Chapter 8
“Thanks for going with me today,” Roxie says, crossing her legs at the knee at my dining table. “I know you always sleep in till the last minute.”
“No problem,” I answer, holding in a yawn. Picking up the pot of coffee, I join her, filling my cup up to the brim. “You said more women are disappearing?”
Her brows lower, nearly brushing her long lashes in a look of discomfort. “Lots of them now. The police issued a statement saying, if possible, they shouldn’t travel alone. They don’t know what’s happening.”
“Well, that’s scary.” The stream of coffee wobbles from the slight shake in my hand, which I can blame my never-ending nerves for. Anything that has to do with the unknown, I hate it.
“Right?” She taps the rim of her cup, brows nearly knitted together. “It makes me want to hide.” A deep line that looks like concern mars her smooth forehead. “Is this what it’s like for you? This feeling of-of—”
“Gambling with your safety whenever you go out?”
Her slow nod and wide eyes tell me I hit the mark.
“Absolutely yes.” I roll my shoulders to release some tension. “It’s scary. All the time.”
“Well. That’s that.” She blows out a strong puff of air. “I’m never going to hassle you about things like security again. If this is what it feels like all the time for you, then forgive me for all the times I bitched at you. I can’t imagine.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I shrug. “I’ll take you, bitching and all.”
Her lips pull up as I sink into the chair across from her, the fear from moments ago washing away, and a coyness replacing it. So much so that her dimple pops out.
”So,” she purrs, nestling the cup of Joe between her palms, “besides a total career change, how are things going with your boss?”
“I’ll ignore the obviously indecent way you said that.”
“You shouldn't.” White teeth clamp down on her lower lip. “Because the way I said it is how I implied it.” She casually pours more sugar in her cup. “Have you memorized the ripples of his muscled bod yet? Maybe you can draw it in pencil for me.”
“Shut it.” I indulge in a slow sip of warm coffee. It’s way too early for this. Coffee with her before work is a bad idea. Note to self: Only drink with Roxie at night. I set my mug down. “And how would you know he’s ripped?”
“Ha! How can you not?”
“I thought you’ve only seen him twice.”
“Please. A legally blind grandma with cataracts could see the muscles on that specimen.”
The joke makes me snort mid-sip, and I struggle not to spew.
Her tongue clicks as she shakes her head. “Lucky Ducky. That’s what you are, Liv.”
“Thanks, but you're way ahead of yourself. Nothing's happened or will happen.” I ignore her scoff. She has zero idea how much is at stake for me. “Besides, you have Nick, and he's not bad looking himself.”
“Nick.” My lighthearted comment doesn’t go as intended and her brows crease. “Nick is…” She sighs. “Complicated. That’s putting it mildly.”
“Meaning, you want serious, and he doesn't?”
“Yes? No? I don't know. Ahh.” A slender hand flails in the air. “I don't know what I want, and neither does he. All we are is doomed fun. I know we're gonna crash and burn.” She shrugs. “But at least we'll have a hell of a time doing it.”
“Just be careful. Don’t have so much fun to where you can’t get out if it’s unhealthy.” I lean back and wink. “And if he ends up hurting you, send him to the top floor. I’ll give him a scary chew-out session.”
Burgundy painted lips turn upward. “Thanks.”
A lull hangs while we both take a moment to sip on bitter caffeine and gaze out my modest window. Silence isn't something that occurs often between us, but it’s never awkward when it happens. It also doesn't last long. Roxie’s quick to dive into a topic that's been swept over, due to a whirlwind turn of events.
“Heard any news about Lonnie?”
Alarms stab at the fibers in my stomach, making it churn. I've been trying not to talk about it, but I won't be able to bulldoze over Roxie. She doesn’t always try to pry in my business, but ever since I made the mistake of confessing that Lonnie was in jail, and was soon to be freed, she’s been pushy.
