Not a coincidence.
Glancing back toward the store, I see a man standing, waiting at the side of the entrance, his eyes averted.
My phone rumbles in my pocket, and I lift it to see a late warning.
We’re on him.
I type back a quick reply.
Let me handle it.
Pushing my cart back toward the store’s receptacle, I dial Cecelia.
“Hey.”
“How is your day going?”
“Well, considering I only got here an hour ago, okay so far. What’s up?”
“I did call for good reason.” The irritation of her remark combined with the arrival of a new stalker is coming through my call, and I rip at my hair in annoyance before I lighten my tone. “A very good reason.”
“Oh?”
The man casually inches to the side of the store, nearing the corner as I take my time, my gait slow and unassuming. Being on the phone helps the illusion. It’s when I shove my cart away from me, crashing it into the others, and shift directions heading straight toward him, that I know he’s as green as they come. It’s fucking insulting with his skill set that he was the one sent to me.
“Date night,” I say, picking up my pace.
“Date night?”
“Yes. Date night,” I grit out, “a weekly ritual by couples to maintain intimacy. It’s a thing.”
I can hear the smile in her voice. “I’m aware.”
“I’ll go on a date with him,” Marissa chimes in the background.
“So, we can have one?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I’ll take care of the details.”
The asshole turns the corner, his body tensing as if he’s ready to take off. It would be laughable—if I weren’t so pissed.
“Ne me fais pas te courir après. Tu ne vas pas aimer quand je te rattraperai.” Don’t make me chase you, you won’t like it when I catch up.
He pauses his walk. He’s listening. And he’s listening because he understands.
French.
Goddamnit.
“Tobias, who are you chasing?”
“An imbecile who took my shopping cart.”
“Small town, Frenchman, first impressions are important. You just got here, don’t make yourself a menace.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Hot on his heels, the man leaps into a sprint, and I burst into motion.
“Date night will be at home. Until then, Trésor.”
After hanging up, I catch up with him quickly, my long runs paying off in spades when I grip the hood of the asshole’s jacket and yank him off his feet at the side of the building. Airborne, he yelps before he lands flat on his back in a thud on the concrete. After disarming him, I drag him behind me, the material of his slicker good aid in helping with the effort while I keep my eyes peeled for passing cars.
Much to my delight, in a town with a population shy of two thousand, there isn’t a single car coming in either direction—a perk of small-town living. My birds are already waiting behind the store in an idling sedan as I come into view, pulling the idiot behind me who grunts when I hit a patch of uneven pavement.
“Je t’ai dit de ne pas courir.” I told you not to run.
Once we’re safely out of view, I kneel down and search him for ID and credit him for having the good sense to leave it back at whatever hole he’s occupying. I hit paydirt when I retrieve a cellphone from his jeans.
“Now we speak in English.”
Silence.
“I know who sent you. I have everything I need from you already. Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now?”
No response.
I cock his own gun before pressing it to his temple. “You’ve got one more chance to answer me.”
“I have a message from Palo.”
“No, you don’t.” It’s then I know how he found me.
And that Palo is most likely dead.
Fuck.
Dread filters from the center of my chest, circulating throughout my veins as I keep my mask in place while the implications of what’s next pummel me from within.
Pulling the man to stand, I lean in on him, pressing all of my weight against him. A pained whimper comes from his lips.
“It’s broad daylight, and you have the audacity to try and shadow me? Did you not know who you were coming after?” I click my tongue.
“You were not supposed to know I was here.”
“Passons au français parce que tu ne peux pas être aussi stupide.” Let’s switch to French because you can’t be this stupid. “Tu devrais travailler ton anglais.” You should work on your English.
“Je déteste l’Amérique. Je ne reviendrai pas.” I hate America. I will not return.
“Tu seras enterré ici si tu ne coopères pas.” You will be buried here, if you don’t cooperate.
“Je devais signaler où tu étais et avec qui.” I was to report where you were and who you were with.
“Et tu l’as fait?” And have you?
Fear flashes in my incompetent assailant’s eyes. It’s too fucking late.
And that’s the crux of the situation. As it always has been. If I had remained alone, there would be nothing to report. This would have been another day at the office in my old life, but my circumstances are different now, and the stakes are much higher. This morning, I had time in abundance. Time to try and help her understand my reasoning for my decisions that led me to the place I’m in. And for the last three weeks, I took for granted the freedom of being an average Joe.
“Have you sent pictures?”
Another nod, and I do my best not to snap his neck as I keep him pinned and lift his phone.
“Quel est le mot de passe?” What’s the password?
He rattles off a four-digit code, and I check his messages to see an active thread with a familiar area code. He’s been reporting for the last two days, his most recent text sent minutes ago to which he got no response. I make a note of the frequency of their texts and pocket his phone. The image of the snapshot of Cecelia at the entrance of her café has rage taking over.
