And then, I think of Genevieve counting to seven in aquiet kitchen, and that nothing cracks, allowing just enough ofsomethingin to hurt.
I spit the blood from my mouth and walk back toward the tunnel.
Chapter 15
Genevieve
The scent of marinara fills my apartment, but it’s the cheap kind from a jar. The kind I pretend tastes homemade if I sauté it long enough with garlic and fresh basil.
Across the studio, Art’s lounging on my bed with his phone, shirt half untucked, dress shoes kicked haphazardly by the door. He looks up and gives me a grin, and the tension in my back loosens.
Tonight has been good. Art came over early because he knew it was my night off, and he barely got through the door before he had me bent over the mattress. It was over almost as fast as it started, but he’s the only guy I’ve ever been with who goes down and makes sure I’m taken care of after.
He’s been feeling distant lately, so this is a nice reminder of all the reasons why I moved here to be with him in the first place. He stands and crosses the room, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me back against him. This is what I needed. Art showing up, holding me, beinghere. He’s not perfect, but he’s mine, and after a lifetime of my father’sclosed doors, having someone who chooses to walk through mine is enough.
“Dinner will be ready in a few,” I say, resting my head on his shoulder.
He grimaces. “I have to leave soon, actually.”
“Oh. I thought we’d eat together.”
“I know, baby. I’m sorry.” He presses a kiss to my hair. “I gotta go check on Lance.”
He’s choosing Lance over me. Again.
The disappointment stings. I’d really been looking forward to cooking for someone besides myself. After Lance loved something as simple as slow-cooker stew, it reignited the need like a lost limb giving phantom pains.
“Is he okay?”
“He will be.” Art’s quiet for a moment, his arms tightening around me. “He had to fight last night.”
I stiffen, the thought of Lance in that cage making my stomach turn.
“He’s lucky to have you,” I say.
“I don’t know about that.” He sighs. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ve made things worse for him instead of better.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
I study his face—the tension around his eyes, the way he won’t meet my gaze—and the question that’s been sitting in my mind finally pushes its way out. “Why don’t you just end it?”
“What?”
“The fights. You own the tavern. Can’t you just shut it down? I get worried about you, babe. This is dangerous and what if you go to jail, or worse?”
“It’s not that simple, Gin.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not,” he says. “The people involved don’t just let you walk away.”
“What people?”
He pulls back. “The less you know the better.”
“Art.” I grab his arm. “Don’t you think I deserve to know what I’m in the middle of?”
