Chapter Thirty-Two

Cecelia rushes toward my Camaro and down the porch, dodging a few rogue drops of lingering rain as I push open the door from inside the cabin.

As she settles in, her addictive scent greets me along with her soft “Hey.”

“Hey,” I echo, as she corners me with her usual “missed you” while securing herself into the ancient seatbelt.

“I won’t scare you today,” I lie.

“Liar,” she spurts with a sarcastic laugh as I start rolling out of the driveway.

Glancing in my rearview, Roman’s estate starts to shrink behind us—which is fitting, seeing as how our progress with him is still at a standstill. As I eye the mansion in the rearview, Cecelia follows my gaze, and I tense when she speaks up.

“What’s this?” She asks, curiously eyeing the offering hanging from the rearview. “Oh, my God, Dom . . . is this what I think it is?”

“It’s no big deal,” I interject, “just—”

“—a crown made of honeysuckle vines,” she admonishes as though I’ve just given her the Heart of the Ocean from the Titanic. I inwardly groan as she starts to gush.

“It’s so beautiful,” she murmurs.

“It’s edible weeds,” I counter.

“It’s incredible,” she dons herself in my peripheral. “Dom, you really made this?”

“Well, seeing as they don’t exactly sell them at the Texaco, yeah. Stop acting so surprised. I’m not the anti-Christ,” I snap.

“Since when?” She chuckles, and I turn to see the vines I fastened into a makeshift crown, flower buds out, perched and fitting perfectly atop her head.

“You look ridiculous,” I jest, downshifting for speed before glancing to see her eyes lit with that same damned look.

“You made me a crown. I can’t believe you made me a crown,” her voice wobbles.

I palm the air in front of her. “Don’t make a big deal of it. I was waiting outside Peter’s house this morning and got bored.”

“You were totally thinking about me,” she sighs.

“Jesus,” I mutter, “no good deed goes unpunished. Seriously it’s not a big deal.”

“Well, it is to me,” she whispers, “but you know that. Thank you.”

Knowing she’s itching to touch me, I turn up the radio and downshift, feeling her eyes on me the entire way to the spot. I don’t even have the car parked before I’m attacked, and she makes a very big deal of it.

This. Damned. Girl.

Typing out my command, I feel her ever-present heavy stare on my profile, summoning me from where I sit in my camping chair. Wearing nothing but board shorts, I’ve been soaking in some much-needed sun between the blanketed clouds after days behind my monitor. “You’re never getting another present,” I state, as she continually peruses me. “Facts.”

“Oh, shut up. The novelty has completely worn off.”

“Good to know,” I say, typing out another command.

“That’s a lie,” she admits, gently securing her crown.

“Well then, keep ‘em coming,” I snark as a silent beat passes. Then two.

“What?” I ask, unable to ignore her outright—a feat that’s become next to impossible.

“It’s Sunday, Dom. Take some time off.”

“To do what?”

“To rest,” she sighs. “You work so hard. Between the garage and the day-to-day of,” she eyes my computer, muting any mention of the club, “it’s a lot.”

“Glad you appreciate it,” I smirk over my screen while grabbing an eyeful of her as she lays out on one of the picnic tables at our Meetup spot. Abandoned book beside her, honeysuckle crown on, her sun-bronzed skin glows under the sunrays peeking through the hovering clouds. She’s in a scrap of a crop top which gives me an ample view of her cleavage—especially when she turns on her side, and her sculpted torso and long legs are fucking mouthwatering. It’s definitely a screen saver worth opting for in lieu of the one in my room. She smiles as she catches me ogling her, long hair spilling over the side of the table.

The unguarded affection in her stare unsettles me but also makes it impossible to tear my attention away. No woman has ever held so much ammunition against me with a single look.

Sensing I’m taking her suggested break, she lifts from the picnic table and walks over to me, gently pulling the laptop from my grip before walking it over and securing it back into the Camaro. “Was that necessary?”

“Yes, because I have a confession to make,” she states, stalking toward me, seemingly on a mission. Dread races through me as her lips lift, unphased by whatever reaction she sees. “Don’t look so scared, Dom. It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Lie,” she taunts as she bypasses the table and drapes herself across my lap, long legs hooked on the arm of my camping chair. Running her hands over my sweat-slicked skin, she leans in. “Here’s my confession . . . I know what I’m holding,” she murmurs, “I know his worth.”

The same confession I gave her during our first day together. A day when my resentment was fully ripped away, and all I could see was Cecelia for who she really is—the way I see her now, as a young tender with a heart full of affection and a soul spun from gold. As dramatic as that assessment feels—it’s spot fucking on. She’s a living, breathing reminder for me that there is good left in the world.

“You truly do work so hard,” she murmurs, palming my shoulders, “you should play hard, too.”

“I think you’re aware of just how hard I play.” I lift my hips for emphasis, but as usual, she refuses to let me bat the sentiment away. “That was so predictable. You’re not that guy.”

“You shouldn’t think so much of me, Cecelia,” I say on an exhale.

“Tell me why.”

Because every fucking day you’re mine is a day I deceive you.

“I’m a criminal, and I do what criminals do. Lie, cheat, steal, deceive.”

“Maybe . . . but you also provide, gift, and inspire.”

“That’s laughable.”

“You inspire me,” she whispers, pressing soft kisses along my jaw.

How in the fuck does she manage to do this every single time? Evoke the raw in me? More importantly, why do I allow her to corner me into it? A gift of hers I’m not at all fond of. The sincerity in her words and expression demands no less than sincerity in return. She exposes me constantly, to the point that I want to search for a quick escape while simultaneously fueling me with the desire to get closer to her.

It’s fucking witchcraft. And all she’s being is honest.

