Escape (The Covington Heights Crew Book 1)

by Deana Birch

She shooed away Leo’s words with a brush of her hand and came over and hugged me. “Call me Chezzie.”

  I might have let out a little ‘eeep’. Being hugged by a woman, a stranger no less, was not something I’d done on the regular. But the warmth in Chezzie seeped through her skin and I had a feeling I was privileged to see a glimpse of Leo’s life before Covington.

  Chezzie led us to a booth and we had sparkling water and red wine in our glasses before I’d had a chance to take in our cozy surroundings. The other patrons were older couples who sent occasional glances to our table. They must have known Leo was related to the owner.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Leo

  The shy glances at our table meant that if my brother didn’t already know I was at Chezzie’s, he would in a matter of minutes. But I didn’t care. The slow pull back to who I was meant to be had begun the moment I’d walked away. And my little stare-down with Anton was him reminding me that I’d once again stepped on his toes.

  It was hard to find a part of me that gave a shit. I was going to eat up my slice of normal with Fiona and lick the plate clean. Hell, maybe she’d even kiss me again. Or maybe I would just go ahead, man up and kiss her. Christ, if she kept blushing like she had when I’d opened the door for her, I was going to lose my mind.

  Fiona took a cautious sip of her wine.

  “Not a fan of wine?” I asked.

  She batted her eyelashes, but not in a fake way—more like reflection. It was one of those small things that added to her greater beauty. “I don’t like to be out of control.”

  Everything she said seemed to have hidden meanings, half of them being unraveled by my brain and the other half wishing she was flirting. But there was no mystery about why she would never let go. She’d never had a safety net. In fact, she was the safety net—not just for Violet, but for herself, too.

  Chezzie walked over carrying a huge plate of antipasto, and my stomach did a happy dance. Roasted red peppers, grilled eggplant and zucchini—all drizzled with oil and balsamic vinegar. Real food. I could have wept.

  We thanked my aunt and I served Fiona before piling up my own small plate.

  “So…” Fiona leaned in. “There are no menus? She just brings us food?”

  “Yup.” I cut the eggplant and shoved it in my mouth. As I chewed it, the tension that I’d been holding in my shoulders the entire day softened. A brief flash of a gun being pointed directly at me popped into my head. I hadn’t flinched, nor had I hesitated. All my movements had been perfect. Dad would have been proud—or maybe not. I hadn’t killed anyone.

  “Hey,” Fiona said in a soft voice and she placed her hand over mine, “where’d you go there?”

  I shook my head, rattling away the memory. “Sorry. Long day.”

  Fiona brushed her thumb over my knuckle—it was a tender gesture that I shouldn’t get used to. She glanced around before asking in a low voice, “How did you do it, anyway? How did you get her back?”

  Telling her it was easy would have been pompous, and I didn’t want to be that way around her anymore. I raked my fingers through my hair then squeezed my shoulders. She waited with such patience, such concern, that it merited the truth, however tiny it might be.

  “It’s what I’ve trained for. Plus, most of Bradford is high half the time. It’s not even a fair fight.” I went back to my food and mopped up the remaining sauce with a piece of olive bread.

  God, I’ve missed Chezzie’s olive bread.

  Our starters were cleared away by a busboy I hadn’t seen before and Chezzie came out of the kitchen with two bowls of Spaghetti Vongole. When it was below my nose, I looked up to Chezzie, who had a knowing smile on her barely wrinkled face.

  “I love you.”

  Chezzie rolled her eyes and turned to Fiona. “He loves my food.”

  I couldn’t wait, and I pulled a clam out of its shell with my fork and twisted the oily long noodles into my spoon.

  “I’m never going to have that problem.” Fiona’s eyes widened with her confession and Chezzie laughed and walked away.

  After a cringe, Fiona brought her hands to her face and rubbed the base of her palms under her eyes. I chewed the blissful pasta, also enjoying the mortification show in front of me. Frazzled Fiona was a delightful sight.

  “Ugh. This is insane. I wasn’t implying that you would ever love me.”

