367 Days

by Jessica Gadziala

  "Exactly. So why does it matter that I worked with him?"

  "Because shortly after you dumped him and outed his cheating ass to his wife, he quit. I need to know why."

  I winced a little, the memory a fresh one for me because it hadn't been over a year ago, it had been like it was just a couple weeks to me. "His wife came into work to throw a fit after I told her what happened. Embarrassed the hell out of him in front of all the employees, people who were supposed to respect him. He was..." I took a breath. "He didn't handle the break-up all that well in the first place and then his wife made a stink about his..."

  "Wait," he cut me off. "Back to the not handling the break-up thing well. Explain that to me better. What did he do?"

  "Nothing really. He just kept trying to catch me alone at work and talk to me. Or putting his hands on me like he had any right to anymore. Little things..."

  "A man touching you when he doesn't have the permission to is not a little thing, first of all. Secondly, did it escalate from there?"

  "No. No. His wife embarrassed him and that night he handed in his resignation. He, ah, moved with her out of state to work things out or something like that."

  "No, he didn't," he surprised me by saying. "By all accounts, his wife is still hanging out in their old house. But Michael Robinson is not with her and neither of them ever left the state. He lives in an apartment."

  "Oh," I said, brows drawing together. It didn't surprise me really. When a man lied to you about his marital situation, lying about moving was really not a stretch.

  "That apartment is right across the street from your old apartment building, babe."

  That 'stomach fell to the floor' saying made a lot of sense right then. My belly felt like it dropped to my feet.

  How was that possible?

  "According to his records, he's still there. I don't think I have to tell you how suspicious that looks."

  I didn't want to go there.

  Really, my brain was just about full up of awfulness.

  I didn't want to think that a man I once loved, I once shared my body with, I once thought loved me would be capable of doing something to me to make me lose a year of my life.

  "He's a doctor," Sawyer added, making me close my eyes. Yeah, that kind of added up as well, didn't it? "You had Pentobarbital in your system. Who the fuck else would have access to that but a doctor?" That was another pretty strong nail in Michael's coffin. "Hey," Sawyer called when I didn't look back at him. "Riya..."

  I exhaled hard enough for it to be called a sigh. "Can we just go home?" I asked, shaking my head. "I just... I can't do this anymore."

  The damn tears started to sting again and I blinked them away as quickly as I could. But he noticed. He noticed everything.

  His brilliant eyes softened and his hand moved to settle on my shoulder, just a firm pressure for a moment before he used it to pull me forward, body arching over the center console, his arms sliding around my upper back and pulling me in for a hug.

  "Sometimes I forget it's only been a few days. You're still processing."

  "Literally everything has changed around me," I agreed, taking a deep breath, closing my eyes at the hint of spicy cologne on his neck.

  "You know, when Brock and I came back home, everything was different. All the stores and restaurants, the people, our families looked nothing like they did when we left. I get how disorienting that can feel. Your ideas of everything have stayed stagnant while they changed without you. It's weird and you feel like you're scrambling, but before you know it, things will all be settled. You'll feel less like you're playing catch-up."

  That was exactly it.

  I never thought of it that way, thought of how I wasn't the only person who went through something similar. There were people who woke up from comas, people who had amnesia or selective amnesia. And there were people who were just away for long periods and life changed without them. Men like Sawyer and Brock who were in the military especially.

  Somehow, it felt a lot better knowing I wasn't alone, that there were others out there who would understand.

  Especially when one of those people had his strong arms around me, had my face tucked under his chin, had a steady heartbeat underneath my ear.

  I felt a small shiver work its way through my system. "Come on, let's get you home and warmed up," he said, untangling from me, misinterpreting the tremor. It had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the fact that I realized there hadn't been anything in a really, really long time that felt as comforting, as safe, as being in his arms.

  "Right," I agreed as I sat back in my seat and took the plate Sawyer handed me so he could start driving.

  We went home, me ignoring the fact that I was genuinely starting to see his place as my home as well, we ate in mutual silence, watching the TV, then we both went off to bed.

  Nothing happened.

  And I tossed and turned in my bed trying to convince myself that that was for the best.

  The next day I went to work, slowly but surely cleaning up Barrett's mess and learning that he was a lot like his brother in the fact that, even though they weren't warm and snuggly in any way shape or form, their detachment and brashness still somehow grew on you. Barrett drove me home. Sawyer and I washed dishes side by side, we talked about our days.

  It was so damned domestic that it was almost natural.

  The next day, he showed up at Barrett's office with a box in his hands, looking like a kid on Christmas morning, rocking back on his heels as he held it out to me.

  Brows knitted, I walked over and took it from him.

  I pulled the top off to find my driver's license nestled inside.

  "Come on, babe, let's see about getting some pieces of your life back."

  THIRTEEN

  Sawyer

  It wasn't her real driver's license.

  In fact, it wasn't a real one at all.

  While I generally preferred to operate just shy of breaking the law, I knew enough about the world to know that sometimes you had to take shortcuts.