Even if my own words are continually trying to fight their way out of me, I can’t and won’t utter them.

She presses along my shoulders, massaging them as best she can, and pauses between them to the tightness there. “What is this?”

I shrug.

“What causes this, Dom? What frustrates you so much that your body betrays what you mask so incredibly well?”

“Like you said, I work hard.”

“It’s more than that. What are you carrying?”

“You know I can’t tell you.”

“You can tell me anything,” she counters. “I will keep your secrets. Every one of them. Especially the secrets we make together. I think, no, I know you know that, or you wouldn’t have let Sean take me to the Meetup and give me the choice.”

“Which you haven’t made,” I tell her, hating the direction of this conversation.

“It’s a huge decision.”

“I thought you would run,” I admit honestly. “I’m still wondering why you haven’t, and I’m not going to convince you not to.”

The safest thing she could do is say no and get as far away from us as possible. If I wasn’t so fucking selfish, that’s what I would tell her. What I should tell her.

Self-preservation seems to rank low with her, and maybe she should be told. But her eyes mute me—as does her touch. I don’t want her anywhere right now that’s not with me—looking and touching. It feels too perfect, even as I rob her trust blind and soak in her misplaced loyalty.

“Tell me what this is,” she whispers, running her fingers over the knots between my shoulders.

“It’s frustration.”

“About what?”

I shake my head. “Things I see, what I feel, what I believe, and mostly what I can’t control.”

“Such as?”

Thinking on it, I sink into her massage as she waits patiently for an answer. Even as she caresses me into a lull, my body and senses come alive, aware of every ticking second in the present—the rustling trees surrounding us, the feel of grass at my bare feet, the bees circling beneath a corner of the picnic table. It’s my favorite gift from her—the ability to rope me back from the darkness into acute awareness amongst the land of the living.

Fucking voodoo.

She’s given me so much of herself—her care and attention—that I mull my words over carefully and give her nothing but complete honesty in return.

“It’s like the very first time you take off in a plane . . . you’re speeding down the runway, exhilarated when you’re caught by air, and ascending. Minutes later, you’re so stunned you’re flying through the clouds, taking part in an experience so incredible it’s almost impossible to believe. As that initial buzz runs through you, you stare out the window and get your first good look at the landscape, only to see it’s littered with lines that act as borders. So, you start reasoning with yourself that land itself is owned and measured, but you never once expected to see it and how unnatural it looks. The view of the lines kills the vibe entirely, the impact so jarring it destroys the idea of flying for you.”

Cloud cover sets in, and I catch a glint of embarrassment in her eyes. “I get what you’re saying, but I’ve never been on a plane . . . we never . . . you know, had the money.”

I tip her chin up with my finger before tracing her jaw with my thumb. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Cecelia, I was only a year younger than you are now the first time I got on a plane, and it was to go to college.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, shaking it away, “tell me.”

“I’m glad you told me because it perfectly reiterates my point and is exactly where a ton of my frustration lies.”

“How so?”

“Because of the division—the way the lines were drawn—so many aspects of your life were decided before you were born. Your accent, how and where you would obtain your education, your exposure to religion, hand-me-down bias from those who raise or influence you between your lines, and any advantages. No matter where or who you are, it’s the same scenario for everyone, for better or worse.”

“So, flying is the idea of America?”

“Exactly.”

“But looking down is what? Government?”

“Looking down from above is seeing what many don’t want us to see. Those continually laying down the lines—or controlling the people that do—want to keep us blind. Oblivious to the system that continually sets so many of us up for failure. A lot of us are so caught up in the struggle just to survive between the lines to fucking care where we fit into the grand design. So many others are distracted by fighting on the edge of their line to hold it that they never understand the concept of flying.”

I let out a slow exhale. “It’s so fucked. The mapping was done over two centuries ago, and we got it wrong. The more we forget flying exists, the more lines are drawn, and we get distracted by it, the stronger our cage becomes. It’s because of the lines of control that true division was created in the first place, and it’s escalating.”

She stares at me long and hard. “So, how do we fix it?”

I slide my thumb along her cheek. “Who the hell am I to even begin to think I can solve that . . . but we could start by ignoring the rabbit that has us running in fruitless circles while gunning for each other’s throats. Then maybe we could lift each other up to get a glimpse of the true view.”

“Buy everyone a plane ticket?”

“Exactly, that’s all I’m trying to do.”

“Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know,” I admit honestly, “but it seems like we’re not far away from where we started anymore, so it’s worth trying, isn’t it? Maybe so we can take back charge of the map, but . . .” I swallow.

“But what?”

“From what I’m seeing—what I can prove—it’s fucking terrifying. There’s a powerful group of people, several, who will stop at nothing to make sure we remain blind. We might have a chance if they’re knocked out of the equation.”

“Our country is broken,” she asks, her eyes searching mine, “irreparable, isn’t it?”

“Is that what you think?” A raindrop falls from the sky, skating down her leg, and I trace its path with my finger.

“Sometimes, when I look at you—how angry you are—sometimes, I think that’s what you think. I can feel it from you.”

The helplessness, utter hopelessness I’ve felt over the last months hasn’t gone unnoticed by the one person I’ve refused to show any of my cards to, and still, she sees me.

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

Because she does know me.

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

The roar in my chest intensifies as she palms my jaw, demanding my eyes.

“Dom, when you . . . feel this way, you can come to me. I’ll be there for you. I’ll be the best friend you’ve ever had.” Her blue eyes fill with concern, “You can talk to me, and I won’t . . . I’ll try not to ask too many questions. I’ll listen, I’ll be here for you, and we can—”

I cut her off with my kiss, so she can’t see what’s brewing in my eyes as light rain begins to pelt us both.