Chapter 9
Grace
“Are you sure you want to go to the club?”
“Yeah. It’s been a week. Maybe Wendy won’t be too mean. I’d deserve it if she was, though. I don’t know whether I should apologize to her or say nothing at all…”
“Or we could find you another job.”
For a second, I stare into nothing. “I miss Abigail.”
“Me too.”
“Do you think I should be looking for another job? Right now?”
“No, you’re right. You’re safe with Cameron. You could take the paperwork off his hands. You wouldn’t even have to step behind the bar.”
“That’s not a bad idea.”
Cyrus pulls me into his lap and kisses me.
“Will you pick me up after my shift? Will we come home together every night?”
“Grace…” He tucks my hair behind my ear. “I need information from someone very dangerous.”
“No!” I shout. “Don’t you dare, Cyrus! I can’t lose you, too!”
Hot tears streak down my face.
“Okay, okay. Relax, baby. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Why do you have to go undercover all the time?”
“Because I’m good at it. And I love my job.”
“I wish it wasn’t this dangerous.” I lean my head against his chest and listen to his steady heartbeat, my eyes closed.
“We should leave soon.”
“Just give me a minute, please.”
I asked for a minute. But a whole lifetime wouldn’t be enough to learn how to live with my anxiety. I didn’t leave the house for an entire week. That was how I stayed calm. But I can’t do that anymore. I can’t live behind closed doors, afraid. I have to face my fear and live like a normal person.
I inhale the thick, sticky air deeply. The hot wind plays with my hair. My heart is racing, my hands clenched into sweaty fists. My legs are trembling—I feel as if they have no strength left. I can’t make my body move. My eyes search for… him.
My gaze moves from house to house, from garden to garden.
I take a long, deep breath, then exhale slowly.
My stomach rebels—it feels like a miniature storm inside me.
My mouth slowly fills with bitterness. I swallow again and again, fighting the nausea.
I close my eyes for a moment. I open myself to the pleasant atmosphere surrounding me.
To life, with all its flavor. The sunshine on my skin, the gentle caress of the breeze, the melody of children laughing.
The rumble of car engines, the happy chirping of birds.
The silent dance of trees, the wind whispering through their leaves.
Was it easier to step out onto the street when he was behind bars?
No.
It wasn’t easier, but I did it because I had to. For myself. I’ve had so much pain and bitterness in my life; so much has been taken from me…
The girl deep inside me longs for everything life could give her.
I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want to take from her what she deserves. It’s because of her that I can command my body to move—because I remember her. I can see her in our backyard with her parents, Daisy and Billy. She’s smiling, happy, and courageous.
Full of life.
That girl has been drowning beneath the surface for years, waiting for me to help her, to show her the way out of the darkness.
I want to free her, but I fail her over and over again—because my memories stir up mixed emotions.
A vast weight of grief and anger that overwhelms joy and happiness, locking me in a dark room with no escape.
The thing is, the past is with me, here and now.
Being replayed, reminding me of everything that’s gone, everything that can’t be mine anymore.
Cameron didn’t like the idea of handing most of the bar’s management tasks to an emotionally unstable girl, but Cyrus steered our heated conversation into calmer waters and brought up several solid points that highlighted the benefits for both of us.
For example, Cameron has a short temper and hates dealing with suppliers. He prefers to stay behind the bar, talking to guests—something I’m not very good at. So they struck a deal. As long as I don’t screw up anything important and follow instructions, I can mostly run the bar.
I’m organizing the beer crates and writing down the orders when the door creaks open behind me.
“I’ll be done soon,” I say, turning back.
Lifting these heavy crates, I’ve worked up a bit of sweat.
I grab the green crate and try to lift it with all my strength, but it drops back to the ground.
The bottles rattle, and I shudder—Cameron would be beyond pissed if I damaged our stocks.
Even Cyrus wouldn’t like it if I made our already thin profit margin even thinner.
Someone steps beside me and places his hands next to mine.
His large palms grip the crate, veins standing out.
My heart pounds like a trapped animal’s.
Very slowly, I turn my head to the side.
My hair falls across my face, but our gazes still meet.
I bite my lip, wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans, and take a shaky step back. My back hits the deck.
Chase lifts the crate and stacks it on top of the others, the muscles in his back and arms tensing.
My lips part. I stare at him, out of breath, eyes wide, as he turns toward me in a slow, deliberate motion. His eyes catch mine instantly. He’s wearing dark blue jeans and a black T-shirt—and no hoodie to hide his identity.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, stuttering.
“Do you think you’re safe here? That you can hide from me here, Grace?” His voice has an ice-cold edge. Still, my anger overpowers my shock and terror—my blood boiling in my veins, claws raking over my nerve endings. Chase is moving closer. Too close.
His hot breath brushes my face. My hands cling to the desk desperately.
“Don’t do this to me, Chase! Don’t haunt me!”
“Don’t be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you,” he whispers. It’s terrifying how seductive his dark eyes are. His gaze explores my face, and his attention almost feels like a caress.
“You lied to me! You’re lying to me, Chase. You said you wouldn’t hurt me, but you still are. Why? Why won’t you leave me alone? What do you still want from me?”
“Only you.” His voice softens. “I only want you, Grace.”
“Chase…” I press my hand against his chest to keep him away.
He covers my hand with his palm and pulls it to his heart.
The sharp lines of his face blur in the dim light.
The rapid beat of his heart and his familiar scent send a ripple of warmth across my skin.
Low in my belly, aching desire coils like a whirlpool.
I’m sick. I’m still sick!
He buries his face in my hair and inhales my scent deeply.
He pulls me into his arms. For a second, my body tenses, then I melt against him.
I close my eyes and shut the world out. In my imagination, there is another world where we’re in an empty, black room.
That world cannot be real. It can’t be. None of this can be real.
“This is not real.”
“It is. I’m here, Grace.”
“No.” I shake my head wildly. I resist, burying my face in the hollow of his neck. My tears soak his T-shirt. “You cannot be real.”
Chase cups my wet face in his palms and looks deep into my eyes. He rests his forehead against mine, his thumb tracing slow circles on my skin.
A soft shudder runs through my body as he captures my lips in a kiss full of love. He holds me gently against him, his fingers tangling in my thick, dark hair. I tilt my head to the side, letting him deepen the kiss.
Our lips move in concert, slowly and sensually. The taste of his kiss, the silent worship, and his scent—deeply ingrained in my memory—make my soul shatter into a myriad of shards. My mind whispers a cruel message to my heart:
“Chase is here, with everything in him that’s vibrantly alive.”