4. Leonor

4

LEONOR

G od, why can’t I just shut the fuck up?

I’ve been arguing with myself the whole drive home, debating on whether or not I should turn around and go at it with Collinsworth again, or keep trying to quiet the violence that’s building inside my head.

Instead, I pull into my parking spot all the way at the top of the parking structure, my car still hidden from the outside world despite the way my own walls are cracking.

Or maybe I’m finally cracking in general.

I can still hear his fucking voice saying the words charity case like the awful lyrics to some godforsaken song, one that wormed its way into my brain, playing on a loop until it drives me mad.

My body is burning from the inside out, the rage like a phoenix trying to emerge from the ashes of my disconnected self. Something about that man was so familiar, so terrifying, so infuriating, and it woke up a part of me that has been dormant for what feels like centuries.

It almost has me wondering, though, curious if all those doctors were right, if one day I’d just kind of wake up and go from surviving to actually living again.

Whatever this is, whether it’s permanent or not, it’s too loud to ignore and the part that’s been quiet for so goddamn long, it’s ready to get out and be loud again.

The part of me that’s been dead and buried for three goddamn years.

Right now, I feel like I’m going to explode if I don’t find an outlet.

So, I snatch my phone off the seat, unlock it, set on looking for the angriest, most volatile song I can find but instead, my contacts are open, and I’ve already hit Lucky.

Old reflex, a gut reaction.

It’s what I would have done before and without even thinking, I did it right now.

Three rings.

If I had actually put thought into what I’m doing before I acted on impulse, I would have rationalized that Lucky isn’t going to answer. I would have convinced myself that after thirty-five months, he doesn’t even have the same number, or he has likely forgotten about me. Maybe even something like if he does answer, he’ll be so hurt or mad or whatever other justifiable emotion he could feel, that calling him out of the blue would only cause him to tell me to fuck off.

Which I totally deserve.

Fourth ring .

I look at the screen, ready to hang up but stop cold when I hear a voice I never thought I’d hear again. One of the voices I convinced myself I didn’t want to hear again.

“Leo?”

I stare at his name a little longer and blink away the tears.

“Leo... is it you?”

I lift the phone to my ear just in time to hear a stifled cry, almost like the emotions are stuck in his throat and the silence is harder than expected. Something I’m all too familiar with.

“It’s me,” I whisper then pause, still reeling from my encounter with the benefactor from hell, sitting somewhere between wanting to completely unload all of this bullshit on Lucky, but now absolutely terrified because I’m on the phone with anyone other than Justine. “I know I kind of ghosted...” I let out a nervous chuckle, totally out of my element and starting to panic. “For almost three years...”

Nothing.

My anger is fading back to full-blown panic, fear starting to creep in as it threatens to suffocate me.

“I’m coming over.”

Lucky doesn’t give me the opportunity to respond. The call ends before I can, and I’m now staring at my screen again.

Well, shit.

My anxiety skyrockets and I immediately dry heave several times, extinguishing whatever fire Collinsworth had set ablaze while I spiral faster than I have in months. I throw open my door and swing my legs out onto the concrete, sticking my head between my knees while I heave a few more times then stand, pull my bag into the driver seat, and dig for my meds. Popping a couple in my mouth, I swallow them dry then light a cigarette while I wait.

I’m way too nervous to go into my apartment.

I need to know the exact moment Lucky arrives, and if I don’t wait out here, I’ll pace in my crypt until the wood floors give out.

I’m not even sure I’d invite him into my tomb anyway, it’s been three years or more since he’s been there, and it would break his fucking heart to see how I’ve been living. It’s going to be hard enough for him to see what I’ve become.

Lighting another cigarette with the smoldering hot of the one I just sucked down, I flick the butt on the ground and step on it to make sure it’s out. The minutes drag by slowly, each second scoring into my brain as the anticipation of my impending visitor’s arrival eats at me.

Why did I call him?

I acted on impulse, out of habit. Old habits.

And I can’t help but think it was some divine fucking intervention.

Today started out like every other day; wake-up call from Justine, dragging ass to work, hating every second I was there. Then it took a nosedive. That Collinsworth asshat did something to my brain and I’m not sure if I should thank him or smack him, but either way I feel different. I am different, and I’m about to have a reunion I never wanted because of it.

Fate is such a conniving little bitch.

I light a third cigarette as I hear the squealing of tires come peeling up the ramp, the roar of an engine rumbling through the structure at a speed that is extremely illegal. My heart launches into my throat as it gets louder, and I’m sure as fuck praying I choke on it.

The black beast comes flying toward me, hauling ass through the almost empty lot before the E-350 cargo van slams into the spot across from me.

And my legs are mush again.

The driver’s side door swings violently open, almost hard enough to bend it backwards and when the long limbs of Lucky Lucius De la Grange come pouring out in an almost frantic motion, I suck in a sharp breath.

I see his dark mahogany high fade—the haircut he’s had forever but longer than he used to keep it—first as he rounds the van followed by his olive, tattoo covered skin. His giant body is adorned in his staple solid black t-shirt, solid black skinny jeans and solid black Chucks, a blast from my not-so-distant past.

Lucky has always dressed that way, he never wears anything else, and I can’t help but smile to myself when I see him, looking the exact same as he did thirteen years ago when we first met.

