19. Impossible

NINETEEN

IMPOSSIBLE

CROSS

M y answering laugh sounds rusty and unused, and it nearly shocks us both as it bursts out of me.

To be fair, I don’t think I’ve laughed since I was sitting in my studio all those weeks ago, with Genevieve swinging her entrancing dancer legs as she absently flipped through my book of designs. She was always saying the most amusing things when we were first getting to know each other—when I foolishly convinced myself I could be satisfied with being her friend —like her sunny personality and her sass could be the foil to the lingering darkness inside of me that I’ve never been able to shake.

Rolls visibly relaxes a little at the sound of my amusement. “Good to see you haven’t forgotten how to do that,” he teases.

My laugh dies down as I swap it for a sigh. “They caged me up, Royce,” I say, using his real name. Unlike me, he doesn’t even react. He’s as much Royce as he is Rolls, while I’ve buried the last of Carlos a long, long time ago. “They treated us like dogs.” The way they starved us, then threatened to make us eat off the floor. How Mickey wanted to force Genevieve to blow him, then greedily agreed when I offered in her place. How they would’ve shot us if I didn’t mount her and rut her, no better than a mindless animal. “Worse than dogs,” I spit out. “I’m surviving, sunshine. That’s the most I can do right now. Everything else is a bonus.”

His expression shadows over just as quickly as I lost my laugh. “I know. It’s hard sometimes. Trust me. I know . But that’s why I’m here. When shit gets rough, you need to know you’re not alone.”

My gut goes tight. Rolls is right. Of course he is. I’d expect no less from this man.

But the words… they’re familiar, too, and that affects me more than the sentiment behind his statement.

I said something similar to him once, years and years ago, right after everything went down with Rolls’s younger cousin and that Dragonfly girl he was obsessed with. Back when Rolls wrongfully convinced himself that the brewing war between the East End and the West Side was all his fault because he was there the night Heather Valiant was shot and killed, and when Devil made it clear that he was backing up his second even if it meant war between the Sinners Syndicate and the Libellula Family.

Tensions were high. Bodies started dropping, and none of us knew who to trust. I didn’t care about any of that. I went and visited my old friend just like he searched me out tonight. I told him how much it hurt to lose the ones you tried to protect, and even if he barely knew Heather, she’d turned to Rolls when Jake McIntyre wouldn’t take no for an answer. Just like I did for Genevieve, Rolls promised to protect her—and the poor girl died anyway.

No surprise that he blamed himself for it even if he wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger, and I know him well enough now to see that he always will. Just like I’ll never be able to think of Ana Lucia, Rafe, and my mother without wishing I’d been in the apartment the night they died.

Could I have saved them? I was twelve. The fire burned so quickly… so, no. I couldn’t have saved them. But I wouldn’t have had to live the next twenty years with survivor’s guilt if I had died with them.

Genevieve… I did save her. But I lost her just the same, and even though Rolls is right here with me, I can’t shake the loneliness that is my constant companion.

If I admit that to Rolls, he’ll worry about me even more than he already is. I can’t let that happen. It’s bad enough that I was gone without a trace for two weeks before Tanner figured out where Winter was keeping us. We’re out now. Life fucking goes on.

I know that better than most.

So, again, I change the subject. I ignore the ache in my head and the sensation of grit in my tired eyes to tease Rolls about what names he would choose for any future McIntyre baby. I promise I’ll find the time to clean up a little and head over to the penthouse of the Paradise Suites to pay my respects to Devil, Ava, and baby Clare. I even half-heartedly accept a dinner invite at Rolls and Nicolette’s place, and if I make an off-color comment about the time I did Nicolette’s cover-up and had her bare tit staring me in the face the entire time I inked a seahorse over the shitty dragonfly her abusive ex etched into her skin, Rolls is good enough to let it pass without becoming as jealous now as he did then.

Once he seems sure that I’m short-tempered due to lack of sleep, but otherwise as okay as I can be, he tosses his empty energy drink in my trash can, then tells me he’ll check in with me again about that dinner invite.

I make a noncommittal sound in reply, then let out a breath when he finally leaves.

