Chapter 23
ISAIAH
“You okay?” Genevieve placed her hand on my heaving chest.
I nodded, my eyes wide as they stared at the dark ceiling. “Just a dream.”
A nightmare. I hadn’t had it in months. When would it fucking go away? Now it was back, just when I’d started to think the past would stop visiting me in my sleep.
Genevieve shifted closer, resting her head on my bare shoulder. “Want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know.” I rubbed a hand over my face.
Maybe I’d had the nightmare because we hadn’t had sex last night. Normally, we wore each other out before sleep, exploring bodies and making each other come until there was no energy left for dreams. But last night, we’d simply fallen asleep, curled together.
In the past month since Xander had been born, Genevieve had come a long way toward making peace with both Draven’s and Amina’s deaths.
But there was still pain there, nights she’d be shaking so hard in her sleep, it would wake me up.
I’d hold her tight and whisper in her ear until she clung to me, using my body to forget.
Maybe I hadn’t had a nightmare because I’d been so worried about her demons that mine had taken a backseat.
The days were flying by and blending together.
The only thing that made them stand apart was sex and Genevieve.
I could remember every position, every one of her moans.
I could recall with perfect clarity how she’d clenched around my cock five nights ago.
And the night before that. And the night before that.
Was it unhealthy that sex had become our coping mechanism?
Probably, but I wasn’t going to stop.
Not until she left me and I quit cold turkey.
“Isaiah?” Genevieve lifted up. “What is it that you see?”
I cupped her face with my hand. “You.”
“Where?”
“In a car,” I whispered. The nightmare was so fresh, I could almost see the trickle of blood on her chin. I wiped at the invisible line. “We get in a crash.”
“Oh.” Her chin fell. “It’s like Shannon.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
Genevieve shifted to lie on her back. Her hand found mine beneath the covers. “I’ve been having the same dream, over and over, about Xander.”
I gripped her hand tighter at the confession. Each time I’d woken her from a dream, she hadn’t wanted to talk about it. I hadn’t pressed, assuming they’d been about Draven. “What happens?”
“The guy who kidnapped me takes him too. We’re here, I’m babysitting, and he comes in and rips him from my arms.”
“Sorry.” I turned my cheek on the pillow to meet her gaze.
“He’s still out there,” she whispered. “With everything that’s happened, the kidnapping, Mom and Draven, it’s so much. Maybe these nightmares are a sign that I need to get some help. That we need to get some help.”
“Maybe,” I muttered, turning my attention to the ceiling again. “I went to a counselor for a while, right before I got parole.”
That counselor had probably helped me qualify for parole. I’d been sentenced to five years and had only served three. It was unlikely my sanity would have survived those last two years.
“Why don’t you think it worked?” Genevieve asked. She didn’t ask if it had helped, because she already knew it hadn’t. She knew I hadn’t found peace with my sins.
“Don’t know.” Telling that counselor everything that had happened between Shannon and me hadn’t lifted my grief or guilt in the slightest. The only time I’d felt any relief had been after I’d confessed the accident to Genevieve. “Maybe he wasn’t the right person to talk to.”
She shifted to her side. Her other hand came to rest over my heart. “It was an accident.”
“One that I caused.”
“Will you blame yourself forever?”
“Yes.” The word hung in the darkness.
There was no letting go of that mistake. There was no forgetting how I’d caused Shannon’s death. For the rest of my life, I’d regret my choices that night.
I’d always be sorry.
“Do you think, someday, the past will stop defining who you are?”
Said a different way, Genevieve was asking if I’d ever be happy.
Would I stop living life by going through the motions? Did I deserve to feel joy? Did I deserve a life with her?
I wanted it. I wanted that future more than I’d wanted anything in my life. I wanted to deserve this woman in this bed. I wanted to be a man who smiled because mine seemed to illuminate hers.
But I didn’t have a damn clue how to get there.
“I hope so, doll.”
“I hope so too,” she whispered.
We lay in the dark, waiting and wondering if sleep would come. I doubted it would for me, but Genevieve needed rest. Before she drifted off, I shifted to my side. “Mom’s been asking us to come to Bozeman. Would you go with me?”
She nodded, her eyelids growing heavier. “When?”
“Tomorrow?” We didn’t have any plans for our weekend. Like most Saturdays, Genevieve and I spent them together.
