Page 48 of One Last Rainy Day
If fucking was all we had done, I’d already be home, finding another way to fill my time—but it wasn’t. I totally lost myself in her, and every second of it only ramped up the one before.
Fully hard from the recollection, I speed forward in the opposite direction of the sun as I attempt to race away from the fact that the best I’ve ever fucking felt in the whole of my existence was when I was moving inside Cecelia Horner.
Speeding past any route home—knowing I can’t be anywhere near where she is—I pour every effort I have into putting those minutes, that stolen time, into its respective box.
Cecelia and I are practically strangers. But that interlude said otherwise, just as the whisper informed me the second I laid eyes on her and every time since. The last part of said whisper, I refused and denied even after I saw her for the first time without the grudge in my eyes.
She knows.
She knows you.
Tightening my hands around the wheel, I curse whatever fate brought her into my life because finally allowing it to happen, wanting it to happen, and in participating in it, I lost the most important battle I had yet to fight.
Goddamn Sean.
Goddamn them both.
“Goddamn you,” I grunt as the clarity threatens to disperse while the weight of the secret I just took part in begins to take its toll. Chest thumping, I lick the remnants of the kiss I left her with—a kiss that lingered with a promise I’ll never be able to see through.
A fresh wave of culpability crashes into me as another vivid memory surfaces. My eyes fixed on a buzzing tattoo gun before lifting to meet his where he hovers a foot away—his expression a mix of pride and obvious affection. Pride and affection I may never see again because in finding thatbliss—and momentary peace with Cecelia—I might have lost my forever constant.
My brother.
Turning into the heavily concealed driveway, I speed past endless acres of land and park at the foot of his porch. Taking the wide steps up to the ancient farmhouse, the door opens just as I lift my knuckles to knock. Denny’s eyes roll over me in a mix of curiosity and concern for a second before he dips his chin and widens the door enough for me to step through. I palm my cell phone against his chest as I pass. He takes it, my intent for being here made clear as I make my way through the house, retreating into his guest bedroom. Within seconds I’m stripped bare, every muscle in my body shutting down with fatigue, my mother’s voice ringing through as I collapse onto the mattress.
“Il est temps de dormir, Petit Prince.”
It’s time to sleep, Little Prince.
Chapter Twenty-Three
MY REWARD FORfucking my nemesis’s daughter?
Eighteen straight hours of comatose sleep.
Sleep my body finally allowed me after temporarily forgetting my ink and possibly fucking away my brother’s trust. The Cecelia-induced haze I was under dissipated the second my eyes popped open at nightfall the next day. After spending the better part of last night into this morning exploring Denny’s endless acres of cultivated farmland, my determination kicked in to rectify the situation.
Feeling I’ve summoned what I need due to my literal pre-dick-ament, I step through the front door finding Denny in the kitchen. Spotting me, he wordlessly pours a cup of steaming brew before holding it out in offering.
Taking a sip, I thank him, and he replies with a grunt before spraying his counter with a label-free bottle to wipe it down. No doubt the concoction is his own mix.
What so many don’t know about Denny—who always passes in the sharing circle—is that he’s our most resourceful bird. He made it his mission to utilize the farmland he bought outright and mastered it in a way that would putall doomsdayers to shame. Whether chemist or carpenter, he fills whatever role necessary to self-sustain without help from the outside world. For that, he has my admiration. We’re alike in the fact that he both craves and thrives in isolation while working overtime to exercise restless energy. Glancing outside his floor-to-ceiling windows at the blooming grounds of his personal compound, it’s apparent he’s as restless as ever.
Of all our birds, Denny is amongst my most trusted, next to his fiancée. Layla was brought in early on by another bird, Craig, who became a fast liability after getting inked and took pleasure in treating Layla like shit. His tirade ended a mere week after Denny was brought into the flock and laid eyes on Layla, choosing her as his first big heist. Their relationship since has been intense, to say the least. Denny’s borderline obsession with Layla turned into full-blown possession when he not only marked her but ringed her finger soon after, making fucking sure everyone else got the memo. Suspicions are that Denny delivered the news to Craig personally.
Whether Craig’s death was by Denny’s design remains unknown, and we decided that if that was the case, it was his secret to keep because, if so, Denny did us all a service. And like Layla, Denny’s a master at guarding secrets with a heaving side helping of not asking before carrying orders out to the letter. If I could, I’d replicate him. “And where has your lady bird flown off to?”
Denny shrugs. “Figured you didn’t want her asking questions, so I tasked her with an errand to give you a chance to make a clean getaway.”
“You really do speak my love language, bro.” I tip my cup toward him in salute.
Grinning, he pulls open a drawer producing my burner.
“Anything happen while I was out?” I ask, taking it.
“Yeah, we got what we needed,” he confirms.
I nod. Pleased by the fact that they used my brief sabbatical to successfully lift prints from Spencer’s accomplices. It brings us a step closer to marching Spencer toward the guillotine. “I’m going to take off.”