Getting up from my seat, I fish the can out of the trash so that I can toss it in my recycling; with the amount I used to go through, I got into the habit of making sure I always recycled the aluminum. Grabbing the handle, I pull the door closed. A quick flick of the lock and I won’t be disturbed by any other Sinners ‘just walking by’.

I’d paused in cleaning up the rest of my station when Rolls walked in as Pax was leaving. I make quick work of it now, and as I’m about to put my tattoo gun away, I pause. Something Rolls said rattles around in my exhausted brain, and for the first time in weeks, I feel a jolt of clarity.

Only it’s not a shot of caffeine from an energy drink that clears my brain a little. It’s the sudden burst of inspiration that slams into me coupled with his words.

I wear my loyalty to Devil and our crew on my side, and my love for Nic near my junk…

I’ve lost track of how many tats I have exactly. I’ve done them all, except for the ones on my back. Those were gifts to me by the mentor who I first apprenticed with, but as soon as I knew that a life of ink and the buzz of a tattoo gun was my calling, I used my own body as my first canvas.

It was another addiction. The hit of dopamine I got from the pain as the needle dug into my skin, combined with the satisfaction of another piece of permanent art done flawlessly on my flesh was a rush that rivaled any drug for me.

I haven’t been inspired in so long, but after talking to Rolls… I know exactly what I want to do.

I’m an old pro when it comes to swapping out my needles from used to fresh, pouring out the colors I’ll need, and sticking the little ink cups to my tray with a dollop of vaseline. As soon as I’m prepped, I grab the large lighted mirror on its stand and move it nearer to my seat. Tugging off my shirt, I toss it over the headrest of my leather chair before glancing down at my chest.

I’ve never tatted my hands. No actual reason, really, other than that I know how much of a bitch it is for hands and finger tattoos to heal properly. I need my fingers; another reason why I wasn’t surprised Genevieve gave in and allowed me to have sex with her when it was my hands on the line. I’ve left my thighs alone, and I left my cock ink-free for the same reason as my hands.

But the left side of my chest? My heart died the same day that my family did. I never thought I’d feel love again—and then I met Genevieve. We can’t be together. I accept that. It’s not even because our respective gangs were once rivals and enemies—like we’re living a modern-day version of West Side Story —or that she’s too good for a damaged man like me. She is, of course, but if we’d never had been taken captive together… if we’d gone from rivals to friends to eventual lovers… there might’ve been a chance.

There isn’t one now. To pursue Genevieve would be selfish as fuck, and I can’t do that to her. Not when I can finally admit what I’ve known from almost the first moment I saw her dance.

I love her. She owns my heart—and as I grab the disposable razor and start shaving the nearly invisible hairs that cover my left pec, I decide to prove it.

Even if my butterfly will never know how much I belong to her, at least I will every single time I look in the mirror.

It’s better than seeing the monster that stole the last of her innocence.

When was the last time I slept for more than a couple of hours at once?

That’s the question that’s running through my mind as I park my bike as near enough to the back of the large white manor as I can without getting caught on Libellula’s cameras. Considering I’ve been run off by three different Dragonflies—and the old butler who came marching out from inside the big house—I’ve gotten a pretty good idea of their limits. I still push them, though, because I need to.

I need to see the light on in her studio. I strain my ears, hoping that the music from the third floor might filter down to me. Wishful thinking, yeah, since the roar of cars driving down the consistently busy roads would drown it out, but no one said that I was being rational.

In my admittedly delirious state, I know I’m not.

When was the last time I slept for more than a couple of hours at once? When I was holding Genevieve in my arms, and since that’s never going to happen again, this is the next best thing.

It’s been a week since Rolls came to visit me after I did Pax’s Sinners tattoo. For the sake of my old friend and his palpable concern for me, I tried to sleep after I finished inking my chest. I did everything I could these last few days. Melatonin. Benadryl. Any over-the-counter sleep aid I could get from the corner store. They all managed to knock me out, but staying asleep only to wake up alone in my bed?

Impossible .

I brace my boots on the asphalt, snorting under my breath as I realize how much my life’s changed. For years, my childhood trauma meant that waking up alone was a good thing. The nightmares of my bastard of a stepfather sneaking into my room to do whatever the fuck he wanted affected my insomnia for so damn long. Doesn’t matter that he’s dead and rotting in some unmarked grave, provided by the prison because—as his only kin—it was understandable that I’d refuse to do anything for his remains but spit on them.

