep firm eye contact?
The courage in Bryce’s voice had given my confidence a boost. She’d been like that on the mountain too, arrogant in the face of our kidnapper. Dash called it sass. I called it survival—the sheer will to live.
I wasn’t much of a liar, but I’d had a lot of practice these past few months. I hoped it was enough.
“Can we skip the painting today?” I yawned. “Watch movies and do nothing?”
“Fine by me.” He sighed, shifting and flopping into a new position on the couch.
Given the number of times he’d turned from one side to his other last night, Isaiah hadn’t slept well either.
He had to be uncomfortable on the couch.
His legs were too long and his shoulders too broad, yet he’d slept there without comment for months.
“Starting tonight, I want to sleep on the couch.”
“Huh?” He sat up, the blanket dropping off his bare chest. “Why?”
“Because it doesn’t seem fair for me to have the bed all the time.” I was twisted sideways with a pillow bunched under my cheek. It gave me a perfect view of Isaiah’s inked skin, especially the black pattern that ran down the side of his neck, across his shoulder and to one of his rounded pecs.
It had taken me weeks of stolen glances to identify all of Isaiah’s tattoos. They were all black. Each one was a pattern. There were no faces or words. They stretched across his smooth skin, molding to the muscle beneath.
“I don’t mind the couch,” he said.
“Please, let’s switch. It will make me feel better.”
“Can’t do it, doll. I’m good here.” He sank into his pillow, stretching his arms over the arm of the couch. Then he tucked his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.
I hugged my pillow closer, studying the definition in his arms. They were strong, the muscles large, but with long, sweeping lines.
One muscle would rise, then disappear beneath another.
His shoulders spanned beyond the width of the couch.
When Isaiah raised his arms, they sometimes looked like wings.
Wings decorated in black.
“Did you get all your tattoos in prison?” I asked.
“No, only my fingers and part of this one.” His finger trailed down the tattoo on his neck.
“It’s against the rules to get tattoos in prison, but a bunch of guys did it anyway.
My third cellmate did them for me at night.
I’m probably lucky I didn’t get sick or something because he did it with pen ink and a paperclip he’d sharpened into a needle. ”
I grimaced. Isaiah rarely talked about prison. When he did, it was only little things. But the bits and pieces were enough for me to know I probably didn’t want to hear the full story. If he ever wanted to tell it, I’d listen. I’d cry, but I’d listen.
“The one on my neck wasn’t as big. It used to end here.” He lifted up and pointed to a spot on his collarbone. “When I got out, I went to an actual artist and had him fix it. Eventually, we expanded it. And I got the rest.”
He raised his arms, stretching them high so I could see the tattoos on his forearms. He also had tattoos on a calf, his ribs and his left foot.
I’d never had a desire for a tattoo, but after spending so much time with Isaiah, I’d begun to appreciate their artwork. Maybe I’d get one if it was something unique, like his. “Did they hurt?”
“Yeah, they hurt. The ones I got inside were the worst and they took forever because he could only do a little at a time. The one on my neck took him almost three months. But I didn’t care. It wasn’t like I was going anywhere.”
“Why the black?”
“That’s the color pen he had. When I got out, I decided to keep going with the black.”
“What does that one mean?” I asked. “The tattoo on your neck.”
“Nothing really. It’s just a pattern. The guy wanted to try it out. He was good but it wasn’t like he had actual tattooing equipment. So it’s a lot of simple stuff with blurry lines. I’ve had it all touched up since, but at the time, I didn’t care. I told him to experiment.”
“Why?” If I got a tattoo, I’d want it to be special. Why would you get a tattoo and go through the pain if it didn’t mean anything?
“Pain,” Isaiah whispered. “I wanted the pain.”
“Oh.”
Since my meltdown, I hadn’t asked Isaiah for more information about the pregnant woman’s death. We’d been consumed with anxiety over meeting with the Warriors. And I’d been a coward. I wasn’t sure I wanted all the answers.
Were the tattoos a punishment for what he’d done? A way of atoning? Because prison sounded rough enough without adding self-inflicted misery to the mix.
Though I suspected Isaiah was punishing himself to this day.
His beautiful eyes were so haunted at times. They didn’t flicker or spark. In the beginning, I’d thought it was because of his time in prison, or of what had happened at the cabin.
