Riven Knight

by Devney Perry

  “Oh. Should I ride with you?”

  I shook my head. “No space for groceries.”

  That, and I didn’t ride with other people. I hadn’t for six years. I definitely didn’t drive other people, not even Mom. If Mom and I went on a trip to visit Kaine in Lark Cove, we took two vehicles, even though it was a five-hour trip.

  The one and only exception was the day I’d driven Genevieve off that mountain. It was the only time another person had ridden with me on the bike because there hadn’t been another choice.

  “Fine,” she muttered, taking her keys from her purse.

  I followed close behind her car as she weaved through town and parked beside her at the store. We walked into the store, not speaking and definitely not touching. We stood a foot apart at the deli, both assessing the premade sandwich and salad options.

  My insistence on riding separately hadn’t helped Genevieve’s mood, but a grumpy wife I could handle.

  A dead one, I could not.

  “Oh, hey, guys.”

  We both spun around at Bryce’s voice. I stepped toward Genevieve, instantly closing the gap between us. She slid her arm behind my back. We’d perfected this move—the smashing of our bodies together so it looked like we were newlyweds.

  “Hey.” Genevieve smiled.

  I looked past Bryce. Dash wouldn’t let her come here alone, would he? “Where’s Dash?”

  “He’s lost in the ice cream aisle. I came to buy some veggies to balance us out. What are you guys up to?”

  “Picking up some lunch,” Genevieve said. “Then Leo is coming over to paint Isaiah’s bike. We were going to watch.”

  “That sounds like fun. What color?”

  “Probably black.”

  “Ah.” Bryce nodded. “I should have expected black.”

  All the bikes in the shop were black. Some had flames on the sides. Others had words. Leo’s was actually a deep, shimmering bronze with a gold pinstripe design, but unless you were up close, it looked black.

  Bryce tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, her rings catching the light. “Do you guys want to come over for dinner next weekend? We’d love to have you over.”

  “Uh.” Genevieve flinched. Or maybe that was me. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. Dash and I aren’t exactly . . . friendly.”

  They also didn’t speak. Dash addressed Genevieve only when absolutely necessary.

  Genevieve pretended it didn’t bother her, but I saw the hurt cross her eyes when he dismissed her.

  “He’ll be on his best behavior,” Bryce promised. “And I think it would be good for him to get to know you. He’ll see that you’re amazing and he’s being an asshole.”

  The woman wasn’t wrong on either count.

  “Are you sure?” Genevieve asked.

  “I’m sure. Please? I’d love to host you guys before I have this baby, and I’m consumed by all things motherhood.”

  That was still months away, but Bryce was not leaving this store with no for an answer.

  “Okay,” Genevieve agreed, forcing a smile.

  “Great. Let’s plan for Saturday. I might have pictures of the wedding from the photographer by then. She said it would only take a week. Maybe you can help me pick which one to frame.”

  Bryce and Dash had gotten married last weekend. It was the one Saturday Genevieve didn’t spend secluded in the apartment. Instead, she spent the day with Bryce at a local salon, getting her hair and makeup done. I stood watch outside for hours until they emerged, dressed for the ceremony.

  Genevieve’s sleeveless black dress molded to her torso and twirled around her hips as it floated to her toes. She stepped out of the salon and stole my breath. I had trouble paying attention to the wedding with her standing beside the altar. I made myself look away to watch Dash and Bryce exchange vows.

  The wedding wasn’t an extravagant affair, but I hadn’t been to one nicer. It was held at dusk on the bank of the Missouri River, which flowed past the edge of town. The reception and party had been at Dash’s favorite bar, The Betsy.

  Genevieve and I did our best to play the loving couple. We hugged. We held hands. We danced. Hour after hour of pretending. By the time we got back to the apartment, we were both worn out.

  And I was strung as tight as a rubber band. I told her the smell of The Betsy had bothered me, then took an ice-cold shower.