More commercials have been airing from my mom and Pat, but I don’t think Roxie’s caught on that I’m the child in that photo. Other than the photos we’ve taken together, she’s never seen any other pictures of me. Roxie might not be placing the pieces together—or she’s just not paying close enough attention to the TV. I know from experience she’d rather spend her time sewing or drinking than sitting in front of the latest reality show. But while my secrets with Roxie are secure, I’m not sure how far I’m staying under Lonnie’s radar—I don’t even want to think about it. I rake a trembling hand through the roots of my hair. “I think he got out yesterday.”
“You think?”
“Honestly, I haven't checked.” Partly since I’ve been thinking a bit too much about Brexton—stupid—and also because I’m hoping ignorance is bliss, which is possibly an even bigger mistake than getting distracted by my boss. I hang my head, thinking of the time of the month. “We're at that mark. I know that.” He's either gotten out already or will be released soon. Then only God knows what will ensue.
A bleak cloud settles in the kitchen, seeping into my heart, darkening all that surrounds me in the room.
These four walls could be the deepest shade of black by the time Roxie leans forward and rests her elbows on the table. Her tan skin contrasts against my turquoise tabletop—the only colors I can see right now. My shoulders tighten as she squints. That’s never a good sign.
“Besides telling me he's evil and holds an unhealthy obsession, are you ever going to tell me who he is and what his connection is to you?”
I shake my head, pinching my lips together.
“And why not?”
“Because it’s dangerous.”
“You mean, because you’re afraid.”
“Fuck yes, I’m afraid.” Her foolish statement sends an irksome tingle to the back of my jowls. “Roxie—”
“Look.” She lifts her hands. “One of these days you're going to have to tell someone about your past.” I open my mouth, but she cuts me off. “You can't shoulder everything by yourself. You're going to have to trust someone, someday, with everything. And I do mean everything.”
“Really?” I throw my hands up in growing frustration. “How can you say that? I've trusted you with more information than anyone.” The chair creaks as I slump hard into it.
“Ooh, wow! Then I'm starting a memoir, spilling all your dirty secrets tomorrow.” Her index finger taps rhythmically on the table, and I feel her annoyance from across the way.
“You’re speaking out of ignorance,” I grumble, folding my arms across my chest. “Knowing more than what I’ve told you could be dangerous, Rox.”
“And how much do I know? Nothing.” Her eyes widen. “I don't know where you’re from, who your parents are, what you did as a kid, if you have siblings...” She squints and shakes her head. “Is Olivia Tucker even your real name?”
My lips sputter with a puff of air as I shoot to my feet. “Of course, it's my name.” I snatch my coffee cup off the table and move for the kitchen, suddenly needing a cup of relaxing tea. I take my teapot off the stove and plunk it into the sink. “I don't even know what that's supposed to mean.”
“Give me a break.” She follows me. Standing in the entryway, she props up against the narrow wooden entry frame. “I mean, is it your birth name? The one your parents gave you?”
I bite my tongue and remain silent, focusing on the teapot until I think it will disintegrate. I'm hoping to ward off emotion, but my heart thuds when she crosses the small room in three steps, encroaching on my personal space, towering over me. She's determined to push me till I crack.
“Just who are you really, Liv?”
I look at her, masking the panic, which is crawling in my lungs, thinning out my oxygen supply. So much, I want to tell her. But if Lonnie finds me and knows I have friends, he might hurt her. Or she might unintentionally spill who I am, and then I'm as good as dead anyway.
My spine stiffens, and I stand to my full height. “Your friend. That's who I am,” I say, steeling my voice. “I'm your friend, Roxie.”
“And the best one I’ve ever had, dammit.” Her shoulders slump. “It’s bullshit you won’t let me be the same kind of friend to you.”
“Then you’re blind if you can’t see how much of a benefit you are.” I turn the tap off when her face screws up in doubt. “You make me feel normal and sane. I’ve searched a long time for something like this. Someone who knows I’ve been through shit but doesn’t judge or try to dig up the past.”
I turn my body and face her head-on, resting my hip against pressed wood cabinetry, fighting hard to ignore the ache in my chest, because I fucking hate everything about this.
The secrets, the not talking, the uncertainty—who picks this type of hollow life for themselves?