I’m thirty. Almost two decades of that man owning my nightmares and making it so that I could never have a bedmate didn’t quite disappear when I held Genevieve in my arms, but they were quieted. To protect her in a way I couldn’t Ana Lucia and Rafe… I wasn’t the victim. I was the savior.

Until I was the villian.

This last month, my nightmares all include Genevieve simply disappearing. Like, poof , she’s gone, and I have to resist the urge to ball up my fist and plow it into the first hard surface I see whenever I think of her ceasing to exist.

So long as she survives, I could give a fuck what happens to me. I thought that in the cell we were trapped in, and it means even more to me now.

She’s up there, and though I expect to be run off before I can really get comfortable, this might be the best opportunity I have to just sit on the seat of my bike and know this is as close to her as I can get.

Once a month, the head of the Sinners Syndicate and the Libellula Family meet up with the mayor of Springfield to make sure that the guns keep selling, the drugs keep flowing, and that the SPD know what side of their ridiculous—and clearly crooked—thin blue line they need to stay on. Genevieve’s brother won’t be home for a while. Devil will find a way to leave the meet early so he can return to his wife and newborn, but Rolls usually goes to those dinners, too. So does Genevieve’s cousin, the big guy who acts as Damien’s bodyguard. Vincent. He’s the one who threatened to snap my neck for breaking his Genny’s heart, and I almost let him because fuck . She doesn’t understand that I’m hurting just as much. Even more, most likely.

But I deserve the pain. She doesn’t. And I only hope that, the longer we’re apart, the easier it is for her to forget me.

To forget those weeks in the cage.

To forget what I did to her…

Leaning forward on my handlebars, I get comfortable. My gaze is locked on the gauzy yellow light streaming from behind the curtains on her windows. I’ve never been inside, but she’s told me how the entire third floor is hers. She’s up there. That’s all that matters to me. The lights are on, she’s home, and I’m more at peace on my bike, watching her window from a distance, than I would be, tossing and turning and by myself in my bed.

I lose track of how long I’m staring up there; when no one comes out straight away to tell me to get lost, I figure I found a good spot to keep watch over her. Eventually, Libellula will return and I’ll have to head back to the West Side, but for now, I’m content to just spend the rest of the night out here where I am.

And that’s when, suddenly, the back door pushes open and a feminine figure steps out onto the porch.

I jolt up, attention snared so quickly, you’d think I was a fish caught on the line.

Genevieve —

My heart skips a beat, then sinks just as quickly. No. That’s not my butterfly. The woman heading down the porch stairs has dark hair, not golden blonde, and while she moves with a purposeful step, it’s nothing like the innate gracefulness that first drew me toward Genevieve.

I can’t make out her features, but it’s clear enough that she’s not my girl. Since the only other people who live in the manor are the cook and the housekeeper—both older women—and Damien’s wife, Savannah, I’m assuming that must be her.

She sees me. I know she does. I also know now that she’s almost as dangerous as Damien Libellula himself. She’s a Dragonfly enforcer, and if she decided to take me out, I have no doubt that she could—or that it would please her brutal husband.

Only she doesn’t. Instead, turning slightly and tilting her head back as though she’s searching for the same window that I was, Savannah notices the light on in Genevieve’s room—and the freshly trimmed tree that means she can no longer sneak out like she’d been doing before we were caught by Winter’s men.

I noticed that my first night I rode by the manor. Even if Genevieve wanted to see me again, her previous way out was cut down. Add that to the countless new cameras put up on Libellula’s personal territory and he wasn’t taking any chances of his baby sister sneaking out again.

Would she, I wonder. If I hadn’t made it impossible for her to reach me—if I’d told Libellula to shove it, and been selfish enough to claim my butterfly as my own even though I would only hurt her in the end—would she come to me? Or did I lose her before she was ever really mine?

I don’t know, but after Savannah pointedly lowers her gaze, turns again, stares at me for a few seconds, then walks back inside of the manor, I spend the next couple of hours obsessing over that next…