Chapter 57 – remi
Fifty-Seven
remi
“You haven’t said anything for over a minute. Are you still there?”
“I am... I’m just a little speechless,” Val says.
I turn down another aisle, pushing my cart with its one rickety wheel announcing my presence to the entire store. My phone is wedged between my shoulder and ear as I fight to keep the damn thing straight. It insists on pulling right while I try to steer left.
“I know my way around a kitchen, Val.”
“I know you do. But you haven’t stepped foot inside a grocery store in years.” She pauses. “And cooking a full three-course meal for your friend with benefits seems a little more intimate than what I had in mind.”
I still haven’t told her the truth about Thiago.
We’re so much more than whatever this started as, and he’s quickly become one of the most important people in my life.
I’ve never felt this way about anyone, and maybe part of me has been keeping it to myself because admitting any of that out loud makes it terrifyingly real.
“Valentina,” I say, the teasing gone from my voice.
“Remi?”
“Thiago and I are together, and I really like him.” I draw in a breath. “Like, really, really fucking like him.”
I stop pushing the cart and wait for her response, suddenly nervous about what she’ll say. Her opinion means everything to me.
“Oh my God, Remi, baby.” Her voice softens. “I’m so happy for you.”
I can’t help smiling.
“How long?” she asks.
“A few weeks.”
“A few weeks? And you’re just now telling me?” She sighs dramatically. “I mean...I get it. I was in your shoes once. I know what it’s like to want to keep something that special to yourself for a little while. But I’m still going to kill you for not telling me sooner.”
I laugh with her and start moving again, the cart screeching its way down the aisle.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll catch you up if you come visit.”
“That sounds like blackmail.”
“It’s only blackmail if it’s something you don’t want to do. So, what are you really saying, Valentina Belova?”
“Are you trying to steal my wife from me again?” Maksim’s gruff voice carries through the phone, making me grin.
“You’ve had her long enough. I want my girl back, Maxy,” I tease.
We spend another ten minutes going back and forth before my wrist starts protesting all the multitasking. After a reluctant goodbye, I tuck my phone into my crossbody, curse my cart for the hundredth time, and head off in search of the last ingredient.
Naturally, I find it sitting on the top shelf.
I don’t consider myself short, but this would be a great time to have my giant boyfriend around.
Planting one foot on the bottom rack, I push myself up, stretching for the jar. My fingertips skim the glass, but I can’t get enough of a grip to pull it down. When I drop back to the floor, I land harder than intended and knock into my cart, sending it rolling straight into another shopper’s heel.
“Fuck, I’m sorry!”
The man turns around with his jaw clenched, clearly ready to let me have it. But the moment he sees me, the irritation disappears.
“You’re her,” he says, sounding a little too excited.
With all the shit going on in my life, I have no idea which version of me he’s talking about. He could mean the street racer, the badass bitch from the highway massacre, or even the tattoo artist.
“The girl from the mugshot.”
Oh, hell. He means that Remi.
I don’t believe in entertaining strange men just to be polite, and I sure as hell don’t owe this one anything, especially if he was one of the creeps leaving crude comments under that photo. I made the mistake of reading through them that night, and the deeper I scrolled, the worse they got.
Pretending he no longer exists, I turn my attention back to the stubborn jar.
“Hey, it’s you, isn’t it? Remi Isabel Cain?”
Fuck me.
His footsteps come up behind me.
“Don’t,” I grit out.
“Oh, come on.” He moves even closer until I catch the harsh scent of his cologne. “I hear you like to drive fast. I got a ride for you.”
The shit that falls out of some men’s mouths will never cease to amaze or disgust me. I’ve heard it all, but hitting on a complete stranger in the middle of a grocery aisle with a line like that is a new low.
The problem with being the kind of person who doesn’t take shit from anyone is that practicing self-control in public can be such a bitch. I could teach him a lesson, bruise his balls or his ego, or maybe both. I could also say nothing, grab my fucking jar, and get the hell out of here.
Growth, Remi.
I cut him a glance and finally grab what I came for.
“Hey, I’m talking to you.”