  That was what had me heading into the shittiest apartment building in the area, owned by a friend of mine that he kept purposely run down to help his tenants remain under the radar, looking like a bunch of unemployed people living in a crap building that likely needed to be condemned. But the truth was that the building was full of drug dealers, illegal exotics owners, and, the reason I was heading over, a forger.

  Barney was an old timer, being in the forging business back before it got complicated but, even so, was the best in the business. At least in the area. I didn't need an ID that would scan accurate to a DMV or a cop. I needed an ID that looked real enough to pass a visual inspection at the bank. Once she got her birth certificate, she could get the rest of her shit handled through the state, get herself a real driver's license again.

  It was the first step in a long process.

  But, judging by the way her mood still went from seemingly okay to genuinely depressed or anxiety-ridden in a blink, she really needed some of her normalcy back. Having a driver's license and having all her documentation back would make her feel like she had some power over her life again. I understood that shit, never being one to like to give up any of my power either.

  She was doing alright with Barrett. Actually, when I talked to him about her, he had gone from the annoyance and frustration the first day, to a seeming genuine affection when I talked to him any time after. Barrett didn't get along with a lot of people. He was too lost in his own head, too smart, and therefore tended to have the social skills of a feral cat. It said a lot about Riya that she got on his good side. It showed she was firm, unbending, patient, and able to see some humor in his erratic or irrational habits.

  Even when she had all her documents back, I could see Barrett talking to her about a more full-time job for him. It would help his business. He was God-awful at answering his messages and emails and, when he did, tended to come off as condescending or distracted. His business
might not have been the same size or success-level as mine, but he was doing alright. If he got his shit together, he could be doing a lot better.

  She could help with that.

  If it came down to it, I would have a talk with the somewhat clueless Barrett about making the offer to her.

  I tried to convince myself that it had absolutely nothing to do with wanting to keep Riya close.

  I wasn't stupid.

  She had money coming in from Barrett and soon she would have a way to get access to her money and, chances were, get herself a car. Then it was only a matter of time before she left my place.

  And, quite frankly, I was getting used to having her around.

  I didn't spend much time analyzing why that was, because I knew the answers weren't going to be comforting to someone as used to independence and non-commitment as me. All I knew was, after a shitty day taking shitty pictures or sitting outside her ex's apartment, waiting to catch a look at him (with no success), it felt good to pick her up from work and smell her perfume, or to walk into my apartment and see her standing in my kitchen making food or coffee or sitting on my couch with Slim who I expressly told her was not allowed on the couch because he liked chewing the arm while he did so. It was an order she disregarded and actually had the balls to raise her brow at me when I gave her a look about it in a very 'say something, I dare you' kind of way.

  I liked that shit.

  And, weird as fuck as it was, I liked seeing her chick shampoo and conditioner, and conditioning masques, and body wash in my shower. I even liked finding that she stole the second drawer in my sink cabinet to store her makeup and hair products in. Hell, I fucking smiled every time I saw her goddamn black elastic bands on the sink or the coffee table or the counter. She apparently let her hair down every damn where.

  I walked into the living room that very morning to find an off-white knitted blanket on the back of my couch. I ran my hand over it, finding the softest yarn I had ever felt before.

  She was settling in.

  And I liked it.

  But I couldn't keep her in a cage with her wings clipped just because I liked having her there.

  So I was giving her the keys to her freedom and seeing what she did with it.

  I wasn't crazy about it. I didn't know how safe she actually was if she went off on her own. If her ex was the one to somehow knock her out for a year of her life, he was obviously fucking whacked. And dangerous. The problem was, neither me, Brock, or Tig had caught him leaving his apartment building when we each took turns staking out the place.

  It was time to blur the lines of legality again.

  See, there was a time and a place to sit on your hands and wait for shit to fall into your lap. That was the only way to catch a cheater, for example. But when someone you were learning to care for was trying to put their life together and there was a person who might be a threat to that life, yeah, it was time to take those hands and break some bones with them if need be. And, given that this bastard was a bastard long before he possibly kidnapped his ex, I was a bit thrilled at the idea of giving him a little pain. He had it coming.

  So that was on the schedule for the next day.

  First order of business was picking up Riya and giving her the ID.

  And when she opened that box, the look of pure relief on her face was all the proof I needed that I was doing the right thing.

  "That's not real," I told her as we got into the car, making her head snap to me and her lips to part. "Not a miracle worker, babe. But I know a guy who makes IDs that have been fooling the bouncers at the bars around here for decades. It will get you into your safety deposit box and then you will have the shit you need to start going about getting things the legal way."

  "You... forged a government document for me?"

  "Sounds a fuckuva lot more sinister and dangerous than it was. What it was was sitting and drinking fucking herbal tea out of a teacup with an actual gold handle with a woman named Gerty while her husband laminated that thing and gave it to me."

  Her lips curved up into a smile, likely at the idea of me holding a fucking teacup at all. "Whatever this was, I will pay you back for it."

  It was about a grand.

  And no she wouldn't.

