by Devney Perry
“Welcome to the misery,” she said. “Whoever took us was good at covering his tracks. And I’m guessing since you’re here, you really were telling the truth. You didn’t kill Amina Daylee and you don’t know who did.”
Genevieve’s breath shuddered at her mother’s name.
Tucker nodded. “That’s what I’ve been telling you.”
Bryce leaned her elbows on the table. “So what do you want to know?”
“Tell me about how he got you.”
“I came home after dinner with my parents. My place was dark. He came up behind me, hauled me out of my house, taped up my wrists and ankles, gagged me and shoved me in the trunk of a car.”
“What kind of car?”
“A black sedan. No markings. I didn’t get a look at the plates.”
“Did you?” Tucker’s gaze swung to Genevieve, who shook her head. He eyed her for a long second, and damn if she didn’t just hold it.
There was more strength to her than people recognized, including herself. She wasn’t bold about it like Bryce, but when it mattered, she had nerves of steel.
“Where’d he nab you?” Tucker asked Genevieve.
“My hotel room in Bozeman,” she answered.
Tucker’s men sat in utter silence. One of them kept a firm stare on Genevieve that stoked my temper. I shot the creepy bastard a warning glare. He only raised an eyebrow and went back to staring at Genevieve.
“What did he look like?” Tucker asked Bryce.
“He was covered. Head to toe. I’m not sure why. If he was going to kill us, why not reveal himself? I thought that was strange, unless he was worried that we might get away—which we did.”
“Tell me about that,” Tucker ordered. “How’d you get away?”
“He wanted to make it look like Genevieve killed me. Then Dash would kill her. So he pushed me to my knees, untaped Genevieve’s hands and made her put a gun to my head. Dash and the guys got there before he could make her pull the trigger.”
“Why not kill you both himself?”
“I haven’t the slightest.” Bryce shrugged. “He said it was to win an old war.”
Tucker hummed, his attention shifting to Dash. “How would that win an old war? We settled our disagreement years ago. I don’t give a fuck if you kill your sister.”
Genevieve flinched. The man across the table grinned.
Sick fuck. I might have taken some hits in prison but I’d delivered them too. If he wasn’t careful, I’d leap across this table and beat him within an inch of his life.
“Now you know why nothing makes sense to us either,” Dash told Tucker. “Maybe he figured we’d assume Genevieve was working with the Warriors. Not gonna lie, that thought crossed my mind. Maybe he thought we’d retaliate against your club. If she had died, there’d have been no one to deny it.”
“Retaliate?” Tucker scoffed. “You’d all be dead in a minute. You can’t stand against us.”
Draven leaned forward. “Don’t underestimate the power of revenge. The last club that did was wiped from this earth by my own hands.”
That had to be the club that killed Chrissy Slater, and Draven had taken his revenge.
“Can we get back to the discussion? I’ve got places to be on a Saturday.” Leo reclined deeper into his seat, pretending to be bored. Meanwhile, beneath the table, his gun was pointed at Tucker and his finger was on the trigger.
“You escaped,” Tucker said to Bryce.
“Dash fired a shot at him. It gave me and Genevieve a chance to run.”
“Where’d you run?” Tucker asked.
“Away from the whacko with the gun,” she deadpanned. Smart-ass.
Tucker wasn’t amused this time. “Be specific.”
“You mean like north or south? I don’t fucking know. I ran downhill. I was frozen and too busy trying to stay on my feet to chart my direction against the sun.”
“And you?” Tucker twisted his chair to address Genevieve.
She sat perfectly still. “And me, what?”
“Where’d you run?”
“The other direction so I wouldn’t cross paths with the guy who took us.”
“To the cabin?”
“Yes.” Her voice was so resolute, not a hint of fear.
“How’d you get in?”
“Through the front door. Most cabins have those. Doors.”
Christ, these women. Bryce’s attitude was contagious, and neither of them would be bullied.
“Then what?” Tucker asked.
“I crouched beside a window and watched outside. I saw the man who took us going up the slope into the trees. When I lost sight of him, I got the hell out of there.”
