She searches my eyes, registering what I’m telling her. She doesn’t get to leave. Not without me.
She kisses my lips softly and whispers, “I love you, Henry.”
Those words from her turn me upside down all over again, spreading a warmth through my entire body I didn’t realize I was so desperate for, until now.
With a wink, she says, “See you later, baby.”
52
Giselle
I’ve died again.And woke up in hell. I mean, this must be hell, because shoveling shit in a cattle pen on a farm is not the life I imagined I’d be living. I’m not some cute farmhand either with cut-offs and cowboy boots. Nope. I’m in heavy coveralls and rain boots because I’m in literal shit. I chose a place that promised blue skies, but the only blues that are consistent these days are the world's oldest pair of Wranglers attached to this salty asshole who has a mouthful of chew, and an even bigger attitude problem.
“You’re slower than my son was when he was eight years old, for Christ’s sake, woman. And that boy was slow as fuck back, then.”
“Excellent parenting skills you must have had.”
The old son of a bitch blows his nose in the most disgusting rag of a handkerchief and keeps talking. “They told me you’d be here to help me for a few months, not cause a larger pain in my ass.”
“It’s all that meat you eat that’s making your ass larger, old man,” I yell back. “You might want to be nice to me because I’m the one hauling a heavy as fuck shovel around here. I wouldn’t want to swing it your way, and accidentally let it hit you on the way back.” I smile my most obnoxious smile in his direction.
He laughs.
It's been eleven weeks, six days, and thirteen hours since I’ve been in Wyoming. The worst place in the universe, and with the devil's decrepit grandfather, who just barks orders at me. As if I’m really here out of my own free will to do work for him. No way. This shit was forced on me. Literally, as I look around where my feet squelch every time I move them.
“Last day, kid. Why don’t you finish up and go get clean.”
I tilt my head back and shield my eyes from the midday sun. “I’ll finish your death chores first.” I give him a smirk. I’ll miss him. I hate him, but I’ll miss him.
“You could come to visit, you know,” I say as I rake out another section.
He leans on the fence, staring at nothing, maybe even thinking about it, but he gives me the answer I was expecting. “Too much to do here.”
I don’t push. I’m not one to force an issue, especially when I don’t know the whole story. Buck Riggs is not the kind of man to divulge much, but I know he’s lonely. I feel for him, but my loyalty will always lie with Asher. That eight-year-old kid he so lovingly referred to as “slow as fuck,” is the man I’ve come to adore. Who treats me like one of his own. It’s not my place to try to fix something that may be better off broken.
About four hours later, I’m packed and finally ready to return to my life in Strutt’s Peak.
Back to him.
I had two choices the morning that Bea came to see me.
Relocate with a new identity, or find some patience and wait it out.
I chose to wait it out. Patience wasn’t something I’ve ever had, but I liked my life, and I was willing to do anything to hang on to it. That also meant I had to leave for a short while and allow any repercussions that were going to happen, happen, and be out of the fray if they did. There could be no contact of any kind. Bea would gauge how to handle the details of where I was, and to whom. Essentially hand my life over again, and hope to every goddess in the universe, from Beyonce to Gaga, that it would be enough. And that the men that found me were not still tied to the organized crime they slithered away from.
I followed all of the rules. Well, most. And now I get to go back.
There’s always going to be a risk. The number of people that were connected to my pops was vast, and all of them were dangerous in various ways. But as far as the men that murdered and destroyed my life, they’re all dead now. Flight logs, facial recognition, and electronic footprints were erased and reconfigured, placing The Lion and The Bear in Vegas instead of Colorado for anyone who looked. They have names, but I’d rather not add them to the memory banks. Them disappearing from Vegas would cause far fewer questions if people inside their organization cared to ask. And if they did, there wouldn’t be any reason for them to come looking for me. As far as the U.S. Marshalls and FBI are concerned, my case is closed. There’s no one left to put behind bars for the crime that happened the night my pops died. Me staying away from Strutt’s for a little while was simple due diligence. Something Bea wanted to do, just in case.
I’ve sketched more tattoos than I’ll ever be able to put on skin, but it’s kept my mind busy. Over the past few months, I’ve lived with the bare minimum, and it’s allowed me to remember all the things I’ve taken for granted. Like desserts that aren’t pie. Buck Riggs only believes in pie, apparently. I’ve had every flavor I ever knew was possible, and while that’s nice and all, I want to eat German chocolate cake after the gooiest of grilled cheeses. I miss Henry’s cooking. I miss all the parts of him.
And in a few hours, I get to see him. Figure out life with him. Beg him to make me grilled cheeses and desserts… for as long as we both shall live.
Bea won’t tell me what’s happening in Strutt’s. Only that they’ve let the rumor circulate that I’m visiting family out of state. And most importantly, she demanded that I don’t contact anyone. Everly is likely short circuiting. I have to assume Henry would have told her at least part of what’s happened. I’ll fill in more of the details over time.
I step out of the shower and wrap the sorriest excuse for a towel around my body. Really, this should be a hand towel. It barely covers me. I pull it tight and tuck it between my boobs. My skin is still slick because there is no air conditioning in the farmhand apartment. An apartment is what Buck calls it, but it’s a damn shed. And not the cute she-sheds on Pinterest or HGTV. Nope, nothing like that. We’re talking wood paneling for days, and everything creeks. It’s a creepy wood box on the edge of his farm that could easily be the inspiration for the next Evil Dead movie.
After getting ready, I rub my hand on the mirror. “Yup, perfect!” I lined my lips with my crushed berry lip liner and then filled it in with my favorite matte red lip stain. I haven’t worn makeup while I’ve been here unless I’m taking selfies with my burner phone. Selfies which I’ve perfected in getting the right angle. I take one more shot of well-curated cleavage and a pouty, red-stained lip in the frame to remind my flyboy what’s coming back to him.