Using my elbow, I black him out to keep from getting rupture marks on my knuckles for Cecelia to inspect. Once he’s unconscious, the two birds I trusted on watch, Oz and David, quickly drag him into their back seat. I scan them closely as they nervously load the car, each of them glancing over their shoulder to me. Both are dressed in plain clothes, with muscular builds, but Oz has a mohawk, which is eye-catching and distinctive in this town or any fucking other.
These are Russell’s most prized recruits?
He should know better.
Just as they close the door on their unconscious passenger, I step up to them both, seething.
“Why was your text too late?”
Oz is the first to speak. “We weren’t sure—”
“You weren’t sure?” I clench my fists to keep from lashing out. “Captain Obvious has been here for two fucking days,” I look between them. “I don’t give second chances. Not at this post. ID him and bleed him of information until you’re sure he’s working here alone. Call Russell, get six more birds here, two to replace the two of you. I want them here today. I don’t give a fuck how. He’s in your custody now and your responsibility until I say so. Let me down on this,” I snarl, “and you’re fucking out.”
Clipping wings isn’t something I threaten often, especially when they’ve earned their ink, but this is a major fuckup, and one inked men should never make.
They nod, offering zero excuse, no doubt due to the murderous threat in my eyes. Once they’re back in the sedan, I search for anyone who might’ve seen the spectacle before taking off back toward the Camaro. Behind the wheel, I feel the needles start in my chest and run my hand over my jaw.
The sun beams through a raincloud as a new arrival grabs a cart at the entrance of the store. He’s probably here to pick up a power tool, nothing more, and carry on with the rest of the day—an average Joe.
>
Envy shoots through me as he strolls in with weightless shoulders.
For the first time in my life, I had a sense of normalcy, and I wasted it feeling sorry for myself. I had the freedom to live as an everyday man, no matter how temporary, and I didn’t realize how precious it was to me until it was taken from me only minutes ago. It would be so easy to ignore the distraction, the impending threat, to ignore the danger a little longer, in an effort to win her back fully. But as of this moment, I’m running out of time.
Doing my best to slow my racing thoughts, I try to concentrate on the task at hand.
Date night.
She deserves the effort, it’s what I promised her, and more than that, it’s what I need in order to proceed with her. We have to get back to some semblance of us before we can take on any more. I won’t let anything get in the way of more progress. One last secret, and for no other reason than to buy me time to win her over before we weather another storm. Between fury and worry, I lift my phone when it rattles with an incoming message.
Russell: I know I’m sorry isn’t enough, man. I’m sending two straight from Tyler.
I don’t respond because sorry isn’t enough. These are mistakes we can’t afford to make anymore. Not this late in the game.
Once again, a decision has been made for me due to uncontrollable circumstances. Turning the ignition, I press my head to the steering wheel and take deep inhales.
I’ll sort through the threats as they come. I have a day or two at most to come clean, and I’m going to use every second to make it right.
“Putain de fils de pute!” Motherfucking son of a bitch!
I slam my fist on the dash and immediately regret it, smoothing my hand over where I struck, thankful there is no evidence.
Chest tightening, I exhale slowly.
I’ve got a book to read, and a dinner to cook. I can do this, for her. The seize in my chest threatens to take over as I put the car in gear and gun the gas, peeling out of the parking lot.
I just need a little gin first.
Adding up the day’s receipts at my desk, I pull my phone from my discarded apron and see several missed messages from Tobias.
Tobias: I hate this fucking book, and my calf is pregnant. Beau needs to be neutered.
Tobias: There’s no God in my life to choose over you, don’t you get that?
He’s never been so openly emotional in a text, and this is definitely not the way he’s revealed any of his feelings in the past. Something is wrong, and it’s been apparent in the last week with his excessive runs and increased drinking that the isolation is starting to get to him. Armed, he’s been walking the perimeter of the house at night before he locks up, often peeking out the windows when he thinks I’m not looking, his face visibly relaxing only when he receives texts from the ravens at our post. There’s clear fear instilled in him at this point. I don’t know if it’s protection or paranoia that has him acting like a caged lion, but I can only assume it’s a mixture of both. It’s evident he worries more than he sleeps. Two nights ago, he gathered me in his arms and whispered, “come back to me,” on gin-infused breath. I didn’t acknowledge I heard him, and I’m still feeling remorseful about it. And right now, he’s alone at home reading a story I once considered a prophecy that slams a character I identify him with, no doubt hurt and insulted. Guilt gnaws at my conscience as I read more of his texts.
Tobias: This is not our story, Cecelia. This is not our fucking story!
I shoot off my own text in hopes to start some damage control.
I’ll be home soon. I’m cashing out now. It’s just a book, Tobias.
Tobias?
Tobias?