  “Yes, you were,” I said between bites and loved the fact that it made her more uncomfortable. I was still an ass, after all.

  Fiona dropped her head back and banged it on the booth a few times. “This day has been a nightmare—and long. I’m pretty sure this is the longest day of my life.” She stared at her plate then up to me, her lack of food knowledge apparent in her unsure frown.

  “Trust me. It’s amazing.” I reached over the table for her fork and spoon. “You pull out the clam, stick it and wrap it in the most perfectly cooked pasta you will ever eat. Then repeat.”

  I motioned for her to take the silverware but she just stared at my hands. She looked up at me with her soft brown eyes. There was a hint of sadness and a touch of confusion, but mostly warmth.

  “Twelve hours ago, I hated you. And now we’re on a date.” A weary frown spread on her lovely face. “And I like it. Jesus, Leo, we’re being kind to each other. What has happened to us?”

  “Eat.” I insisted with the fork and spoon again. Gingerly, she took them out of my hands and did as I’d ordered. After a bit of silence and a confession that the pasta was indeed amazing, she wiped the corners of her mouth with the cream-colored cloth napkin.

  Her confidence was back, perhaps fueled by Italian cooking at its finest. She asked, “Were you afraid this morning?”

  “Yeah. When you ran off—”

  “No, I mean when you went to get Callie.”

  “No.”

  Part of me hoped that showing her my strong side would comfort her. The other part hoped like hell it wouldn’t scare her. Either way, I was tired of hiding it.

  “Were there guns?”

  “Yes.” I sat back in the booth and our plates were cleared.

  She watched the busboy walk away before asking, “There were guns, but you weren’t scared?”

  “Correct. It’s one thing to have a gun and another to know how to use it.”

  “And you know how to use one?”

  She was searching for something, but the intrusion didn’t bother me. In fact, it might have been refreshing on some level.

  “I do.” There was nothing playful about my tone. It was a solid affirmation that I was sure she believed, maybe craved.

  Fiona licked her lips and her chest rose and fell at a hypnotizing pace. She had on one of the dark tank tops she’d recently bought and it fit her like skin.

  “Did you use a gun this morning?”

  I loved that she stared me down, challenged me, so I told her what she wanted to hear, which also happened to be true. “Yes.”

  Fiona tapped her finger gently three times on the table where her plate had been. She closed her eyes for a long blink then asked, “Have you killed someone?”

  “I’m not a murderer.” But I was. I just hadn’t taken a life.

  She must have missed the lie because she said, “Okay,” and nodded, as if she understood all the turmoil I went through on a daily basis—as if I had a chance at being normal, like there was a future with happiness waiting for me. There wasn’t.

  Because the truth, the real horrifying truth was that I’d wanted to shoot those Bradford fucks between the eyes even before I’d heard Callie’s screams. I’d enjoyed flexing my muscles of knowledge and power. I’d cherished the fear in their eyes when they’d realized that they were fucked. And that taste I’d had… It was just as addicting as the drugs I sold to make Anton richer.

  So while Fiona might have been justifying this date on some sort of level only she could wrestle with, deep down, I was still faking.

  The problem was that she was becoming just as much of a delicious habit as
the rest of it. I’d laid on the bed with her earlier telling myself lies—lies of a relationship that would not, could not work. No one was going to stay around and love a murderer. My mother had proven that point. And I could try to lie like Frankie did and lead a double life, but eventually, relationships based on fake foundations always crumbled—some even burned.

  And yet, I needed to be with her, wanted to be with her—however that was possible.

  The chicken Marsala came and cut the tension we’d created through our short game of twenty questions.

  “There’s more?” Fiona asked with big eyes once Chezzie had left. “God, and it smells amazing.” Fiona deflated but took up her knife and fork and cut through the tender chicken breast. She popped in a bite at the same time as I did and our eyes met, each of us mirroring the other’s emotions. Yeah, it was good.

  About halfway through, she slowed down and eventually gave up. Her stomach hadn’t grown up Italian, so I forgave her and finished her plate. We spoke of lighter subjects—the food, the neighborhood… Hell, we even talked about the weather.