She didn’t rush her words. Her statement was cool and calm. And complete bullshit.
“Did you see anyone inside?”
“No.”
Tucker narrowed his eyes but stayed quiet.
“Then what?” The man who’d been staring at Genevieve spoke up. That’s when she finally noticed his stare. He was talking to her breasts. He licked his lips.
“W-what?” she stuttered. It was her first sign of weakness.
“I found her and we got the fuck out of there,” I answered.
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing.” I narrowed my eyes and kept a firm grip on Genevieve’s hand.
“How do we know this isn’t all a lie?” Tucker asked. “Maybe you didn’t believe me when I said that we didn’t kill that bitch in the motel. How do I know this kidnapping isn’t just a story you made up to cover the fact that you killed one of my men?”
Genevieve’s hand twitched at Tucker’s bitch.
“Enough.” Draven’s voice resonated in the room. Dash might be at the table’s helm, but Draven had just as much power from his chair. “You’ll talk about Amina with respect. And what you heard here is the truth. We both know these girls aren’t lying.”
“What the hell are you expecting to find, Tucker?” Dash asked. “One of your guys is dead. We didn’t kill him. Or is there something more? Something you’re hiding? What exactly was one of your guys doing in that cabin, anyway?”
Tucker’s jaw ticked. “Not relevant.”
“Seems relevant to me,” Emmett said. “We’re sitting on our side of the table telling the truth. What’s yours? Maybe we’re done sharing until you do the same.”
“Not maybe.” Dash stood. “We’re done.”
Draven stood next, holding out a hand to help up Bryce. When she was on her feet, she crossed her arms. Then Leo stood, the gun held tight in his hand. Emmett stood next, followed by Genevieve and me.
In total, we outnumbered them. We’d probably lose a fight but being on the side of the line with bigger numbers was never a bad place to be.
“This is the truth?” Tucker asked, still seated beside his men.
“Yes,” Bryce and Genevieve said in unison.
“Any proof?”
Bryce rolled her eyes. “We didn’t exactly have a chance to carve our initials into a tree.”
Tucker rapped his knuckles on the table, then stood. The others rose with him. “Appreciate the info.”
They left the room in a single-file line. None of us moved as we waited for their motorcycles to start.
Dash left first, hustling Bryce out of the room. We joined him outside on the wide concrete slab beyond the front door in time to see the Warriors speed from the parking lot in a flash of black and a cloud of noise.
“Fuck.” Dash ran a hand through his hair, then pulled Bryce to his side, dropping a kiss to her forehead. “Good job, baby. But can you please, for fuck’s sake, keep the sass under control?”
She shrugged. “I can’t help it.”
Dash huffed, then looked over Bryce at Genevieve. “You did good too.”
Genevieve blinked. “Oh, uh . . . thanks.”
She’d done amazing. No one here even knew how hard that had to have been—they never would. The truth was between the two of us and a dead man.
“We’re outta here.” I hauled her away from the clubhouse, not loosening my grip on her hand until we were safe in the apartment.
“Phew.” She put her hands to her hair, wide-eyed and dazed. “We got married so we wouldn’t have to turn witness to the cops. I guess we should have thought about others too.”
“No shit.” The cops, at this point, were the least of our problems. I put my hands on her shoulders. “Proud of you.”
“I’m glad it’s over.” She fell into my chest, sliding her hands around my back. When we hugged, it was normally her into my side. Front-to-front holds were chaste at best. This was lasting, like she needed to be here for a hug. My arms didn’t quite know where to settle. On her waist? Her shoulders? I didn’t want to drop them too low, too close to her ass. I decided on one at her shoulders and one just below her ribs.
Genevieve fit against me, her soft curves molding to my stony lines. And she was warm. God, she was warm. I’d forgotten how it felt to hold a woman. To sink into a woman’s hug. I dropped a cheek to her hair, taking the comfort she was offering.
It ended too soon. Genevieve broke away. “I’m glad we practiced.”
