Chapter 23 Lance
Lance
She believes him.
Her shoulders have softened, and the tension around her eyes has eased. Whatever Art told her in that car either helped, or she’s become more resigned to doing what her father implied.
Good. That’s good.
So why does it feel like swallowing glass?
I pull open the fridge, grab what I can and set it on the counter. Behind me, Cavall’s nails click against the hardwood as he follows Genevieve to the island. I reach for a fork and manage to send it clattering to the floor.
“Jesus Christ.”
A laugh floats from behind me.
Genevieve’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed. Her hair’s fallen loose, tumbling over her shoulders in messy copper waves.
“What?” I lift a brow.
“Nothing. Just watching you assault breakfast foods.”
“It’s almost midnight.”
“Which makes it even sadder.”
“You want to eat or not?”
She pushes off the counter and crosses to where I’m standing, close enough that I catch that scent of hers that’s been infiltrating every corner of this cabin since she got here.
“Did you even season these?” She peers into the bowl of eggs like it’s a crime scene.
“I was getting to it.”
“With what, hopes and prayers?” She hip-checks me out of the way and her body presses against mine for half a second. Heat shoots down my spine and I stumble back.
She hip-checks me again. “Move. You’re hopeless.”
“This is my kitchen.”
“And you’re desecrating it.”
She stretches up on her toes to reach a cabinet, and her shirt rides up, exposing a strip of pale skin.
I look away.
“Sit down,” she says. “Let me work.”
The island has barstools, and I pull one out, sitting down. Cavall trots over and drops his head on my knee, and I pet him while Genevieve moves around my kitchen like she belongs here.
She’s different when she cooks. The tension she carries in her shoulders disappears. Her movements become fluid, and confident. She hums under her breath—off-key, the same way she was that night I caught her mopping.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking up.
“I’m observing.”
“Same thing.” She glances over her shoulder and catches me.
“It’s really not.”
She turns back to the stove, and I swear her cheeks are pinker than they were a second ago.
“Hand me the butter.”
I move Cavall and grab the butter, crossing to stand beside her. The kitchen’s big, but when I hold it out, we’re close enough that I can count her freckles.
Her fingers brush mine when she takes it, and she clears her throat and turns back to the pan.
“You always this bossy in the kitchen?” I ask.
“Only when my helpers are useless.”
She drops the butter into the pan and it sizzles. “When’s the last time you had a home-cooked meal that wasn’t from a slow cooker?”
I lean against the counter beside her. Closer than I need to be, but for some reason, I can’t pull away. “Beverly used to make this thing with eggs and cheese and whatever was about to go bad. Called it ‘cleaning out the fridge.’ It was my favorite.”
“That’s basically what I’m making.” She gestures at the counter, then glances at me. “Beverly was your nanny, right?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Well, kind of. I’m sure you’ve read the story. Cassandra Troy, or whatever her real name is.”
“I have.”
The wound where I keep Beverly buried deep throbs.
“Sometimes it’s hard to forget what she meant before all that.”
“I don’t think her actions should dictate your memories.” Genevieve shrugs. “She lied and she was awful, but if she meant that much to you, the good parts are still worth keeping.”
My throat swells. No one’s ever said that to me before.
“Yeah, maybe. What about your mom?” The question’s out before I can stop it. “She teach you to cook?”
Genevieve’s hand stills on the spatula. “She died when I was born.”
Fuck.
“It’s okay. I never knew her. My dad raised me. He taught me everything.”
“I’m sorry about your mom.”
She looks up at me, surprised. “Thanks.”
“Does it make me an asshole if I admit sometimes I wish mine weren’t around?”
She snorts. “Not with who your parents are.”
“Beverly was more of a parent than either of them. And then she turned out to be someone else entirely.” I stare at the pan. “Someone who was using us the whole time.”
“Is that why you don’t let people in?”
Our eyes meet. Two people who’ve been failed by the ones who were supposed to love them most.
“I don’t let people in, because every person who matters to me becomes another thing they can use to control me,” I say. “That’s how it works. You care about someone, and they become leverage.”
She pauses what she’s doing, and touches me. It’s just a brush of her fingers against my skin, but the goose bumps spread up my entire arm.
“For what it’s worth,” she says, “I think anyone who had you and threw it away didn’t deserve you in the first place.”
I should pull away. Because she’s still Art’s, and because this is exactly how it starts. This is how people become targets—when I begin to care about them.
“The eggs are burning.”
“Shit.”
She spins to attend to the stove, and I exhale and step back. She salvages the eggs and plates them, and we move to the table. Cavall positions himself strategically between us, tracking every forkful.
“Can I ask you something?” she says after a few minutes.
“Depends.”
“How did you end up down there?”
“In the Lye?”
She nods.
The base of my skull tightens. “Someone I cared about got into trouble. I stepped in to help. And then they don’t let you leave.”
Her face pales. “A friend.”
“That’s what I said.” I shovel another forkful of food into my mouth.
“Art,” she says. “Was it Art?”
Sighing, I push away from the table and cross my arms. “It’s not his fault. He didn’t know what he was getting into, and I made my choice.”
“But you’re still there. After all these years. Can’t you just leave?”
“They’ve got footage of things I’ve done.” I meet her eyes and let her see the darkness. “The kind of things that wouldn’t just hurt me, it would hurt my family. So no, Half-Pint. I can’t just leave.”
“Lance.”
My throat closes up. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”
“It’s not right.”
“Art’s trying to help me.” I force conviction into my voice because I need it to be true. If Art’s still good, then my sacrifice meant something. If he isn’t, then I destroyed my life for nothing. “He’s a good man, Genevieve. Whatever doubts you have, know that. I wouldn’t have—” I grit my teeth.
“You wouldn’t have done this if he wasn’t?”
“He loves you.”
She’s quiet for a long time.
“If you believe in him that much, then I’ll try.”
The words should make me feel better. Instead, something twists behind my ribs.
We finish eating in silence. She moves to wash the dishes, and I stand to help, which is a mistake, because suddenly we’re side by side, our arms brushing every time one of us reaches for something.
She hands me a wet plate to dry, and our fingers tangle.
Both of us pause.
Her lips are slightly parted. Her cheeks are flushed.
“Lance,” she whispers.
Art’s face flashes through my mind. But right behind it is the sound of him telling me to kill a man. Of Genevieve asking where he is. Of her panic and his absence and my goddamn traitorous pulse.
I step back so fast I knock into the counter. “It’s late. You should get some sleep.”
Her lips close, and the flush stays, but the softness behind it dies, her expression shuttering like a door slammed in her face. And I hate myself for putting it there. But not as much as I’d hate myself if I found out what her mouth tastes like and had to live with it.
“Right.” She dries her hands, not meeting my eyes. “Early-morning torture session?”
“Six a.m.”
“Monster.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She moves toward the stairs, Cavall trotting at her heels. At the bottom step, she pauses.
“Hey, Lance?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For telling me everything.”
I dip my chin. “Night, Half-Pint.”
“Night, Champ.”
She climbs the stairs, and Cavall settles outside her door, taking up his post.
I sink onto the couch and press the heels of my hands against my eyes.
I was supposed to be the sacrifice. The one with nothing to lose.
That was the deal I made with myself all those years ago—take the hits, protect the people I love, and never want anything for myself because wanting things gets people killed.
And now there’s a woman asleep upstairs who makes me want so many things.
Things I have no right to. Not only because she’s Art’s, though that alone should be enough to stop me.
But because if I let myself feel this, she becomes the biggest weakness in my life, and I’ve already got too many graves I’m responsible for.
I’d do nothing but put another target on her back.