  Chezzie brought over my expresso and scooted in next to me. She brushed through the hair above my ear with her long nails. “This mean you’re coming home?”

  Her question was both a plea and a wish. I’d never asked her how much she’d known about her brother’s life. I’d always just assumed it was enough by the way she looked at Frankie and me so knowingly.

  “I don’t know.” I let out a long breath and offered a small smile. And I didn’t know. What was sure was that Covington was becoming less and less of an option. I’d really thought I could lie low and be a simple, contented criminal. But that wasn’t in my blood.

  Maybe she sensed the shift, because Fiona perked up and said, “Chezzie, thank you so much. That was the best meal of my life. I loved it.”

  “Anytime.” Chezzie stood and motioned for me to do the same. “Give me a hug. I never know when I’m going to see you again.”

  I obliged and she squeezed me tight. For my ears only, she said, “I don’t know what brought you to me, but I know you’ll be okay.”

  My chest tightened. I wanted to believe her.

  Once Fi and I were outside, she pulled me in the opposite direction of the car. “I don’t want to go back yet.”

  I held her hand and let her guide me to a small nearby park. We found an empty bench, where we sat under a streetlight.

  “Do you know why I took off this morning?” she asked without looking at me.

  “To piss me off?” It had worked. She could have easily been Callie.

  “Nah. That was an added benefit. It was because I wanted to do something nice for myself. And whenever I do that, something goes wrong and proves that I shouldn’t have.”

  I could relate. “So why bother, right?”

  “Anton’s not happy about us.” Fiona bowed her head and fiddle with her fingers in her lap.

  “He’s probably going to ask me to leave.” At least it would be civil.

  “Not if you don’t go back.” Fiona swiveled toward me, a sad hope in her eyes. “You must have somewhere else to go. Chezzie—”

  I lifted up a hand. “I’m going back.”

  “Why? Why would you live there when you have another option?”

  Because you’re there and you don’t know the other option.

  She danced her eyes around my face, trying to will an answer out of me. But I’d had my fill of truthful confessions. I wanted to keep our night going as much as she did. And she was right about something. I didn’t have to go back, not right away.

  “How long will your mom stay sober?”

  Fiona narrowed her eyes then looked away, blinking several times. “Until she meets a guy. Then maximum one month. Why?”

  “Ever been camping?” I had no plan, zero, but to get far, far away, and a complete change of scenery was exactly what we both needed.

  “Leo, the farthest I’ve ever been from Covington was a boat ride on the river. You’re not talking about sleeping outside, are you? Like on dirt?”

  “Come on.” I popped up but she stayed on the bench, shaking her head.

  “I don’t like bugs, Leo. I don’t like…trees.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “You don’t like trees?”

  She rolled her eyes, but I could tell she just needed a little convincing. The fresh air would do us both good.

  “I’ll do everything. I promise.” Anything and everything. “Come.” I held out my hand.

  Fiona peered at me. I’d already convinced her. “Let me guess. Skip was a Boy Scout?”

  “Sorta.” I was pretty sure the kids in little uniforms and scarfs had duller knives.

  We stopped at a deli for another coffee and I grabbed some supplies. There was a crappy motel a couple of hours north where we could spend the night, then I could get us organized for the next day. Fiona’s flip-flops and cut-offs would never do for the wild.

  At the counter, Fiona cleared her throat and pushed a box of condoms into our pile. There was no point in lying. My heart skipped a beat and I was pretty sure my eyes bugged out of my head.

  She shrugged. “I like presents.”

  I had a present. I absolutely, positively had a present for her. And there was no doubt in my mind that I wanted to give it to her, but I didn’t want her to feel obligated to give it to me. So I paid, and when we got to the car, I turned to her.

  “I don’t want you to think you have to pay me for your safety. I’m not Anton.”

  She studied me, and for the first time in a long time I had no idea what to think, how to read the person in front of me. Fiona stretched and yawned.

  In a matter-of-fact tone she said, “Leo, we went on a date—you and me. I got turned on about you knowing how to use a gun.”

