by Reid, Penny
I sat next to him on the sofa, careful to maintain the distance between us. “It’s past one.”
He nodded. He swallowed. He stared forward.
“I can leave?” he asked.
“Yes. I’ll drive you home.”
He shook his head, not looking at me. “I’ll call a taxi.”
Examining his profile, the firm set of his lips, the tightness of his jaw, I wondered what he was thinking. Or what he’s remembering.
“I really must insist that you allow me to drive you home,” I said as gently as I could muster.
Roscoe continued shaking his head, but then he closed his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his forehead fall to his hands.
He mumbled something, too low for me to hear.
“What was that?” I asked.
Sitting up, he turned to face me, and I winced at the vehemence behind his stare. It was an echo of the look he’d given me inside the clubhouse of Churchill Downs, when he’d discovered I’d been working undercover.
“I said”—his voice like ice—“I don’t want you to drive me.”
Gathering my composure, I squared my shoulders and met his stare evenly. “We need to talk about what happened.”
He was shaking his head again and he stood, walking toward the door I’d closed on the way in. Jumping to my feet, I darted to the door and inserted myself between Roscoe and it before he managed to touch the knob.
Roscoe cursed, rocking back on his feet, hastily withdrawing his hand, as though I was fire and he feared I might burn him.
“It would be prudent for you to give me a chance to explain,” I said, ensuring my tone was level, practical.
He scoffed, his hands coming to his hips as his gaze—ripe with accusation—moved over me, but never quite settled on my face. “What is there to explain?”
“Clearly, a lot. Judging by your tone and the way you can’t stand to look at me.” My voice cracked. I ignored it.
His shoulders rose and fell in an inelegant movement, and his attention moved over my head. “You’re right.”
I sighed, relieved he’d at least admitted that we had a lot to discuss, even if the topics were daunting.
But then he said, “I can’t do this right now.”
I reached for him. “Roscoe—”
“No.” He twisted away, stepping out of my reach, his eyes now on the floor. “You don’t understand. I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, pushing the palms of his hands into his eye sockets. “I can’t look at you. I can’t talk to you. All I see is you lying to me and all I feel is . . .”
I held my breath, willing him to continue, to finish his sentence, and hoping what he felt was something like longing, wishing, pining, or hope. Because that’s what I felt when I looked at him.
But he didn’t continue.
Even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, I prompted on a rush, “What? What do you feel?”
“Pain.”
I flinched, holding my stomach and chest, because—damn—that hurt like a knife to the kidney, and a punch to the throat, followed by a knee to the vag. I lost the breath I’d been holding and sucked in a new one, pressing my lips together because I wasn’t allowed to cry.
I wasn’t the one who’d been lied to. I wasn’t the one who’d been deflowered by the same someone who—days later—had broken my trust. I wasn’t the one with a photographic situational memory. Not that I truly comprehended everything that entailed, but the ability to vividly remember precisely when and how I’d lied to him likely wasn’t helping matters.
So, no. Crying wasn’t on Simone’s agenda.
But neither was leaving this room until he agreed to talk to me.
“Fine,” I said, my voice shaky, still holding my stomach and chest for fear that my insides—starting with my heart—would all tumble out. “Fine, I’ll call you a taxi. But you have to promise me that you’ll talk to me later today.”
His hands dropped from his face, returning to his hips. When his eyes opened, they remained on the floor. “I can’t make that promise.”
“Roscoe.” I’d tried not to growl, or demand, or raise my voice. Instead, I did all three. I had to swallow before trying again. “Once upon a time, ten years ago, you dropped out of my life. I am not okay with that happening again.”
He shook his head, but said nothing.
“Promise me you’ll talk to me. Promise me you won’t disappear. Promise me I get a second chance.”
“Why?” His head snapped up, his gaze a chaotic mess of pain and confusion and anger. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you? I said I’d help my father. Why can’t you leave me alone?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake!
“Because I love you,” I shouted, taking an instinctive step toward him, still hugging myself. “I love you and nothing has changed, not for me. I love you and I can’t see a future for me without you in it. I love you and you’re looking at me like I’m a stranger and it makes me want to—”
“Stop,” he said, the word choked, his eyes closed tightly once more. “Just, stop. Please. Please stop.”
Watching him, his tangible suffering, I wanted to rush to him and hold him and never let him go. But I didn’t, because I’d been the one responsible for it.
With my heart at his feet and tears blurring my eyes—which I blinked away angrily, because they weren’t on the agenda—I stepped to the side, clearing his way to the door.
“Go,” I said quietly, closing my eyes because I didn’t want to watch him leave, but I didn’t want to prolong his misery either. “I won’t stop you.”
All was stillness.
I sensed the air shift. I heard him sigh. I felt him move past and I tensed, squeezing my eyes shut tighter, willing myself to remain immobile, to let him go—if that’s what he needed—to hold myself together long enough until I could put crying back on the agenda.
But then I felt rough hands on my cheeks, lifting my face until warm lips brushed and pressed against mine, his nose sliding along my nose.