“Sure.” Her eyes fell closed. “I’ll drive.”
As Genevieve pulled away from the garage the next morning, the roads were mostly empty. It only took me a minute to settle into the passenger seat and breathe normally. Progress. Mile by mile, riding with Genevieve was getting easier. Though me driving her was a feat I’d never master.
The snow around town had melted with the early April rain. The mountains in the distance were still capped white, and they would be until summer. Tomorrow, I was getting out my bike and putting the truck away until winter returned.
It was barely warm enough—I’d be the only idiot on a motorcycle in April.
I scanned the streets as we wound through town toward the highway, something that had become a habit this winter. “Two and a half months and no sign of the Warriors,” I muttered.
“Tucker has his justice and is leaving us free. Drav—Dad’s plan worked.” Genevieve kept her eyes on the road. They were hidden behind large, black sunglasses, making it hard to read her expression. Her voice was flat except for the slight inflection of pain.
Genevieve had stopped calling him Draven whenever his name came up. She tried to call him Dad, even when she was around Dash. It wasn’t natural yet, but I hoped one day it would be. And I hoped one day it wouldn’t bite when she mentioned his name.
It was too fresh, the wound just stitched.
But she was strong. Genevieve would weather this like she had everything else this past year.
She’d survive it, though things wouldn’t be the same.
Her anger and frustration had helped get her through Amina’s death.
When they’d faded, a permanent bruise had remained on her heart. Draven’s death had left another.
She mourned him.
We all did.
Dash had finally cleaned out Draven’s office last week.
He’d done it on a whim, and with Bryce’s help, he’d turned the space into the waiting area.
No one wanted to be in there. Presley refused to sit behind Draven’s old desk.
Bryce wouldn’t either. So they’d taken away Draven’s desk and donated it to charity.
Then they’d bought a couple of couches so customers waiting for their car to be ready weren’t in the front reception area with Presley.
Genevieve had started stopping at the office more when she came home from work. She’d been shortening her lunch hours, leaving thirty minutes earlier in the day. Those thirty minutes equated to thirty minutes with Presley and Bryce each afternoon before the garage closed at five.
She wasn’t as close to Presley as she was Bryce, but their friendship was blossoming. The three of them leaned on one another, forging ahead through their grief.
“Did Pres text you back?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yeah. She didn’t feel like coming along.”
Damn it. We’d hoped Presley would take our invite and leave town for the weekend. We were all trying to keep her occupied on the weekends so she wouldn’t drive to Ashton. She’d probably left Friday after work.
As Draven had encouraged, Jeremiah had joined the Warriors this past month.
What none of us could have expected was for Presley to stick with him. During the week, when she wasn’t at the garage, she was at home alone. When five o’clock hit on Friday, she was on the road to visit him.
Since he’d moved, he had yet to return to Clifton Forge and visit her.
“I don’t get it,” I muttered.
“Me neither. She could do so much better. And he’s not even that good-looking.”
I huffed a laugh. “That’s what people say about you. What the hell is Genevieve doing with that guy from the garage?”
“Oh, please.” Genevieve rolled her eyes. “You look in the same mirror I do every morning. You know you’re the hot one in this pair.”
“You think I’m hot?”
She slid her sunglasses into her hair, her expression turning serious. “Isaiah, you’re the sexiest, most handsome man I’ve seen in my life. And your heart? When you let me in, you literally steal my breath away.”
I blinked. Was she serious? Sure seemed like it. Maybe she didn’t see me as a tatted, ex-con loser.
Genevieve didn’t expect a response. She turned her attention to the highway because she knew I got twitchy when she wasn’t fully focused on the road. She put her sunglasses back over her eyes, protecting them against the glare of the morning sun.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and digested what she’d said. Did she really think I was breathtaking? That I had a good heart? I wasn’t anything special, but the conviction in her words, the devotion, made me replay her sentences a few times.
I was a monster, not a savior.
And she thought I was the hot one in our pair? Christ, she was delusional.
“You’re hot.”
She shot me a wry grin. “Gee. Thanks.”
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” True story. Part of what had made it hard to look at her in those early days was that I’d felt guilty. Genevieve outshone everyone living—and those who were not.
“I didn’t compliment you so I could get one back.”
“I know. I’m saying it because it’s true.”
She smiled. “Well, thanks.”