  Okay, I probably didn’t need to know that. It gave flight to those little birds of hope that I’d been trying to cage.

  With more volume, she continued, “You blend dangerous and safe in a way that fucks with my head and my hormones. If I’m going to be in a tent with you—cuz there is no way I am sleeping alone in the woods. I’ve seen too many movies for that—something might happen between consenting adults. I just want to be safe.”

  “I just don’t want you to feel like it’s some sort of obligation.” God help me, I’m cock-blocking myself. Fiona was right. There was something wrong with us.

  She crossed her arms, plumping her breasts—breasts that would be next to me in a tent, breasts that I’d been dreaming about for months. She was a genius. We would absolutely need those condoms—if she gave the green light.

  “Eyes up. And do you honestly think I would do anything I didn’t want to?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not saying it’s going to happen. I’m saying it could. Now stop thinking about my boobs and drive us out of this fucking city.”

  Fiona nodded off with her face smashed against the window. It didn’t bother me to not have that conversation while I drove. She’d given me a lot to think about—and not just in the sexy, dirty, can’t-wait-to-get-my-hands-on-her department.

  Something she’d said casually played over and over in my mind. She just wanted to be safe. It was why she wanted out of Covington Heights. She’d confused location with safety. But threats were everywhere we went. It was why my father had taught us self-defense before he’d ever shown us an offensive attack. Assess the greatest threat.

  Part of me wondered if my greatest threat wasn’t gently snoring next to me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fiona

  I woke to Leo’s quick exhales and a vague memory of checking into a motel. With my eyes still closed, I reached for his pillow and pulled it over my head. The luxury of sleeping in was lost in his noisy huffs.

  “Ahh-h! What are you doing?” I asked with a muffled voice.

  “Pushups. A thousand.”

  I bet there was a smile on his face. He couldn’t be serious.

  “Do them quieter,” I complaine
d but slowly rolled to the side of the bed where his grunts were coming from and opened an eye.

  Holy shit. Leo was shirtless and somehow the pants he had been wearing the day before had mercifully been lost as well. When he’d done the pushups in my living room with Violet on his back, his baggy jeans had failed at displaying his harder-than-should-be-allowed ass. That thing was tight—bounce-a-quarter-off-it tight. Up and down the glorious olive-skinned man went, his back muscles glimmering with perspiration and that ass solid as a brick.

  I had to stop my hand from reaching out of its own accord and grabbing or smacking the damn thing to make sure it was real. And it got worse. His thighs were like trunks on a thousand-year-old tree. He had more defined muscles than I even knew our legs had. His calves were equally carved out. It was like his skin was being stretched to its limits.

  How had I missed all of it before? Maybe all those muscles had to be flexed to intoxicate me with their raw power. I had no idea. But drunk I was. Why was I sweating when he was the one doing all the work? Also, why did I have the urge to crawl under him and make him kiss me every time he bent the elbows of those… Sweet Baby Jesus, his arms in action were sinful.

  “I can feel you staring at me.”

  I should have been embarrassed. That was what he was trying to do. And truthfully, a part of me was. But there was a hungrier part of me—the part that had confessed to being turned on by his confidence.

  “And?” I dared.

  Instead of another smart-ass remark, he let my challenge hang in the air, taunting me to follow through. Fine. I could do that. Hell, I wanted to do it. I stretched out like a lazy cat then dug through my little backpack for the bath bomb I’d bought the day before. I stepped over the human muscle machine and headed for the bathroom.

  The tub wasn’t as big as Anton’s, but it was cleaner than mine. I pulled the stopper and flipped the water on. While the bath filled, I brushed my teeth and washed my knickers in the sink. I chuckled to myself at the thought of me camping. I was the least outdoorsy person I knew.

  When the tub was half full, I dropped the pink bomb in and it fizzled into nothing. I slid into the warm, tinted water. I closed my eyes and went to that safe place deep inside me. But instead of the solitude I usually found there, I went back to the moment on Leo’s bed at the apartment—the minute in my life where he and I had shifted.