He’s close enough now that I can feel his breath on the back of my neck and practically taste the tuna melt he had for lunch. I clench my jaw, but before I can say a single word, his hand closes around my arm.
Sometimes, they make it too easy, and sometimes, I’m okay with that.
I pivot and drive my elbow straight into his face, and the crunch is deeply satisfying. His hand falls away, and before he can recover, I shove him, sending him sprawling onto his ass.
“Stop being a creepy fuck,” I snap. “That mugshot should’ve been your first clue not to touch me.”
Blood pours from his nose as he lets out a pathetic, gargled groan.
“Bitch,” he croaks.
“Thank you.”
Dinner smells incredible.
With the table set and the candles lit, my apartment feels less like a place to just sleep and more like a home.
I glance at the clock. Everything is ready, and I should have enough time to squeeze in a quick shower before Thiago gets here.
I haven’t heard from him since late last night, when he texted to say he’d been called out.
I’m hoping everything turned out okay and they cut him loose soon.
We usually talk on his drive home, so the fact that I haven’t heard from him tells me he’s still tied up with work.
Hopefully, it’s just the debrief.
The thought does little to ease the familiar anxiety I feel whenever he’s out there kicking down doors and putting himself in the line of fire.
I let out a slow breath and decide on a bath instead, hoping it’ll calm my nerves. Ten minutes later, I test the water with my fingertips and smile at the nearly unbearable heat.
Exploding sun. Perfect.
I hook my fingers beneath the hem of my shirt, but just as I’m about to pull it over my head, my phone chimes with a notification that someone just used my access code.
I know it’s Thiago.
I cut the water and hurry toward the door, pulling it open before he has a chance to knock. But the relief of seeing him lasts all of half a second. He’s standing there staring past me, and the emptiness in his expression makes my heart sink.
“Thiago?”
I take in the rest of him and realize he’s still in uniform. Dirt, grime, and blood stain the fabric and smear his forearms and hands. Panic shoots through me until I look him over and realize none of the blood is his. I reach for him and rest a careful hand against the front of his vest.
Only then does he look at me.
His eyes are unfocused and distant, as though part of him is still somewhere else.
I’ve never seen him like this, and all I want to do is get him inside and take care of him.
There are no tears, only a look that tells me he witnessed something no one should have to.
Whatever that was, he doesn’t need me firing off questions or asking him to explain.
He came here because he needs me, and that’s enough.
I lace my fingers through his and guide him inside, locking the door behind us. He follows without resistance, his movements stiff and mechanical as I lead him down the hall to the bathroom.
“Can I?” I ask as I reach for the clips on his tactical vest.
He gives me a small nod.
Undoing the buckles, I ease the vest from his shoulders.
The weight of it drops into my hands, and I carefully lower it to the floor.
I remove his duty belt next, followed by his radio, spare magazines, and handcuffs.
One by one, the pieces of his job join the vest on the floor until all that’s left is Thiago in a uniform shirt stiff with someone else’s dried blood.
My fingers catch the hem of his shirt.
“Okay?”
He nods again.
I ease it up his torso, and he lifts his arms enough for me to pull it over his head. Carefully working it free, I drop it on the floor with the rest of his equipment. I wish removing the weight of whatever happened tonight were that easy.
“Get in,” I say gently.
Thiago steps into the tub and lowers himself into the water.
I kneel beside him as he stares straight ahead, barely seeming to register the heat surrounding him.
I reach for a washcloth, squeeze body wash onto it, dip it beneath the water, and wring it out.
Starting with his hands, I gently wipe away the dried blood caked into the lines of his skin.
It isn’t his. I have to keep reminding myself of that.
The water clouds pink for a moment before carrying it away. I rinse the cloth and move to his forearms, then his shoulders, making sure I clean every trace.
When I reach to dip the cloth again, his hand wraps around my wrist.
“I...I couldn’t save him.” His voice cracks. “He was only three.”
His chest starts shaking before another sound leaves him.
He bows his head, fighting back the sobs until his entire body trembles beneath the effort.
Watching him fight this hard to hold himself together makes my heart ache.