  "Do I want to know how it is you know what bank is mine?" she asked as we pulled up out front.

  "Same way I know you had a seventy-eighteen credit score until you disappeared and your car got repo'd. Barrett," I said, climbing out and shutting the door.

  "Barrett knows about my credit score?" she hissed, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, eyes wide. "He's my boss!"

  I resisted the urge to tell her that a lot of positions in a lot of companies required a credit check nowadays and shrugged. "Riya, that shit is filed in the back of his mind along with his middle school locker codes and how to conjugate verbs in Korean. Besides," I said, holding the door open for her, "his credit score is practically nonexistent. The weird fuck pays everything with cash. He doesn't give a shit if yours is seven-hundred or one-seventy-five."

  We walked in and I moved toward the waiting area. Without turning to look at me, she reached out and grabbed my wrist in her long-boned hand in a tight grip and pulled me with her.

  And, like just about everything I had been learning about her over the past several days, I learned I liked that too.

  The ID got her in and she got her documents as well as a new bank card.

  When we got back in the car, she sat there looking out the dash, everything about her tense. "What's the matter?"

  "Everything changes now, doesn't it?" she asked, turning her head to look at me.

  If I wasn't mistaken, and I fucking wasn't, there was a sadness and fear in her eyes. "Listen," I started, ducking my head a little, "all that has to change is what you want to change. And even those things can be done at whatever pace is comfortable for you."

  "I can't keep crashing in your guest room like some..."

  "Don't finish that sentence," I said, shaking my head. I put my hand on her thigh and gave it a squeeze. "I get that you were very independent and handled all your own shit before this all happened to you. But no one, not even you, can expect that you get every piece of your life together in under a week, Riya. You're strong, but you're not Superwoman. There's no rush for you to move. You can stay in the guest room as long as it takes for you to be comfortable moving on. Besides, it's probably safer for the time being."

  She let out a long breath, her tense shoulders relaxing. "I really appreciate this, Sawyer."

  I winced at that. "I get that you feel really alone in the world since your parents died and the guys you dated turned out unreliable. But you're not alone anymore, Riya. You have me. And you have Barrett. And while you don't see them because they're working behind the scenes, you have Brock and Tig as well. And it doesn't mean you're weak that you have to lean on us for a while."

  "I'll start, I don't know, paying some rent or helping..."

  "You're not paying any fucking rent. First, because I own the building outright and that would be stupid. And second because you're just... fucking not."

  "You know, you and your brother share this interesting trait..."

  "Being devilishly good looking and charming?" I asked, smiling because I knew there wasn't a charming bone in either of our bodies.

  She smiled too and it wiped some of the despair out of her eyes, making me realize that soon, as soon as it was possible for me to do so, I needed to find a way to wipe that look away completely.

  That, on top of keeping her safe, was my new mission in life.

  "It's... I don't know, it's hard to explain. You both are... hard, unbending, really just kind of... well..."

  "Spit it out, babe. I've got a thick skin; you won't hurt my feelings."

  "Really just kind of hard to like," she said with a small smile meant to soften the blow of the words. But, having known the people I had known and done the things I had known, I had been called way fucking worse than 'hard to
like'.

  "But," I prompted.

  "But I like you anyway."

  There was a strange constricting feeling in my chest at that. I promptly tried to ignore it, reaching out and tugging on a strand of her hair. "You like me, huh?"

  She rolled her eyes, swatting my hand away. "You know what I mean."

  "I know what you mean," I said, my hand settling on the side of her neck, watching as her eyes got a little hazy, her lips parting slightly.

  I'd been good.

  I'd been a mother fucking saint since I felt her up in the kitchen.

  I wouldn't say it was easy. I'd say I gave thought to bursting into her room and giving into something we both wanted at least five times a day. But it had been necessary. She was coping, adjusting. And, past actions aside, I was a good man. I didn't take advantage of vulnerability. That was for lazy, opportunist shits who couldn't get pussy any other way.

  But there were moments when she wasn't sad and wasn't hurting and had those fucking eyes... and yeah, I was sure it would take some superhuman force to keep me from her.

  Or, I realized as my phone started ringing in my pocket, a call.

  I sighed as I reached for my cell. "Yeah?"

  "Nice phone manners, Anderson," the smooth voice said on the other line.

  "Luca," I said, turning my attention out the windshield.

  Luca Grassi, along with his brother, Matteo, and their father, Antony, owned Famiglia. It was an Italian restaurant on stilts out of the water. Italian instead of seafood because the Grassi family were Italian Italian. Meaning, they were in the mob. They ran the docks.

  I had put a call out to Luca days before, knowing that because they were in the mob, they were crazy about security. That meant that they not only had highly trained doormen and bouncers and shit, but they also had cameras fucking everywhere.

  Riya being dropped off there was a sign that whoever did it knew nothing about the people who owned it. They likely only did enough research to know that Famiglia was not open for lunch ever and the staff didn't start showing up until around two or three in the afternoon and, therefore, the lot would be empty of overseeing eyes.