“I love you, Simone,” he said, in that same choking way as when he’d pleaded with me to stop speaking.
He kissed me. His lips a brand, his touch a flame. I tilted my chin upwards, straining, wanting more, but then he shifted, pressing his forehead to mine.
Roscoe whispered against my mouth, “I’ll always love you,” just as his hands fell from my face and I felt the heat of his body withdraw, leaving frost where there was fire.
I opened my eyes. He was gone, but not without a trace. He’d forgotten his jacket and pink tie on the chair.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Remembering is easy. It's forgetting that's hard.”
Brodi Ashton, Everneath
*Roscoe*
“Where’s the jacket?”
I lifted my eyes from the newspaper I wasn’t really reading and met the glare of my second oldest brother. Arms crossed, eyes narrowed, one eyebrow lifted expectantly. His mouth was in a flat line, which meant he’d already made up his mind about the answer before asking the question.
“You lost it at the Derby,” he said, right on schedule.
I shook my head, returning my eyes to the newspaper. It was almost 9:00 PM and I hadn’t made it past the front page. I should have been on the road to Nashville hours ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Nor could I bring myself to return Simone’s messages with anything of substance.
I was in indecision limbo.
“I didn’t lose it,” I said, knowing I sounded like Eeyore.
I understood why Billy was anxious. Italian, custom made, silk, which meant leaving the jacket behind had been a risk. A calculated risk, but a risk nevertheless. If Simone had the jacket, then—eventually—I’d have to see her. Billy would never let me borrow anything again if I lost that jacket, and he had great taste in clothes.
The tie, however, was mine.
I’d bought it specifically for the Derby beca
use Simone had told me on Thursday, during our nightly pillow talk, that her dress would be pink. I’d wanted us to match. Therefore, in retrospect, leaving that tie behind felt like an even bigger risk than abandoning the jacket of Billy’s suit. I wanted that tie back.
I heard shuffling footsteps approach, like he hadn’t made up his mind whether to stay or go, and I listened to him exhale a long sigh.
“Okay,” Billy said, sounding resigned. “What’s going on, Roscoe?”
I shook my head—not in a denial, but because I needed to clear it—and rubbed my forehead. “It’s complicated.”
Now he scoffed, taking the chair across from mine and entering my peripheral vision. “Oh really?”
“Yeah. Really.”
Really, really, really.
My mind wanted to take me back to Churchill Downs, to the moment I’d finally put two and two together and came up with four instead of, She’s the woman you’re going to marry. Two plus two equaled a number and that number was four, not a happily ever after.
Instead of time traveling to that awful moment, I diverted my thoughts and forced the memory of our later encounter at the FBI field office in its place, when she’d told me she loved me.
“Because I love you,” she hollered, her voice coming closer. “I love you and nothing has changed, not for me. I love you and I can’t see a future for me without you in it. I love you and you’re looking at me like I’m a stranger . . .”
I had no idea what to do about Simone. But after reliving that moment over and over all day, turning it around in my mind, studying it from different angles, I decided that I believed her.
She loved me.
And I loved her. I would always love her.
But she’d lied to me.
“Try me.” Billy tapped on the table within my vision and I blinked him back into focus. His brow was knitted with concern as his eyes—which were exactly like mine—moved over me. “What’s so complicated?”
Maybe it was because I was tired, so damn tired.
Or maybe it was because, over the course of my life, I’d had several father figures, some good, some bad. But for all intents and purposes, Billy was basically my dad.
He’d been the one to show up to all my sporting events. He coached my soccer team in middle school and was the assistant coach of my varsity football team in high school. He took me around door-to-door so I could sell popcorn and candy bars for school fundraisers. He attended all my Cub Scout camping trips. He was the one to ask for my report card, and sign it, every quarter. He took me shopping for new school clothes, talked to me about the birds and the bees, and put condoms in my wallet when I turned sixteen.
Jethro, Cletus, Beau, and Duane had done similar stuff, but never with the same dedication or consistency as Billy.
Whatever the reason, I found my tongue loose and my mouth speaking before I’d given either permission to form words. “I’m in love with Simone Payton.”
Billy smirked, which quickly became a grin, his forehead clearing. “What’s so complicated about that?”
“She lied to me,” I said starkly, feeling the twist of the knife renew, finding I could no longer hold my brother’s gaze. “She lied to me, and I don’t know how I can trust her again.”
My brother was quiet for a long moment, but I felt his steady gaze, as substantial as a touch.
Eventually, he cleared his throat and I glanced up just in time to watch his chest expand with a deep breath. “Well,” he said, nodding faintly, his stare thoughtful. “That’s . . .”
Curious how he would finish his sentence, I watched him and waited, noticing for the first time a few details about my older brother I’d glossed over in recent years.
He’d turned thirty-five in December and now had wrinkles, worry lines on his forehead and between his eyebrows. But he didn’t have any laugh lines.
“That’s unexpected,” he finally finished pragmatically. “Can you tell me what she lied about?”
Deciding that Simone’s cover was well and truly blown, and that it was only a matter of time before folks in Green Valley learned she’d been the one to arrest our father, I said, “She’s been working undercover for the FBI and arrested Darrell at the Kentucky Derby.”