My baby is hurting, and I want to take whatever it is he’s carrying, but I don’t know how.
That’s when I step into the tub fully clothed and pull him into my arms.
His head drops against my chest, right over my heart.
“It’s okay,” I whisper as tears fill my eyes and my fingers slide through his wet curls. “Let it out, baby. I’m here.”
His cries finally come, echoing off the bathroom walls as his arms wrap around me. I hold him tighter, wishing there was something more I could do than sit here and feel every sob tear through him.
“I was right there,” he chokes out. “Right there.”
“I know you were. I know.”
“I-I couldn’t...”
Somehow, I know this isn't just about today. It's about the little boy who couldn't save his father, like he's reliving it. So I hold him tighter, my arms around him as he falls apart, giving him the one thing he came here for. A place where he doesn't have to be strong.
Eventually, his cries begin to slow. I cup his face and press a kiss to his tear-streaked cheek.
“Turn around.”
He leans into me for one more kiss, resting his forehead against mine for a moment, then he does as I ask.
I shift onto the edge of the tub, and he settles between my knees with his back to me as I work shampoo into his curls, massaging his scalp in slow circles. “Lean back.”
He does, surrendering his weight to me as I tip his head beneath the stream of warm water and rinse the shampoo from his hair. I’m working conditioner through his curls when he draws a shaky breath.
“I could hear him crying.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “Then I couldn’t.”
My hands stop in his hair.
“Maybe if I’d moved faster...” Thiago lifts his pruned hands from the water and stares at them as though they’re stained with something no amount of scrubbing will ever wash away. “If I’d gotten there thirty seconds earlier.”
“You did everything you could,” I tell him softly.
He shakes his head. “It wasn’t enough.”
Fresh tears sting my eyes. I’ve never seen him like this.
“He kept asking me why,” he mutters.
“Why what, baby?”
Thiago swallows hard.
“Why his little boy wasn’t waking up.” His voice breaks. “And I had to tell him.”
I close my eyes for a moment, fighting back my tears as I finish rinsing his hair.
When I step out of the tub, water streams from my clothes and pools around my feet. I grab a towel for Thiago and another for myself, draping mine around my shoulders, then kneel beside him again.
I begin drying his hair, working the towel carefully through his curls. There’s nowhere we need to be. For as long as he needs it, he can stay right here with me.
Dinner is quiet.
After a few small bites, Thiago gives me a warm smile, letting me know without saying anything that he likes it. I don’t take it personally when he stands a few minutes later and carries his still half-full plate to the counter.
“It was really good, chama. Thank you.”
When I stand, he pulls me into a tight hug and presses a kiss to my forehead.
I hold him a little longer than usual, breathing in the clean scent of his T-shirt. It’s one of several pieces of clothing he’s left here, all of which have slowly found a place in my closet, just like he’s found a place in my life.
“Come on,” I say, taking his hand. “Let’s get some sleep.”
I give him the bathroom first, letting him brush his teeth and take his time. But when I finish and walk into the bedroom, he’s gone.
“Thiago?” I check the guest room, kitchen, and living room, but there’s no sign of him.
“What the hell?” Stopping in the middle of the condo, I remember the rooftop, and I run.
I don’t even wait for the elevator doors to finish opening before I step inside.
“If you’re not up there, I’m going to kill you, Braga. ”
I close my eyes for the brief ride, silently willing him to be there. When the doors slide open, I finally breathe again. He’s lying in the hammock, staring up at the stars.
But it doesn’t take away the uneasiness that’s been following me all night. I know what happened today was horrific, but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something else weighing on him.
He’s grieving, I remind myself. That has to be all this is.
As I cross the terrace, his eyes find mine, and he reaches for me. I climb into the hammock beside him, resting against his chest the same way he rested against mine in the bath. His heartbeat is steady beneath my ear as his fingers move lazily up and down my back.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“It’s okay.” I tilt my head to look at him. “You needed some air. I get it.”
He swallows.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter now.
There’s something different about this apology, but I can’t figure out what.
“Tomorrow is for talking,” I murmur, pressing a kiss over his heart. “Tonight, just let me hold you.”