Page 16 of Jericho

"Sorry," I mutter before climbing out and walking up the front steps.

I've done nearly nothing today, but the events have still left me feeling as if I've been trekking through the woods for months without food or water. I'm completely drained from the day's events.

I head upstairs to the bedroom but opt to turn toward the library instead. I know what it's like to want to curl up into a ball and try and forget the world, but I know that's not something I can do. I open the door to the library and arrow right to my favorite chair, picking up the book I've been trying to read for weeks. I open it, pull out the bookmark, and place it on the arm of the chair. I know without even looking down at the page that the words will swim before my eyes. I already feel the threat of tears burning inside my nose.

Why is it so hard to hope that he's alive? Maybe it has more to do with the time between us than anything else. I've lived with my choices because I thought it was the only one I had. I've made so many decisions, and put myself on the line so many times to protect Eli and me, and for what? Luke being alive doesn't make sense. He claimed to love me and swore he would go to the ends of the earth for me. He would crawl over broken glass to get to me. There was nothing but death that could stop him. Death is what has kept him away for eight years, so it's impossible for him to be back now.

Finding out he might still be alive after eight years of torture seems impossible. The man I knew and loved would never be capable of that, just like I wouldn't have been capable of following through with the arranged marriage with Damien and the fucking wedding night and every other night I've had to stomach him climbing on top of me if I thought for a second Luke was still alive.

Feeling sick to my stomach, I spring up from the chair and rush toward the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before getting sick.

Tears spring from my eyes just before the first sob racks my body, but I don't have the energy to try and hold them back any longer. Guilt has been the only friend I've had for such a very long time, and it's not that I want him to be dead. I can't count the number of hours I've spent on my knees praying to a god who didn't owe me a single favor to keep him alive. I didn't want to exist in a world where he didn't, but I had no other choice.

The emails are the only reason I can think that he's here. I've been sending them for months, risking the chance that Damien might know I'm sending them, although I do my best to cover my tracks. It's very possible that Damien knows Luke is alive and is setting him up to die, but that doesn't explain why he lied about killing him before. Did Luke get away, and Damien lied to my dad because of the repercussions that would come down on him? I guess that's possible.

Maybe fear kept Luke away. Maybe he really did hate me for what happened that day, and my inability to speak up.

As much as I'd like to believe that the man is back to rescue me, I know it can never happen. I have more than just myself to worry about.

Chapter 9

Jericho

Trying to follow and get intel on someone who would kill you on sight is more than a little difficult. Add in the fact that the man you need information on is more paranoid than your average human, and it becomes nearly impossible.

Damien Gaines was a cocky bastard when I spent those few months working for the Reese organization. He'd strut around like he was invincible.

These days, after taking out the head of a drug and gun empire, he's always looking over his shoulder, unless he's high as a kite from using his own product or drunk after leaving the strip club they operate. Then his goons are looking over their shoulders because they know there will be hell to pay if they got the boss killed while he was incapacitated.

Needless to say, I've spent the last three days trying to get information that would help me get Aspen away from the organization safely, and I have nothing to show for it.

There's no routine to speak of from what I can tell. He leaves the house at different times. He returns at different times. He's a contradiction to Ivan Reese who never left the house, and when he did, it was almost like the president of the United States with the security and planning. Nothing was done on a whim with the old boss.

I wouldn't put it past Damien to have shown my picture around to all his men, so it's not like I can befriend anyone to see if they feel like talking. Disgruntled people tend to get loose-lipped when they're half a bottle of whiskey deep, regardless of how dangerous it would be.

I'm mentally beating myself up for not swiping her off the street earlier this week when I get an email notification.

I haven't emailed her because I don't know if Damien is monitoring the email account. Although I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive her for what she did that day eight years ago, I don't want her to be hurt any longer, either.

I nearly trip over the stupid fucking rug in the center of the shitty room, in my effort to get to the laptop I grabbed from a big box retailer the day I got to Boston.

The email does nothing but piss me off, but there's a part of me that expected it to say exactly what it does.

She apologizes for taking so long to write, but she has a hard time accepting that I am still alive. She doesn't understand why I've been absent from her life if I were still on this earth, and I can sense the pain in those words. Part of me feels that ache, but another part of me wants to shoot fire from my eyes because it's as if she's turning this around on me, as if I betrayed her, not the other way around.

I run both hands over the top of my head, agitation growing inside of me. I'd shake the woman, literally put my hands on her shoulders and shake her, if she were in this room right now. It seems we have a lot of shit to work through, but if I can't get her out from under Damien's control, then I may never get the chance.

I pull in a deep breath, pacing back and forth once more before continuing, because the last thing I need is to throw the fucking computer against the wall.

The woman drives me mad. She always has, and it seems even years of distance and separation haven't put an end to that.

I swear I can hear her whispering the words despite the fact that they're typed out on the screen.

I'm so glad you're alive and you didn't die because of me that day. I've used this email account in recent months as a way to get things off my chest because I'm so lonely, but don't mistake these words as a cry for help. There's nothing that can be done, and, honestly, I'm not worth the trouble. It's best for everyone involved if you forget I exist and continue to go on with your life, free of me and the danger I pose.

I pull in a deep breath, my frustration only continuing to grow. I don't want to be let off the hook. Who does she think I am? Does she really think that I'm the type of man who can walk away from any woman in a bad situation?

I didn't have much time to explain myself when we were younger, but I never portrayed myself to be someone different from who I was, other than my actual reason for being a part of her father's crew. I wasn't violent or mean. I wasn't rude or disrespectful. Those were some of the things that caused so many issues for me. I was pretending to be someone different in name only. I didn't change my personality, and that fucked with my head more than I ever should've allowed. I learned a lot about what not to do after that case was over for me, and that knowledge has helped keep me alive countless times since.

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