  Dinner at Bryce and Dash’s house would be painful, but we could survive an hour or two. We’d stick to hand-holding and hugs, the simple, friendlier touches that were easier to compartmentalize. Like this hug in the grocery store. It didn’t matter that I liked when Genevieve slid her hand around my back and held tight.

  “Can we bring anything to dinner?” Genevieve asked.

  “Nope. I have it all covered.”

  Dash emerged from the frozen-food aisles, searching both ways for Bryce. When he spotted us, he raised his hand. Two pints of ice cream were in his other.

  “Okay, guys. I’d better get my veggies so we can get home before that melts. See you this week?”

  “Yep.” I nodded.

  Bryce came to the garage to work in Dash’s office every morning. Sometimes, they’d stay all day. Others, they’d leave in the afternoon so she could spend some time at the newspaper. Until she was safe, Dash wouldn’t leave her alone.

  Dash walked by us to join Bryce, who was rummaging through heads of lettuce. He lifted his chin as he passed. “Hey, Isaiah.”

  “Hey,” I said.

  He didn’t pay Genevieve any attention. None. He didn’t say hello. He didn’t look her in the eye, though he rarely looked at her period. He acted like she didn’t exist.

  I put my arm around Genevieve’s shoulders, pulling her close, mostly to keep myself calm. His attitude toward Genevieve wasn’t fair, and it sure as fuck wasn’t deserved. It was getting harder and harder to stay quiet, but if I said something, I risked getting fired and evicted from our apartment.

  “We have a week to get sick so we can get out of this dinner,” Genevieve muttered.

  “Flu?”

  “No, something that’s longer lasting. We need to buy ourselves at least a month.”

  “Ebola?”

  “Perfect.” She giggled, the sound shooting straight to my heart. And my groin.

  Christ.

  After I ordered a sandwich and she ordered a salad, we picked out the other things on Genevieve’s list and got through checkout as quickly as possible, wanting to avoid another run-in with the Slaters. The drive home was fast. It only took me a minute to open the garage and we sat on a couple of the rolling stools to eat our lunch.

  “What do those tattoos mean?” Genevieve asked, using her fork to point to my hand. “On your knuckles.”

  I stretched out my fingers, taking in the tattoos that decorated each finger. The line and dot designs sat between the base and middle knuckles. I’d gotten each in prison and all at the same time. My hands had hurt for days and been tough to use. The black ink was fading and the detail was sloppy, but someday I’d have them cleaned up and sharpened.

  “They’re constellations.” Some fit between the knuckles. Others dipped down to the softer skin between my fingers.

  “Why constellations?”

  I turned my attention to my sandwich. “For someone I used to know who loved the stars.”

  Shannon had tried to teach me the constellations. She’d point them out, rattle off their names, but the only two I’d ever been good at finding were Ursa Major and Orion.

  I didn’t search for them now. I had them on my skin, a part of me forever. It was too painful to look up into the night sky and know she wasn’t alive to see it because of me.

  Before Genevieve could ask more about the tattoos, Leo’s motorcycle rolled into the parking lot.

  “Maybe we should have gotten him lunch,” she murmured.

  Or breakfast. As Leo slid off his shades, he gave her a sleepy grin. He’d probably spent his night at The Betsy and woken up with whatever wom
an had won his attention at the bar.

  “Hey.” I shook Leo’s hand.

  He winked at Genevieve. “How are Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds today?”

  “Doing all right,” I answered.

  “Give me a bit to mix up a color.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Then we’ll get this going.”

  He disappeared into the paint booth. It was adjacent to the last stall in the garage so we could push cars and haul in parts easily. That booth was Leo’s domain. Like the rest of the garage, he had top-of-the-line equipment and his tools were a dream.

  Not long after Genevieve and I had finished eating, Leo came out with a plastic cup in his hand, stirring the liquid inside with a paint stick.

  “Check this out.” He came close and lifted out the stick, letting the paint drip into the cup and the color shine. “I know you said black but this color would be fucking awesome.”

