Page 71 of The Finish Line
For the first time in my life, I had a sense of normalcy, and I wasted it feeling sorry for myself. I had the freedom to live as an everyday man, no matter how temporary, and I didn’t realize how precious it was to me until it was taken from me only minutes ago. It would be so easy to ignore the distraction, the impending threat, to ignore the danger a little longer, in an effort to win her back fully. But as of this moment, I’m running out of time.
Doing my best to slow my racing thoughts, I try to concentrate on the task at hand.
Date night.
She deserves the effort, it’s what I promised her, and more than that, it’s what I need in order to proceed with her. We have to get back to some semblance of us before we can take on any more. I won’t let anything get in the way of more progress. One last secret, and for no other reason than to buy me time to win her over before we weather another storm. Between fury and worry, I lift my phone when it rattles with an incoming message.
Russell: I know I’m sorry isn’t enough, man. I’m sending two straight from Tyler.
I don’t respond because sorry isn’t enough. These are mistakes we can’t afford to make anymore. Not this late in the game.
Once again, a decision has been made for me due to uncontrollable circumstances. Turning the ignition, I press my head to the steering wheel and take deep inhales.
I’ll sort through the threats as they come. I have a day or two at most to come clean, and I’m going to use every second to make it right.
“Putain de fils de pute!” Motherfucking son of a bitch!
I slam my fist on the dash and immediately regret it, smoothing my hand over where I struck, thankful there is no evidence.
Chest tightening, I exhale slowly.
I’ve got a book to read, and a dinner to cook. I can do this, for her. The seize in my chest threatens to take over as I put the car in gear and gun the gas, peeling out of the parking lot.
I just need a little gin first.
Chapter Nineteen
Cecelia
Adding up the day’s receipts at my desk, I pull my phone from my discarded apron and see several missed messages from Tobias.
Tobias: I hate this fucking book, and my calf is pregnant. Beau needs to be neutered.
Tobias: There’s no God in my life to choose over you, don’t you get that?
He’s never been so openly emotional in a text, and this is definitely not the way he’s revealed any of his feelings in the past. Something is wrong, and it’s been apparent in the last week with his excessive runs and increased drinking that the isolation is starting to get to him. Armed, he’s been walking the perimeter of the house at night before he locks up, often peeking out the windows when he thinks I’m not looking, his face visibly relaxing only when he receives texts from the ravens at our post. There’s clear fear instilled in him at this point. I don’t know if it’s protection or paranoia that has him acting like a caged lion, but I can only assume it’s a mixture of both. It’s evident he worries more than he sleeps. Two nights ago, he gathered me in his arms and whispered, “come back to me,” on gin-infused breath. I didn’t acknowledge I heard him, and I’m still feeling remorseful about it. And right now, he’s alone at home reading a story I once considered a prophecy that slams a character I identify him with, no doubt hurt and insulted. Guilt gnaws at my conscience as I read more of his texts.
Tobias: This is not our story, Cecelia. This is not our fucking story!
I shoot off my own text in hopes of starting some damage control.
I’ll be home soon. I’m cashing out now. It’s just a book, Tobias.
Tobias?
Tobias?
When I get no response, I dial his number and am sent straight to voicemail. Panicking, I cash out and race to my Audi, dreading what I’m in for. I’d placed too much importance on the book—which clearly paints him as the selfish and egotistical villain—which is how I viewed him for so long. For the better part of the time he’s been back, he’s been fighting with something, something underlying that he hasn’t yet put a voice to due to conversations I’ve refused him. His ‘bad’ days seem to happen more often than not, and I’m sure it’s because of his isolation. That combined with the fact that he’s all but abandoned the brotherhood, his purpose, the thing that’s defined him and who he is for over two decades, to play house with me. All he’s living for now is me, and I’ve given him next to nothing for it. No matter how strong of a man he is, this transition is getting the best of him. I told him I wanted a king, not a coward, but what if that demand has hindered his ability to be open with me?
Nothing gets to me more than seeing him this vulnerable. This once impenetrable man who I had to fight for full sentences from, for anything other than cruel indifference. It’s not his looks or our sexual draw—though its potency hasn’t waned in the least—it’s what he’s let me get glimpses of in the past, the romantic he revealed in the clearing, our resulting relationship after because of it. It’s his love for his brothers, his dedication to his cause that drains my iron will, day by day.
It’s his humanity, his empathy, his flaws, and the fact that I’m the woman he chose, the one he trusts to reveal this side of himself to that has my guilt multiplying.
But I demanded the man I met, and in a lot of ways, I’m not the same woman. Is it hypocritical of me to think that the last years haven’t changed him? Because at this point, I sure as hell can’t say the same. He all but told me he had closed himself off completely after Dominic died and became a sort of machine. But this openness, now, giving me this much in so little time, lets me know something is going on inside of him far more haunting than what he’s revealed to me.
Speeding toward the house, my anxious heart pounding, I make the last turn on my road when I catch sight of him, running in jeans and... Oh. My. God.
“What the hell?” Slowing to his pace, I roll down my window as Tobias runs like his ass is on fire in my kitchen apron, a hot pink ribbon secured around his waist. He’s covered in sweat and what looks like... flour coating half his face and dusting his hair.