I was likely wrong on both counts.
There’d been a few moments lately when I’d begun to gather hope. Isaiah didn’t laugh or give flashy smiles, but he’d show me a rare grin. There were never teeth visible and it was barely an upturn of his lips, but it stole my breath every time.
He’d grin whenever I had cookies out for him when he came up from the garage. He’d grin when I did his laundry. He’d grin on the nights when he’d come up and find some new purchase for the apartment. Was he happy here with me?
Should I even be asking myself that question?
Isaiah wasn’t mine to keep forever. Eventually he’d move on to find someone who made him truly happy. The selfish part of me loathed the idea of a different, future Mrs. Reynolds who’d get more than subtle grins.
I very much wanted to be the person who put a smile on Isaiah’s face, just once before this was over. Before I was the ex-Mrs. Reynolds and I missed him from my life.
“Thank you for yesterday,” I whispered.
“For what?”
“For holding my hand. I don’t think I would have gotten through it if you hadn’t been there.” Not only had lying to criminals been terrifying, replaying the kidnapping never got easier. The image of Bryce on her knees as I held that gun to her head was one that would haunt me for years.
“No need to say thanks.” Isaiah sighed. “You wouldn’t have had to go through it in the first place if it weren’t for me.”
I huffed. “It’s not your fault.”
He sat up and leaned forward on his knees. The tattoo of a tree—twisted and gnarly—ran down his ribs. The branches wound up his shoulder and dipped over his back. Some limbs twisted across his pec. “Whose fault is it then?”
“My mom’s,” I answered immediately. “If there’s a person to blame, it’s her.”
“V.” He closed his eyes.
V. No one had ever called me V. I loved it when Isaiah spoke my whole name. I loved the one letter even more.
Isaiah opened his eyes and met my gaze. “She wouldn’t have come up here to meet with Draven if she’d known what it would do to you. I know you’re mad and you have every right to be, but don’t stay mad.”
Guilt raced through my veins and closed my throat. He was right. I was mad. I was furious. And if Mom were here, she’d apologize every minute of every day.
But she wasn’t here. Maybe being angry, placing that blame, was my way of keeping her close. When there was no more anger, she’d truly be gone.
Isaiah stood, stretching his arms above his head. He was a beautiful distraction from the pain in my heart. He twisted and turned his torso, stretching out his back. His abs flexed and the V of his hips cut sharp. I didn’t linger on the bulge in his boxers—much—and drank him in.
Whoever got him next was a lucky woman.
Isaiah folded the blankets on the couch into a neat square. Then he stacked them on the pillow, bringing them to the base of the bed, where I’d put a cheap trunk. He tossed them in, then met my gaze. “A lazy day?”
“Let’s be sloths.”
He grinned.
Isaiah Reynolds really was something. I smiled back and let the butterflies flutter in my stomach.
“I’m going to take a shower.”
“’Kay,” I breathed, ignoring the pulsing in my core at the thought of Isaiah stripping off those briefs, pushing them down his hips and over his thick, bulging thighs and standing to reveal his—
And that’s enough. I buried my face in the pillow so he wouldn’t see my red-hot cheeks.
Isaiah padded toward the bathroom, but the sound of footsteps on the stairs had him stopping and me sitting up like a rocket.
We didn’t get visitors. The last one had been Dash and look at what he’d dragged to our doorstep. So who would be here on a Sunday when the garage was closed?
Isaiah crossed the room in his underwear. He flipped the deadbolt and cracked open the door. “Oh. Hey.”
My heart settled. That wasn’t a hey for someone not welcome here.
He opened the door wider, stepping out of the way to let Draven inside.
“Uh, hi.” I had my comforter clutched to my chest. I was wearing only a thin tee and sleep shorts. I’d gotten used to Isaiah seeing my nipples peeking out beneath my pajamas, but Draven? I wouldn’t be getting up to greet him.
“Morning.” Draven’s eyes alternated between me in the bed and Isaiah dressed in nearly nothing. He squirmed.
For appearances, having him walk in on us during a sloth-like Sunday morning was excellent. We looked like a married couple who’d spent a lazy morning in bed. Thank God for that trunk and the fact that Isaiah couldn’t start a day without a shower.