Billy’s eyes popped open, wide open, and his eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. “She- she what?”
“She’s been working with the FBI, which was why she reached out in the first place. But I thought—”
“Wait. Stop.” My brother held his hands up. “You’re going to need to start from the beginning.”
The beginning? What was that?
Seeing my confusion, he said, “Okay, I know you haven’t been enthusiastic about spending time with Simone Payton since high school. Or at least until just recently. Tell me what changed. Why did you two start hanging out again?”
I folded the newspaper. “I’ll tell you the story, but you have to promise not to get angry.”
His gaze narrowed with suspicion. “Why would I get angry?”
“Promise,” I said.
He glared at me, making a deep, distrustful rumbling sound in the back of his throat. “Fine. I promise. Now tell me what happened.”
“It involves Darrell.”
“Yeah.” His blue eyes sparked with hatred and his tone grew hard. “Figured that much out already. Tell me.”
Scratching my cheek, I reminded myself not to include word-for-word dialogue, which I sometimes unconsciously did. All Billy needed was the gist of things, not a transcript.
“All right . . . end of March, she started seeking me out,” I began, and told the story from there. Going through the events in chronological order made it a bit easier to distance myself from the situation, but I still had to brace myself for the emotional highs and lows that accompanied the scenes—like when Simone had kissed me at Hawk’s Field, or when we’d danced at Genie’s.
Billy listened patiently as I explained about her showing up everywhere I was and how we’d agreed to be polite for his and Dani’s sake. But when I got to the point where Twilight and Catfish picked us up at the Cooper Road Trail on behalf of Darrell, Billy stood, his chair scraping against the floor. He began pacing the kitchen.
I halted the story, watching him prowl back and forth, rubbing his jaw, shoving his fingers in his hair.
“Billy.”
He shook his head.
“Billy—”
“I’ll kill him.”
I winced. Billy didn’t make idle threats.
“You promised.”
“Cletus should have taken care of it when he had the chance.” He seemed to say this mostly to himself.
“Hey.” I waited for him to look at me. “You said you wouldn’t get angry.”
“I’m not angry.” He stopped pacing, his eyes wild with fury, though his voice was dead calm. “Angry is when my youngest brother forgets my favorite suit jacket at the Kentucky Derby after repeatedly promising to be responsible. I’m not angry.” A hint of hysteria had entered his voice, a touch of madness. I’d seen him like this before when I was young, and again when our father showed up after our mother died. But not since then.
For some reason, his words made me smile, but my face felt stretched, my skin too thin. “You might not need to kill him.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” He began pacing again.
“Because Darrell has cancer.”
Billy grew unnaturally still. He stared at me, and I at him, and the fury dissolved into wonder.
“What did you say?”
“It runs in the family, on my side, in case you didn’t know. My daddy died from it real young. I need your help,” he said, his voice raw. “Son, if you don’t help me, I’m going to die.”
“Darrell has cancer,” I repeated, glancing at my hands. “I suspect the same kind that took our half brother. He needs a bone marrow transplant or he’ll die.” I eyed Billy, debating whether or not to share more details, specifically that only he and I were a match as potential donors.
>
Reclaiming his seat, Billy nodded, then swallowed, his voice hoarse. “Okay. What happened after Cooper Road Trail?”
“Twilight and Catfish didn’t manhandle us. Other than frisking me on the way in, they didn’t touch us.” I paused here, re-examining the memory, and realizing they hadn’t frisked Simone.
Despite everything, my mouth curved into a small smile. She’d probably been carrying. She’d probably had her badge and handcuffs on her even then, and they hadn’t frisked her.
As my momma used to say, “If a man underestimates a woman, it will be his downfall.”
“What did Darrell want?” Billy prompted.
Shaking myself, I continued with the story, briefly mentioning how Simone and I had tussled and kissed. I saved most of my details for what happened after Darrell showed up. Billy stopped me often enough—asking questions, seeking clarification—that I decided to relate the entire scene with our father word for word.
“He believed you? When you said you’d think about it?” Billy asked.
“Yep.” I nodded. “That’s why he let us go.”
My brother leaned back in his chair, staring at the table. “Why didn’t you tell me?” When his eyes came up, he looked more confused than irritated, but he did look irritated.
“Billy,” I began quietly, searching for the right words. “I am twenty-six years old. Y’all have done an admirable job of trying to protect me from hardship, from Darrell’s crazy, you in particular. You’ve done—” I couldn’t hold my brother’s eyes any longer. Frowning at the wood grain of the table, the heat stains left by dishes placed without a potholder and circle stains left by coffee cups, I cleared my throat. “You’ve done more than your fair share.”
“You should have told me. You should have let me handle it.”
I shook my head. “It wasn’t about you.”
“It wasn’t about me?” He sounded incredulous. “Everything that concerns you, concerns me. Everything that concerns any of you, concerns me.”
I laughed my frustration, lifting my eyes to the ceiling and shaking my head. “You know how old I am, right?”