When I get no response, I dial his number and am sent straight to voicemail. Panicking, I cash out and race to my Audi, dreading what I’m in for. I’d placed too much importance on the book—which clearly paints him as the selfish and egotistical villain—which is how I viewed him for so long. For the better part of the time he’s been back, he’s been fighting with something, something underlying that he hasn’t yet put a voice to due to conversations I’ve refused him. His ‘bad’ days seem to happen more often than not, and I’m sure it’s because of his isolation. That combined with the fact that he’s all but abandoned the brotherhood, his purpose, the thing that’s defined him and who he is for over two decades to play house with me. All he’s living for now is me, and I’ve given him next to nothing for it. No matter how strong of a man he is, this transition is getting the best of him. I told him I wanted a king, not a coward, but what if that demand has hindered his ability to be open with me?
Nothing gets to me more than seeing him this vulnerable, this once impenetrable man who I had to fight for full sentences from, for anything other than cruel indifference. It’s not his looks or our sexual draw—though its potency hasn’t waned in the least—it’s what he’s let me get glimpses of in the past, the romantic he revealed in the clearing, our resulting relationship after because of it. It’s his love for his brothers, his dedication to his cause that drains my iron will, day by day.
It’s his humanity, his empathy, his flaws, and the fact that I’m the woman he chose, the one he trusts to reveal this side of himself to that has my guilt multiplying.
But I demanded the man I met, and in a lot of ways, I’m not the same woman. Is it hypocritical of me to think that the last years haven’t changed him? Because at this point, I sure as hell can’t say the same. He all but told me he had closed himself off completely after Dominic died and became a sort of machine. But this openness, now, giving me this much in so little time, lets me know something is going on inside of him far more haunting than what he’s revealed to me.
Speeding toward the house, my anxious heart pounding, I make the last turn on my road when I catch sight of him, running in jeans and… Oh. My. God.
“What the hell?” Slowing to his pace, I roll down my window as Tobias runs like his ass is on fire in my kitchen apron, a hot pink ribbon secured around his waist. He’s covered in sweat and what looks like… flour coating half his face and dusting his hair.
“What in the hell are you doing?”
He stops his run when I again call his name as if he’s in some sort of stupor, hyper-focused on something that’s not here and now. I pull over and exit the car, a gust of wind slapping me in the face. When I approach him, it’s clear he’s freezing, his olive skin tinged red from the bitter cold, and he reeks of gin.
“You’re drunk? I thought this was date night?”
“I’m…Trésor…” he hangs his head and jerks me to him before burying his head in my neck. “I couldn’t be there.”
“At my house? Why are you drunk?”
“I’m not drunk…I am…a little. Doesn’t matter.”
“Get in the car, Frenchman, your skin is like ice.”
He ignores my orders and releases me. “You compare me to this…Ralph,” he grits out with disgust.
“Tobias, it’s just a book.”
“That’s not us.”
“I know it’s not.”
“J’ai été égoïste, mais j’avais mes raisons. Il y a une raison à tout ce que je fais. Et si c’est notre histoire, sache que je suis ici pour te donner, pour nous donner, une meilleure fin.” I’ve been selfish, but I had my reasons. There’s always a reason for everything I do. And if that’s our story, then know I’m here to give you, us, a better ending.
Sulking, he walks over to the passenger side of the Audi and plops himself into the seat before slamming the door. Pressing my lips together to hide my amusement at his rare tantrum, I take the driver’s seat and turn the heat on high, opening the vents his way. Full of contempt, he sits there like a scolded child, his jaw set, his eyes averted. Pressing my lips together, I put the car into gear as he speaks up.
“I never brought a woman into this for a fucking reason. First, it was too much to ask of any woman long-term. Period. And this, what’s happening between us, the resentment you feel for me now is w
hy. That’s one of the reasons I punished them so harshly for dragging you into this.”
“You’re blowing this out of proportion and taking it too personally.”
“I have no choice.” He remains silent as I drive the few miles back to the house, but I can feel the war raging inside of him, the energy in the cabin dense and coming from every gin-infused pore. When we pull up to the house, he stops me from exiting the car with a hand on my thigh, bringing tortured eyes to mine. “The only reason I believe God exists is because you do. So many times, I wanted to come to you—”
“I don’t want to hear it!” I explode, surprising myself with my venom.
“I told you why I couldn’t!”
“It doesn’t make it any better!”
He switches gears as if he’s having too many thoughts. “Was Collin your Luke? In the book, Meggie marries a man she doesn’t love. Alicia was my Luke. I didn’t love her. I couldn’t.”
“He was in a way, but you can’t generalize relationships like that.”
“What do I know about relationships?” He slings the word with disgust. “That I tried most of my fucking life to avoid them? I know how to treat a woman, that’s…common sense, how to fuck them, but I never allowed myself to have anything real for any woman…until you.” He swallows and shakes his head ironically. “Instinctually, I always knew…that if I let myself get lost in a woman, how fucking detrimental it would be for all involved, and I was right. I was fucking right.” His grip on my thigh tightens, “and then I lost you.”
The sting and the soothe of his admission have my own tangled emotions about us surfacing. The sting begins to win as I fight the urge to lash out, but he’s speaking the truth. That’s the nature of us, of how we started and all the resistance that followed as we battled our desire and our growing need. But my resentment wins.
The Finish Line Page 18