  Like Leo’s bike, to the naked eye, it would appear black. But it was actually a shadowed blue. He’d added a shimmer, like on his own bike, and when the light caught the glimmer, it resembled a million diamond flakes attached to the velvet midnight sky.

  “That’s so pretty.” Genevieve met my gaze, hers silently pleading with me to pick that color.

  “I like it,” I told Leo.

  “Sweet. Let’s hit it.”

  We spent the next few hours getting the parts ready. I’d already had the tank and other pieces he wanted to paint primed. We detached them from the bike and hauled them into the booth. Leo finished prepping them, making sure they were clean and smooth, then suited up and kicked us out.

  It took Leo less than an hour to paint the bike. When he came out with a smile on his face and a mask dangling around his neck, I knew before seeing it that the blue had been the right choice.

  This bike had been the right choice.

  Damn, I was proud of finishing it up. Of doing it myself, with my own two hands. It felt good, sharing a piece of it with Leo and sharing the day with Genevieve.

  We left the parts to dry, said goodbye to Leo, then returned to the apartment.

  “Thanks,” Genevieve said when we were inside.

  “For?”

  “For taking my mind off stuff today. For following me around town and making sure I’m not alone. Especially at the grocery store. It’s depressing to always go by myself.”

  “Happy to.” After a month of grocery shopping with her, I wouldn’t want to go alone either. It was an adventure with Genevieve, a race. She walked through the sliding doors and turned into a power shopper. It was like she timed herself to see how fast she could cross off all the items on her list.

  Genevieve crossed the apartment and fell backward on the bed, her long hair spreading out on the gray quilt that had been in one of her boxes. It was a hell of a lot nicer than the faded brown comforter I’d slept under for years.

  That comforter and the bed itself had moved with me from Mom’s. She’d bought it for me when I’d gotten out on parole. Maybe she’d just wanted to upgrade the bed in my room. Or maybe she’d known that I’d spent three years on a cramped, piece-of-shit mattress and no pillow. Mom worked hard for her money and she’d splurged.

  Genevieve had dressed it up with that soft quilt and a pile of pillows. It was inviting—the bed, and the woman lying on top.

  Her toned legs dangled over the edge. She hummed as she closed her eyes, her face relaxed and peaceful.

  She dazzled. The first time I’d called her doll, it had been a slip. I’d figured a pet name like honey or sweetie would help convince people this was real. I’d planned on one of those. But doll had come out instead because she was flawless.

  I stood by the door, unsure of my next move.

  The weekends were tough for us. We’d been working long hours, so during the week, idle time was easier. Genevieve would cook dinner when she got home. I’d clean up. She’d read for a couple of hours, and I’d watch TV. Then we’d call it an early night. We’d fallen into that routine and it worked.

  But we hadn’t found a routine for the weekends. There was more time together and these were the moments when the awkward crept in.

  Genevieve sat up on her elbows. “Do you mind if I watch TV?”

  “No.” I walked to my designated area—the couch.

  She reached for the remote on the nightstand next to the bed and flipped on the TV, scrolling through the guide. It sat on a cart beside the door, adjacent to the new dresser. The screen wasn’t big but nothing larger would have fit in this apartment.

  “I was thinking of doing a Harry Potter marathon. Would you hate me if I watched them? They’re really good. Mom and I read the books together.”

  She glanced at the framed photo of Amina on the nightstand and a flash of pain crossed her face. Genevieve was furious at Amina, but when she put that anger aside, there was deep, suffocating pain waiting. I wished I had some advice on how she could move past it, but considering I lived with that crippling pain and guilt every day, I had nothing to offer.

  If watching Harry Potter movies lessened the sting for a few hours, I wouldn’t deny her.

  “Go ahead. I’ve never seen them.”

  “What?” She gaped. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “We’re watching them,” she declared. “And ordering pizza for dinner.”

  “Sounds good.” The television was better than silence.

  I angled myself on the couch where I could see the TV. For it to be comfortable, I needed a pillow. But Genevieve had taken to making the bed with my pillow too in case someone stopped by for an unexpected visit. I shifted, attempting to find a good spot to relax. But damn, my back hurt. A month sleeping on this couch had taken its toll.

