Page 81 of Severed Heart
That backfire becoming increasingly painful as her translated words scrape my insides daily. Continually driving me back to the patch of blacked-out cement between streetlights after my nightly runs to peer into her living room. A ritual I haven’t stopped, even after she called me out for it last winter. In truth, her haunts have become mine since the night I read the first letter last fall.
I am poison to the men I love.
Riddled with guilt and rage, I ran for endless miles after repacking her cigar box, utterly gutted by what she’d suffered—or rather survived at the hands of her ex-husband. With every single step, I battled to temper an anger I’d never experienced. One I was barely able to control in the days that followed. The lingering guilt from invading her privacy is only curbed now by the mystery of what transpired after Celine and Beau joined Delphine and Alain in Triple Falls—though Celine and Beau’s fate is no mystery. It’s Delphine’s missing pieces of what happened in the years before Alain left and why that I’m starting to grow desperate for.
Not that I have any ground with her to get answers. She was as close to happy as I’ve ever seen her before she slammed up her defenses. As of now, I can’t, for the life of me, seem to regain that ground in getting our easy dynamic back. Somehow she fucking saw it—my infatuation—and I let her. And I knew better. I fucking knew better.
My frustration grows as I tighten a bolt on Dom’s newly delivered part, feigning focus. Doing what I have for months—camouflaging my ache and shortening temper while obsessing over an unattainable woman.
“Getting there,” I mutter to Dom to show a sign of life when his weighted stare lingers on my profile as he works with me to get his part installed. Russell—now completely in the know—had taken off after supervising us for a few minutes before hauling ass home, summoned by his overbearing and highly demanding mother. Russell’s sentence seemingly passed right along with his father’s, who is still serving hard time for tax evasion.
So far, Dom’s restoration is taking the longest. Not because we can’t get it done at a quicker pace but because he is obsessed with perfection—not to mention the cost. I can’t blame him in the least, being just as anal and adamant about my own. As of now, we’re running low on cash, and all of us are getting frustrated with the snail’s pace and the idleness of our current lives. Sean especially, acting out more than usual—especially since the paint dried on his Nova.
A Nova which roars with his arrival as Dom and I collectively glance out of the bay to see Sean coming in hot. The heavy repeat of his engine rumbles through the garage as he expertly dodges the cars lined up for service to round the side of the building. Just after, a lone police siren sounds, its increasing wail telling that it’s headed straight fucking for us.
“The hell,” Dom utters as Sean bursts through the side door, chest heaving while hauling ass toward the open hood of the Dodge Ram sitting in the last bay. Pulling a tool from his box, Sean hedges our inquisitive stares as he makes his request. “If anyone asks, I’ve been hereall night.”
Before we’re able to utter a single question, the crunch of gravel sounds as the cruiser appears, scattering rocks. A few of them thwack against the shop door, the rest shedding like a wave into the bay as it comes to a threatening stop.
The officer behind the wheel scans the garage, and even from where I stand, I can clearly see the wrath of hell in the livid cop’s eyes.
“You stupid motherfucker,” Dom grits out. “Please tell me you didn’t . . .”
“Didn’t what?” I bite out as the cruiser door cracks open, mentally trying to prepare myself for whatever’s coming.
“Jesus, you did,” Dom seethes next to me, and I know it’s because he just spared a glance at our red-handed brother.
“Didwhat?” I repeat through clenched teeth, dread settling in my chest as we both prompt Sean, who refuses to meet our hostile stares behind the open hoods.
“Fuck the sheriff’s daughter,” Dom supplies in a muted tone just as the cruiser door closes. Dom and I both snap to, ready to defend our brother even as our fury grows.
The recently elected sheriff—whom one Roman Horner heavily endorsed—fixes his ready glare on Dom and me when we both round the hood of his Camaro. Though unspoken, I know we’re both banking that the cop is unaware Sean’s in the garage. Our relief is short-lived when he sounds up, asking as much. “Where is he?”
“Pardon, officer. Who?” I ask, wiping my hands on a soiled shop towel as Sean plays statue behind the hood of the Ram. From where he is in the bay, the sheriff would have to step in and physically search the garage to see him.
“You know good and damn wellwho,” he spits, looking between Dom and me. The second his eyes linger on Dom, I see that this exchange could go further south, and fast.
“We have four employees here, Sheriff,” I drop casually while helping to intercept him, “so you’ll have to be more specific.”
“Sean Roberts, red Nova, specific enough?”
“Afraid we haven’t seen him yet tonight,” Dom interjects, fucking us both as I mask my wince at the gamble we’re now risking.
“Mind if I have a look around?” he asks.
“Actually,” Dom drawls, straightening his spine, “we do mind. We’re closing up shop, and business hours are long over. So, unless you have just cause, which you don’t, or a warrant, Sheriff, a search would be illegal, wouldn’t it?”
“Don’t fuck with me,” he snaps. “Where is he?”
“Well, he’s around, bright red car, and his parents own a restaurant you frequent with your daughter. What’s her name, again?”
Goddamnit, Dom!
“Lacey,” he grits out.
“Right,Lacey,” Dom taunts. “So, you’re sure to catch up with him at some point.”
“I prefer we converse now.” The sheriff digs his heels in.
