Blood to Dust

“Private investigators.” She swallows. “I wanted to find out what happened to my brother.”

“Goddamn,” I groan, rubbing my face with my palms.

“They all came back with the same conclusion, either he left the states or he’s dead.”

Whimper. Sniff. Less storm. More heartbreak.

I have to tell her.

“Look, I didn’t bring it up until now because I didn’t think it meant shit, but when I was working in Blackhawk, I bumped into your old man at a grocery store. He’s been telling people your brother went to college on the east coast.”

Her brows knit together. “My brother dropped out of high school,” she tells me, and I nod. That’s what Mrs. Hathaway said as well. There’s a second in which her eyes flicker with understanding, and she realizes what this means.

“He’s covering up something.” Her jaw clenches. I drop my forehead to meet her blonde little head. She knows the drill. Plot threads connect. Pieces fall together. He’s probably not alive, and if he is—he’s not well.

“Whatever happened to him, my father knows.”

I tug at her blonde locks softly, planting a kiss on her head. “What else did he say?”

I’m not going to tell her what he said about her. The way I hurt her. . .it’s different. I don’t want to break her, I don’t want to cut deep. I just want her body to feel what I feel when I see her come alive in my hands. No. Inflicting real pain on her, the kind that stays under your skin, is something I’m incapable of doing.

“Nothing,” I lie. “Overheard him making small talk with some dude in a bowtie.”

“Mr. Simpson,” she gasps. “How did he look? My dad?”

“Like a sack of shit who created something beautiful and doesn’t know how to take care of it.” Raw truth leaves my mouth. “Forget about him, Cockburn. He’s a nobody. But what else are you hiding, Pea? Godfrey said something about you having a kid.”

Her eyes narrow and she takes a step back. “I don’t.” She shakes her head, fighting more tears. “I don’t have a kid.”

“Another lie?” I tilt my head down, inspecting her. She’s hiding something.

“I swear, I’m not a mother,” she finishes quietly, looking away.

I make a move, resuming my quest for the shower, but her hand ghosts over my abs, stopping me. Then she goes and does something completely unreasonable. She hugs me. Straight up embraces me with both her arms. I don’t think I’ve been hugged in, well, ever? So I just stand, rooted to the ground, not sure what to do, my arms flailing at the side of my body. She squeezes harder, burying her face in my chest, the scent of her coconut shampoo drifting into my nose.

“I’m sorry. And I’d completely understand if you abandon ship. You have a fake passport, you have the Beatmobile. I’ll give you my money. All yours. Just please. . .forgive me. That was before.”

Before we found out we were more than just fugitives with the same hit list.

I peel her away from my body, keeping her a step away from me by holding her shoulders.

“You fucked up,” I grunt.

“I know,” she murmurs, but her chin is up, liquid fire in her eyes. Still my fucking fighter, ready to break some bones.

“But here’s the thing, Pea,” I rub her split lower lip, the one that keeps healing and breaking again and again, before I plant a kiss on the dry scab. “You’re a shit person. You’re a liar, a con and a witch. You’re a storm, and you want to hurt those who hurt you. You’re bad. And when you’re mad? You’re even worse. Capable of lying. Of deceiving. Even, I suspect, of killing. And I love you. I’m wholeheartedly, desperately, unapologetically in love with your sorry ass.”

Her mouth falls open, probably because I just made an already complex situation even more explosive, but I continue, undeterred. “You know why? Because you pulled laughter out of me like no one else has. You made me smile more in three weeks than I’ve smiled in my entire twenty-seven years. That’s enough payment, in my opinion.”

“You love me?” she whispers, pointing to herself, disbelief coloring every corner of her face. I nod once.

“I do. I love you.” I love her.

“Say it again.”

“I love you,” I say louder, understanding her need to hear it.

No mom. No dad. God knows where her brother is. She needs it. She’s getting it. I’m going to give her everything she wants before we say our goodbyes.

I erase the space I created between us—I hated it anyway. “I love a chick named Cockburn,” I admit, “and even more embarrassing, I love a girl named Prescott. I love you, Pea. I love you, Miss Burlington-Smyth. Who else?”

Her arms circle around my neck, our bodies sticking together. There’s that smile. That beautiful, confident smirk that even Sebastian couldn’t wipe off with his fists and pointy shoes. “I’m sure you can think of a few other things to call me. Words are your trade.”