“Me too.”
“Do you think they believed us?” she whispered. The attitude and confidence she’d worn in the clubhouse slipped away. Her dark, beautiful eyes filled with fear.
“I sure hope so.”
Otherwise this would never end.
And it had to end.
I had to let her move on with her life. I had to get her free of this obligation.
She needed to leave this town and fade into a memory.
Before I forgot that I didn’t deserve her.
Chapter Thirteen
Genevieve
“What’s the plan for today?” Isaiah asked from the couch. “Want to hit the first coat on the walls?”
“No,” I groaned into my pillow. The last thing I wanted to do today was paint.
Sleeping this Sunday away sounded like a much better plan. I was tired and . . . awake. Maybe I could sneak in an afternoon nap.
After meeting with the Warriors yesterday, I’d had a hard time calming down. I’d been sure they’d return to call me a liar.
Isaiah had done his best to assure me that I’d been believable, but doubts had kept me from falling asleep. Had they heard my voice shake? Had they heard my toes bouncing on the floor? Had they noticed how hard it had been to keep firm eye contact?
The courage in Bryce’s voice had given my confidence a boost. She’d been like that on the mountain too, arrogant in the face of our kidnapper. Dash called it sass. I called it survival—the sheer will to live.
I wasn’t much of a liar, but I’d had a lot of practice these past few months. I hoped it was enough.
“Can we skip the painting today?” I yawned. “Watch movies and do nothing?”
“Fine by me.” He sighed, shifting and flopping into a new position on the couch. Given the number of times he’d turned from one side to his other last night, Isaiah hadn’t slept well either. He had to be uncomfortable on the couch. His legs were too long and his shoulders too broad, yet he’d slept there without comment for months.
“Starting tonight, I want to sleep on the couch.”
“Huh?” He sat up, the blanket dropping off his bare chest. “Why?”
“Because it doesn’t seem fair for me to have the bed all the time.” I was twisted sideways with a pillow bunched under my cheek. It gave me a perfect view of Isaiah’s inked skin, especially the black pattern that ran down the side of his neck, across his shoulder and to one of his rounded pecs.
It had taken me weeks of stolen glances to identify all of Isaiah’s tattoos. They were all black. Each one was a pattern. There were no faces or words. They stretched across his smooth skin, molding to the muscle beneath.
“I don’t mind the couch,” he said.
“Please, let’s switch. It will make me feel better.”
“Can’t do it, doll. I’m good here.” He sank into his pillow, stretching his arms over the arm of the couch. Then he tucked his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.
I hugged my pillow closer, studying the definition in his arms. They were strong, the muscles large, but with long, sweeping lines. One muscle would rise, then disappear beneath another. His shoulders spanned beyond the width of the couch. When Isaiah raised his arms, they sometimes looked like wings.
Wings decorated in black.
“Did you get all your tattoos in prison?” I asked.
“No, only my fingers and part of this one.” His finger trailed down the tattoo on his neck. “It’s against the rules to get tattoos in prison, but a bunch of guys did it anyway. My third cellmate did them for me at night. I’m probably lucky I didn’t get sick or something because he did it with pen ink and a paperclip he’d sharpened into a needle.”
I grimaced. Isaiah rarely talked about prison. When he did, it was only little things. But the bits and pieces were enough for me to know I probably didn’t want to hear the full story. If he ever wanted to tell it, I’d listen. I’d cry, but I’d listen.
“The one on my neck wasn’t as big. It used to end here.” He lifted up and pointed to a spot on his collarbone. “When I got out, I went to an actual artist and had him fix it. Eventually, we expanded it. And I got the rest.”
He raised his arms, stretching them high so I could see the tattoos on his forearms. He also had tattoos on a calf, his ribs and his left foot.
I’d never had a desire for a tattoo, but after spending so much time with Isaiah, I’d begun to appreciate their artwork. Maybe I’d get one if it was something unique, like his. “Did they hurt?”