  “Come up here.”

  “Huh?” I glanced behind me to the bed.

  “It’s easier to see the TV. Come up here.”

  To the bed? Even to watch a movie, that seemed too intimate. If I weren’t so stiff and sore, I would have declined. As it was, I swung my legs off the couch and toed off my boots. Then I walked over, hesitating by the mattress.

  She rolled her eyes. “If you keep standing there, you’re going to miss it.”

  I sat down, swinging my legs up and relaxing back. Oh, hell. Returning to the couch would be brutal.

  “Better, right?”

  “Yeah.” Better was an understatement.

  We watched two in a row before pausing to order dinner. The movies were definitely geared toward kids, but Genevieve promised they’d get darker and more intense. When the pizza delivery arrived, we were halfway into the third movie.

  “You read all these books?” I asked as we hit pause to eat some pepperoni slices.

  “Yep.” She swallowed. “They’re really good. Do you read much?”

  “I used to.” I hesitated before adding the next part. “In prison.”

  “Oh.” Her gaze dropped to the mattress. We hadn’t bothered getting up, instead eating on our laps. “How long were you in prison?”

  “Three years.”

  “Did it ruin reading for you? Prison?”

  “Don’t know. I haven’t read anything since.”

  Her eyes were so open and captivating. When I met her gaze, I expected either pity or judgment. People who knew why I’d gone to prison pitied me. Those who didn’t, condemned. But instead of either, I found curiosity.

  “Want to find out? We could read Harry Potter together. Or any other book.”

  How could I say no to those pleading eyes? “Yeah, okay.”

  A smile transformed her face. It was the first true, unrestrained smile I’d seen from Genevieve. She’d been stunning before, but with that smile . . . my heart skipped.

  “Should we stop watching the movies if you’re going to read the books?”

  “Nah.” I’d read the books later. For now, I wanted to keep watching, because if we shut off the movie, I’d have to go to the couch. I wasn’t ready to leave this bed or Genevieve’s side.

  It was the firs
t time in a long, long damn time I’d truly been at ease.

  She did that. I glanced around the apartment, spotting a candle on the kitchen countertop. There was a tiny potted aloe plant in the windowsill.

  She’d made this a safe space. For us both.

  We finished eating and hit play on the movie.

  And when I fell asleep on the bed beside her while the fifth movie played, I slept without bars closing in on me and the scream of a dying woman echoing in my dreams.

  Chapter Nine

  Genevieve

  “Remind me why we agreed to this?” I asked Isaiah as we stood on the sidewalk outside Bryce and Dash’s house. They lived at the end of a quiet road, far from neighbors and bordered by an open field.

  “Did we have a choice?”

  “No.” I glanced behind me, wishing I could get back in my car.

  It was parked on the street along with Isaiah’s bike. As always, he’d refused to ride together to dinner. His excuse this time was his headlight. It had been flickering or something and he wanted to test it out. I’d baked cookies to bring over so riding with him was out. It wasn’t dark yet, but I expected on the drive home later, there would be no flickering headlight in my rearview mirror.

  Why wouldn’t he ride with me? I was a good driver. I’d never been in an accident and my driving record was spotless. If he preferred to drive, I’d gladly surrender the wheel.

  “How was your mom?” I asked, hoping to delay this dinner for one more minute.

  Isaiah’s mom had called him right before we’d left the apartment. He’d ducked outside to talk to her privately. “She’s good.”

  “Have you, um . . . told her about me?”

  He sighed. “No.”

  “You’ll tell her eventually, right?” Or was I going to remain a shameful secret?

  Isaiah lifted a shoulder.

  What the hell does that mean?

  We’d been married for a month. Soon, it would be two. What if this marriage lasted years? I couldn’t imagine it would be easy for him to tell his family that he’d married a stranger. He’d have questions to answer and concerns to appease. But was I really that bad?