Page 19 of Bring Me Back
“Proof,” I say, tired of crying even if they’re happy tears. “That he matters.”
“Of course he matters. You both matter to me, Willow. I’m not sure anyone else has ever mattered more to me, honestly.” His words sink into my heart. I don’t want to fall in love with this man. Every lesson I’ve ever learned the hard way tells me that love is dangerous and I should run for the hills. But with Beck, it feels as easy as breathing.
We stop in front of a set of tall oak double doors. If I had to guess, I’d say this was the master bedroom. Beckett’s room.
“This one is yours,” he says, and I can’t stop my shoulders from tensing. “Don’t panic. I’ve never slept a single night in this bedroom. You’re not invading my space or being pushed into anything you don’t feel ready for. I sleep in the room over there. This space just always felt like…like it didn’t belong to me yet, I guess. Like it was waiting…”
“For what?” I ask, already knowing the answer to my question.
Instead of answering me, he pushes the doors open. Light shines across the room through a wall of windows on one side. The walls are painted a soft cream, with deep, moody green accents. It feels calming, grounding, like everything I’d always wanted in my own space. Floor-to-ceiling linen curtains frame the windows. A large lounge chair sits nearby with a velvet throw blanket draped across one arm. It’s almost the exact shade of smoky lavender as my hair. A stack of poetry books sits on the table nearby.
The bed sits high and wide, plush and soft. gauzy throws and cream-colored sheets calling my name, begging for me to climb in and drift off, never waking from this dream.
“You once told me, half-asleep when I was repairing a hole in your bedroom ceiling, that your dream bedroom wasn’t anything luxurious. You said you wanted peace. Soft things. Quiet light. A place where you could finally rest, not just sleep. At the time, I didn’tcompletely understand what you meant by that. But I never forgot it.”
I turn slowly, my eyes wet but glowing, and I can’t help but smile. Something soft and deep unravels in my chest. It’s the kind of feeling that comes when you realize someone has loved you down to the most minute details, not just in theory. Not just the idea of you, but who you are to your very core.
“This isn’t just what I dreamed,” I tell him. “It’s more. It feels like... like being seen. Like truly being understood, maybe for the first time in my life.”
He leans down, brushing his lips against my forehead again.
“That was the whole point, pretty girl.”
“I don’t even know what to say about all of this. It all feels like too much, like I should tell you we can’t accept this kind of generosity. I’m not sure I’m really…worthy of all of this.” I know I sound weak, and I hate that. But I want to be honest with him about how all of this makes me feel.
“I can understand why you would feel that way, Will. But I know without a single doubt, there’s never been anyone who deserved to have every dream become a reality more than you.” He’s so sincere, so sure of my worth, it’s impossible to argue.
“I didn’t think you could surprise me again today, Beckett Hayes. I’m so grateful you proved me wrong.”
twelve
For three nightsI’ve had them under my roof. 72 hours of living as close to my dreams becoming a reality as I’ve ever been. This morning before she left for work, Willow sat at the island in my kitchen, her hair still damp from the shower. The sweet citrus scent of her shampoo drifted through the air as she sat sipping coffee, staring into the abyss, disassociating from reality for just a few minutes. I know the feeling, it’s one of my favorite pastimes. The fact that she feels so comfortable here with me, she can just relax, is truly an impressive accomplishment. I watched her from the doorway, just appreciating her soft, delicate features. Fuck, she is so beautiful.
Now I watch her through the security camera feed on my phone as she works behind the desk at Grovewood Ink. Is it creepy and a gross misuse of my abilities?Maybe. I don’t really care. When I’m away from her, all I want is to see her again. I can’t help myself. And I can’t think of anything better to do while I wait for my client to show for our weekly meeting.
I do business with some unsavory characters, but you do what you have to do with the skills you’re given. I met Sebastian Arsenio a few years ago when the guys and I interfered with some of his personal business. He reached out to me shortly after, interested in the specific set of skills I possess. I’m a numbers guy. I may not be as tech-savvy as Breaker, but I can move money like no one else. You want to make a criminal empire look financially legit? I’m your guy. I know where to invest, when to make the calls, and where to hide the shadier purchases to avoid detection from the white-collar criminal chasers. Most people don’t realize it’s rarely the bloody crimes men like Arsenio commit that sends them to prison. It’s tax evasion, money laundering, and financial fraud. This is where my expertise comes into play. On top of being a kick ass pilot, I make crimes like the disappear.
A blacked out Ferrari Enzo pulls up behind my bike, not something you typically see on the back roads of South Carolina. If I had to guess, he drove up from Florida, where he owns a few businesses. The butterfly doors raise, Arsenio stepping out in all black, same as his car. I can’t help the laugh that escapes my lips. The man is a total fucking cliché. All gold chains and black silkshirts, he might as well wear a name tag that says, “I’m a mobster, ask me how.”
“Mr. Hayes, good to see you again.” He says, his accent thick as if he just stepped off the boat from Spain. I know that’s where he lives most of the year, but he has homes on nearly every continent.
“Arsenio, how was the drive?” I ask, shaking his hand. Most people may think doing business with the mafia is deplorable. Even shaking hands with a man who has taken so many lives would make some people’s blood run cold. But Breaker and I dove deep into his business practices before either of us agreed to work with him. He doesn’t traffic people, only drugs. He doesn’t harm women or children, he doesn’t steal people’s life savings to fund his exploits. As far as evil men go, he could be a lot worse.
“Ugly. I’m ready to go home. This is my last stop before heading back to Spain, so let’s make it a quick one.” He says, reaching into his car and pulling out a large envelope. “I have something I need you to look into. One of my warehouses in Miami was raided last night. Police raids are nothing new in my world. I cover my ass to prevent such things from ever being successful for them. But they’re happening more and more often in my Florida businesses. There is money missing, shipments and product coming up short. Someone is tipping them off, and I want to know who. This is the bait. I need you and Mr. Negan to set the trap.”
I take the envelope, sliding it into my backpack with a nod. “Break will follow the trail of texts people always like to send to brag about the bullshit they do, and I’ll follow the money. We’ll find what we can,” I tell him, knowing there’s no question. We’ll find them, and Arsenio will make them regret ever being born. He’s always been adamant about keeping the majority of his money under the control of someone in his family and bringing me in to solve the less than legal problems. Something tells me he may be reconsidering that soon.
“I need some assistance from you,” I say, slinging one leg over my bike. Arsenio smirks, almost a laugh, but that would never happen.
“From me? Oh, Mr. Hayes, that’s not usually how this relationship works.” He says, his curiosity piqued.
“Exactly. Hopefully, that shows you how serious I am,” I tell him, still unsure if I really want to involve him in my personal life.
“Please let us see if I can offer you my expertise,” he asks, cocky as ever.
“I’ll be increasing security around my estate. I have some very important…guests. I need to ensure their safety at all times. Preferably without their knowledge of the excess protection. I don’t want to alarm them. Can you recommend anyone for this kind of task?” I try my best to be vague, on the off chance he doesn’t already know what I’m talking about.
“Someone capable of discreetly monitoring yourwoman, correct? The receptionist?” He asks, pressing for more information I know he already has. He wants me to give it willingly, to trust him.