“Yeah, they hurt. The ones I got inside were the worst and they took forever because he could only do a little at a time. The one on my neck took him almost three months. But I didn’t care. It wasn’t like I was going anywhere.”
“Why the black?”
“That’s the color pen he had. When I got out, I decided to keep going with the black.”
“What does that one mean?” I asked. “The tattoo on your neck.”
“Nothing really. It’s just a pattern. The guy wanted to try it out. He was good but it wasn’t like he had actual tattooing equipment. So it’s a lot of simple stuff with blurry lines. I’ve had it all touched up since, but at the time, I didn’t care. I told him to experiment.”
“Why?” If I got a tattoo, I’d want it to be special. Why would you get a tattoo and go through the pain if it didn’t mean anything?
“Pain,” Isaiah whispered. “I wanted the pain.”
“Oh.”
Since my meltdown, I hadn’t asked Isaiah for more information about the pregnant woman’s death. We’d been consumed with anxiety over meeting with the Warriors. And I’d been a coward. I wasn’t sure I wanted all the answers.
Were the tattoos a punishment for what he’d done? A way of atoning? Because prison sounded rough enough without adding self-inflicted misery to the mix.
Though I suspected Isaiah was punishing himself to this day.
His beautiful eyes were so haunted at times. They didn’t flicker or spark. In the beginning, I’d thought it was because of his time in prison, or of what had happened at the cabin.
I was likely wrong on both counts.
There’d been a few moments lately when I’d begun to gather hope. Isaiah didn’t laugh or give flashy smiles, but he’d show me a rare grin. There were never teeth visible and it was barely an upturn of his lips, but it stole my breath every time.
He’d grin whenever I had cookies out for him when he came up from the garage. He’d grin when I did his laundry. He’d grin on the nights when he’d come up and find some new purchase for the apartment. Was he happy here with me?
Should I even be asking myself that question?
Isaiah wasn’t mine to keep forever. Eventually he’d move on to find someone who made him truly happy. The selfish part of me loathed the idea of a different, future Mrs. R
eynolds who’d get more than subtle grins.
I very much wanted to be the person who put a smile on Isaiah’s face, just once before this was over. Before I was the ex-Mrs. Reynolds and I missed him from my life.
“Thank you for yesterday,” I whispered.
“For what?”
“For holding my hand. I don’t think I would have gotten through it if you hadn’t been there.” Not only had lying to criminals been terrifying, replaying the kidnapping never got easier. The image of Bryce on her knees as I held that gun to her head was one that would haunt me for years.
“No need to say thanks.” Isaiah sighed. “You wouldn’t have had to go through it in the first place if it weren’t for me.”
I huffed. “It’s not your fault.”
He sat up and leaned forward on his knees. The tattoo of a tree—twisted and gnarly—ran down his ribs. The branches wound up his shoulder and dipped over his back. Some limbs twisted across his pec. “Whose fault is it then?”
“My mom’s,” I answered immediately. “If there’s a person to blame, it’s her.”
“V.” He closed his eyes.
V. No one had ever called me V. I loved it when Isaiah spoke my whole name. I loved the one letter even more.
Isaiah opened his eyes and met my gaze. “She wouldn’t have come up here to meet with Draven if she’d known what it would do to you. I know you’re mad and you have every right to be, but don’t stay mad.”
Guilt raced through my veins and closed my throat. He was right. I was mad. I was furious. And if Mom were here, she’d apologize every minute of every day.
But she wasn’t here. Maybe being angry, placing that blame, was my way of keeping her close. When there was no more anger, she’d truly be gone.
Isaiah stood, stretching his arms above his head. He was a beautiful distraction from the pain in my heart. He twisted and turned his torso, stretching out his back. His abs flexed and the V of his hips cut sharp. I didn’t linger on the bulge in his boxers—much—and drank him in.
Whoever got him next was a lucky woman.
Isaiah folded the blankets on the couch into a neat square. Then he stacked them on the pillow, bringing them to the base of the bed, where I’d put a cheap trunk. He tossed them in, then met my gaze. “A lazy day?”