He looks up, his stormy gray eyes flashing my way briefly, those long lashes twitching as he shifts his stare from me to the van. I caught a glimpse of the scar on his face where his lip ring was ripped out, that knife leaving Lucky with a permanent smirk that extends all the way to just under his left ear but he looked away too quickly for me to really see more than that. Because he’s not looking at me.

I follow his line of sight as he sticks his head back in the van, apparently talking to someone.

Someone in the van.

Multiple someones in the van.

Fuck .

I light another cigarette at this slow-to-happen realization.

That motherfucker brought someone with him.

I don’t know who but I can guess, and if I still know Lucky at all, I’ll put money on there being exactly three someones sitting in that big ass hunk of metal.

And that really has me feeling some kind of way.

Before I can turn and run my sorry, panicked ass back to my apartment, the passenger door flies open and so does the cargo door on the passenger side. A blur of arms, legs, tattoos and black clothing come spilling out, confirming my suspicions and fears.

And it makes me gag again.

My vision is literally blurring.

I start to get dizzy, but I refuse to black out. I’m not taking my eyes off the scene playing out in front of me for one second because this could very well be the last time I see any of them based on how I feel right now.

That rat bastard brought them.

I should have known, shouldn’t have expected anything different. Of course Lucky brought them, why wouldn’t he?

Which has my fear suddenly morphing into anger, white hot as the fury twists in my gut.

Mark, Pete and Norm walk around to the back of the van, Lucky meeting them there before the four exchange what I can only assume are horrified looks, but it’s hard to tell through the red I am now seeing.

Who the hell do they think they are?

Why the hell did they all come here?

Without thinking—again—I start walking toward them. Every step makes me angrier, every slap of my boots on the pavement closing the twenty-foot gap between us is a war raging on my insides.

I was terrified Lucky was coming, scared to death of facing him after such a long time, but for some reason seeing the four of them together across the parking lot canceled that out, and it pissed me off.

Why the fuck are they here?

None of them should be here, they shouldn’t want to be here, not after everything that happened. They should have stayed the hell away like they have the last three years. No phone calls, no texts, no unexpected visits. They should hate me for what I did to them, what I did to us, but judging solely on their surprise ambush, they fucking don’t.

I flick my cigarette in their direction and light another one.

Each of them shifts uncomfortably, unsure if they should start walking toward me or run back to the van and burn rubber. I know they know the look on my face, they’ve all been on the receiving end of it at one point or another.

They should know better.

Hitting my cigarette so hard I drag half of it into my lungs, the burn of my anger suddenly gives way and as I exhale, it becomes something else entirely.

The four men before me, my band, my family, they stand there in silent awe, watching, waiting, barely fucking breathing. They look just as scared as I am.

Why are they here?

I’m a mere few feet away from them when the first tear breaks free from my lower lid and slides down my cheek. Another rolls down my face as my legs give out, dropping to my knees, folding my body in half at the waist as the floodgates burst open, and I start sobbing.

Loud, angry, totally unflattering sobs that have me shaking violently. I can’t stop it even if I wanted to.

The rush of guilt and sadness that washes over me is not expected, but it’s not unwelcome. It’s almost cathartic. My sobs racking my body, three years of bottled-up bullshit popping the cork and exploding through my tears. I haven’t cried over any of this, not what happened and losing these men specifically, and I guess now is as good a time as any.

I’m shaking so hard it hurts when I feel arms wrap around me, strong arms that smell like clove cigarettes and Vintage Black.

I know these arms and this smell. It’s been one of my favorite scents for thirteen years.

Instead of jerking away or running back to my car or apartment or wherever I could find a place to hide, I bury my face in those arms, wrapping myself around the hard lines of Lucky’s torso and cry harder than I have in forever.

I can feel the rumble in his chest, the way it expands and contracts, and I press my forehead there right over his heart, the heart that is beating wildly against my face.

“I’m here,” Lucky soothes, holding me tighter while he rubs my back. “I’m here, we’re all here.” Then he’s pulling me to my feet and eliminating any space between us.

I feel the others closing in then, the three of them wrapping their arms around the two of us, a head resting on each of my shoulders and one on top of my own.

And I’m suddenly home .

“We must be a ridiculous fucking sight,” Mark says, breaking the silence after who knows how long, his voice raspy as always but more watery than usual. “Four grown-ass men covered in tattoos, hugging and crying in some random parking lot. Even if they could see Leo through all this bullshit, it still wouldn’t make a damn bit of sense.”

A couple of them chuckle but their embrace only tightens.

My boys never did mind showing their emotions and right now, I’m not sure if I’m glad for it, or still scared of it.

Then the faint smell of burning fabric hits my nose and I remember I was smoking a cigarette when the shit hit the fan.

“Fuck!” Norman shouts as he jumps back, the circle breaking so he can frantically pat himself down before stopping at the rolled cuff of his jeans. “How did that even get in there?” He pulls my Camel from the still smoldering hole then hits it with a grin before tossing it on the ground.

Everyone takes a minute to gather themselves, wiping eyes and noses as they give me a little space. All except Lucky, who makes sure to keep a protective arm around my shoulders and his chin resting on top of my head. Because they all think I’m going to run, and he’s most likely to keep me from doing it.

They’re not wrong.

I’ve finally stopped crying, but I’ll bolt faster than I ever have at the first chance I get, even if a huge part of me doesn’t want to.

That’s the part I need to hold on to.

Especially as I look around, trying desperately to get a read on what happens next, scanning each of their faces as if it’ll give me a clue because this doesn’t feel real, and I don’t know what the hell to do.