Page 73 of Convict's Game
I stooped to stroke its soft head, near certain it hadn’t lived here when I’d been on the scene. “Who’s this?”
“Gen’s cat, Rosie. Drink?”
“I’m good.”
I wasn’t. I was so far from good it was insane. I didn’t know how to talk to Arran, whether to launch into an apology or just take the verbal beating I was due. He was so familiar. I loved this man. I knew him almost as well as I did myself, even if I couldn’t recall exactly how.
He dropped heavily into a leather armchair and rested his elbows on his knees, waiting for me to settle on the opposite sofa. “I have no fucking clue how to start this conversation.”
A laugh fell from my lips. “I was just thinking the same thing. I was debating grovelling?—”
“Fuck. Don’t do that. Just give me a second.” He watched me for a long minute, his gaze soaking in every detail and lingering on the scar at my hairline.
The cat leapt on my lap and turned twice before sprawling on me and headbutting my belly for attention.
Arran’s focus didn’t flicker. He’d asked for a moment, and I understood why. He was looking at a ghost.
“After the fire at the Four Milers’ chapel, you were declared dead. Not by us, but by the cop who was too cowardly to face us so sent his daughter instead. I never believed it. You’re the hardiest motherfucker I’ve ever known. What right would a fire have to take you from this world?”
I couldn’t smile. My stomach had compressed to a tight knot, and I balled my fists so my hands didn’t shake. “I’m not dead, but I am a fucking idiot. I let you down. You gave me a second chance, and I’m very aware of how I’m back at the point of asking your forgiveness again. I don’t expect you to give it. I don’t expect anything. All I ask is the space to explain myself. Whatever you decide after that is good with me.”
Arran tilted his head. “I’ll hear you out, though you don’t need to explain. Tyler and Shade told me exactly what happened with your woman. I have a question first, though.”
“Ask it.”
Something ticked over in his vision, the intensity sharpening. “I was thinking about when we were kids, fighting at the Borders club in Newcastle. Do you remember Big Al, the doorman?”
Vaguely, I remembered fighting. I remembered Arran as an angry teenager. The rest of it was a mystery I needed to lie my way out of. “Sure, huge guy, worked the door. What of him?”
He sat back and lifted his gaze to the ceiling. “Because you’re full of shit. Tyler was right.”
And now he’d caught me lying. I shifted uncomfortably, waiting for the judgement he was about to give. This was over. He was done with me. And rightly so.
On my lap, the damn cat purred, reading the room all wrong.
Arran’s heavy focus landed back on me, full of exasperation. Not hate. Not loathing. “Big Al doesn’t exist, nor does that club. You have amnesia, don’t you?”
Oh fuck.
It hit like a punch. The falsehood, the failing memory, the fact I’d come here hoping to fake it through. I wasn’t a ghost, I was a copy of a man everyone else remembered, except me.
I tried and failed to form an answer.
In all my preparation, I’d expected to blag my way through our shared history. I didn’t want him to know what was wrong with me. In the same heartbeat, I was so damn relieved I had to pass a hand across my face to hide my emotion.
Arran stood and crossed to sit on the sofa next to me. He shoved my hand away from my face then tilted my jaw so he could see my scar. Lightly, he touched the edge of it.
“Is that cracked skull healed?”
“Mostly.”
“Yet you can’t remember anything?”
“It’s coming back. Just slower than I’d like.”
He swore again. “I’m to blame for what happened to you. You were undercover on my orders and because I was so fucked up that I was taking out my anger on one of the closest people to me. You were six months out of jail. I should’ve been more careful with you.”
Six months. “What did I do to land the prison time?” There was no point pretending. At last, I could ask about myself and get real answers. Relief sank my shoulders. The cat purred louder.
