The look is also knowing, as if he’s somehow aware of what I’ve instructed my attorney to do.
“I’m holding out hope for Monday.” I nod, unable to tell him the truth about what’s going to go down. “But in case it doesn’t, I want you to know that provisions have been put in place if you go to prison.”
“I don’t want any help.”
“And I didn’t ask. You’re the father of my grandchild, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to have to tell that little boy that his daddy died in prison.”
I keep my mouth closed, all the while wondering if my son would be upset losing a man he never knew.
“You’ll have a job that will keep you busy,” he continues. “The days will go by faster that way. You’ll be protected, but don’t go getting involved in anything illegal or any gang shit. When you get home, you’ll either have a job here with Cerberus or at Lawson’s shop. If you want to get an education in something other than the criminal justice degree you have, we’ll make that happen too.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me when I open my mouth to argue.
“You will come home, Drew. This is only a bump in the road.”
Yeah, a six-year bump in the road. Coming back to a child who doesn’t know me and a woman who will hate me may not be an option, despite his belief that it’s possible.
“Thank you,” I say, honestly grateful that this man would lift a finger to help me even though I didn’t ask.
“Now head home.”
He walks out of the garage, leaving me standing there like a fool.
Cold November air fills the garage from the open door, and it’s the only thing that makes my feet move. I’d stay in here forever if I could, but there are numerous things I need to do before heading to Albuquerque tomorrow.
Keeping my head down like usual, I make my way across the street. I’ve done this very thing day after day, focusing on my feet rather than the houses in front of me, but something is different tonight. I don’t know if it’s because this will be the last time I can look up at her house, or what, but my eyes lift, my feet stuttering on the gravel when I see her standing on her front porch.
Cold breaths leave Izzy’s mouth in puffs, her slender arms holding a thin blanket around her shoulders, the fabric not big enough to cover her stomach.
Unable to swallow the lump that’s been forming in my throat since the first man walked up to me and shook my hand, I have to look away.
Wanting her, needing her in my arms is unfair. The time I spent with her these last couple of months is equally cruel. The hope I see glimmering in her eyes guts me, and I have to walk away.
The house is silent when I enter, and I’m thankful that my older brother isn’t standing around waiting for me to get home. The last thing I need right now is another argument about fighting my case.
Filled with familiar things, my room stills seems empty. As I pack my things away in boxes, praying this room will be a nursery by the time I visit again, I’m nothing but a robot. I have no sentimental connection to a single thing in here. The clothes are meaningless, the personal belongings bringing no memories or feelings.
I avoid the window, knowing I can’t see her again. My hands shake with fear, terror of what could happen to me in prison regardless of Hound’s assurances. My mind races, questions echoing inside asking if I’m doing the right thing.
I strip down to my boxers, knowing tonight may be one of the last times I’ll close my eyes knowing I’m safe.
Chapter 21
Isabella
Talk to him. It’ll make you feel better.
Those were Sophia’s parting words after she left with a container full of crunchy peanut butter cookies on Thursday.
Tonight, two days later, I finally got up the nerve, and he couldn’t even stand the sight of me. Dad knew I was waiting when he came home, pressing his lips to my forehead without saying a word. The kind gesture of bringing me a blanket nearly made me sob.
I was able to hold those emotions back until Drew looked up at me before walking away.
My tears have dried, the pain and sorrow transforming into an angry rage I can’t recall ever feeling before.
Maybe Drew isn’t a good man. What kind of man smiles at a woman, makes them feel comfortable and light on her feet only to turn around and discard her like trash? A good man doesn’t make someone fall in love with them only to be disgusted by the sight of them later.
And that’s what I feel. It doesn’t matter that it’s unrequited. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t want to even look at me.
I fell in love with him.
It didn’t happen overnight.
It started that night.
It started with the first smirk, the first wink, the very first words out of his mouth.
I was thinking of getting a burger, but you’re making those pancakes sound like they’re the best thing you’ve ever had in your mouth.
The filthy innuendo only served to irritate me even more right now.
His hands, his mouth, that laugh I heard so little of. All of it made me lose myself to him.
Those are things that make my feet move off the porch. Those things are what have me sneaking into Delilah’s house like a thief in the night. They’re what make me push open his bedroom door without so much as a light tap on the door.
He’s made his choices, and although I have to live with them, I sure as hell don’t have to take them lying down. I won’t be trampled on. I won’t be disrespected, and I won’t let him go to court without him knowing how much he hurt me, how much I want him to heal me.
The tears are back as I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of his room.
“Izzy?” His voice is raw and broken as he stands.
But I steel my spine, ready to lay all of my pain at his feet.
“You’re an assh—”
His lips are on mine, his hand tangling in my hair, and if the warmth of his body against mine didn’t feel so good, I might have the strength to push him away.
“We—”
“Shh. No talking.”
I nearly open my mouth again to argue, but it’s filled with him, his tongue, his moans, all the things we both need to say but can’t.
The thin blanket is pushed from my shoulders, pooling at our feet, but his roaming hands wipe away the chills threatening to form. He’s everywhere—my neck, my breasts—his warm breath pebbling my nipples. His fingers tangle in my hair, moving my mouth exactly how he wants it.
Skilled hands remove my t-shirt before working my sweats and panties down my legs, and I let him. I let the man who has worked very hard over the last few weeks to break my heart touch me, caress me, make me his.
Because his mouth isn’t lying. His body isn’t walking away from me or avoiding me when I walk into the room. I’m the center of his world right now, and I feel like the center of his with each nip to my skin, with each lick of that wicked tongue.
He doesn’t ask permission when he guides me to his bed. He knows he already has it, the slickness of my desire coating his fingers as he brushes them down my slit.
I moan, a desperate sound, begging him to keep going.
And he does, first burying his face between my legs, licking at me with a combination of aggression and softness as if he can’t make up his mind.