Those are my fucking tits and she is my fucking girl. It doesn’t matter to my mind that it has been well over a decade since I was able to enjoy them; someone else touched what was mine. If I hadn’t thought she would take off and run again, I would have killed that little shit.
All week I have thought about her. She has been a constant stress that I don’t need when I am trying to get everything in my life in order. Greg and I have been busy enough with all the legal paperwork and issues that keep popping up with the new company. Plus meetings and moving into the office space, then briefings with him and the boys, and consultations with new clients. I don’t have time to be strolling down memory lane.
It wasn’t until Wednesday evening that I remembered Greg coming to talk to me about his friend. Iz, with the threat and husband that did not want to let go. Livid, that would be the first thing I felt. I remember thinking, very briefly, when I first saw her, about the connection but it instantly fled when all hell followed our collision. I need more information and I need it yesterday. I don’t know what kind of threat she is under and I don’t even really know much about her marriage. I assumed for so many years that she was happy I was crushed and pissed because I couldn’t bring myself to barge into her life if she was happy.
Even now, craving answers as fiercely as I do, my main focus is figuring out what is happening with this douche bag. The time to get my answers will come, but first we will be talking about this husband of hers.
I waited for her call yesterday; anticipating some bullshit reason why she wouldn’t be able to meet today. I hadn’t expected her to pull some vanishing act and hide all day. I should have. When lunch rolled around today and I still hadn’t heard from her, I set off for her house. When I got there to find it locked tight and no one home, I was pissed.
I called Greg to see if maybe I could gain one fucking supporter in this fight, he said, “Not getting in this, she knows how I feel and she will talk when she’s ready. I don’t agree with this, but I will support her because she’s my girl.” He was not happy when I blew up in his ear. She is not his goddamn girl. It didn’t matter how many times I asked or straight up demanded, he wasn’t telling me where they were. Imagine my shock when I get a call, not even an hour later from Greg, spitting fire and giving up her location. When I arrived and walked into a tattoo parlor of all places, my rage joined his.
Fuck, those tits looked fucking hot, though.
After another five minute drive and sporadic soft sniffles from Izzy and I pull up to the security gate of my house. After entering the code, I pull the truck up my driveway. I feel like I’m looking at the house from a new set of eyes, trying to see how she will view my success. I might be a thirty-one year old man, but even that doesn’t stop me from hoping she sees how far I’ve come; how I have finally taken myself from orphaned and penniless, to this. Part of the plans we had once made together, only this isn’t the one bedroom apartment we had our eyes set on. As much of a douche that it might make me, an even smaller part of me hopes she feels just an ounce of jealousy for how good my life is; how much I was able to accomplish without her in my life.
How laughable the thought. I would have gladly given every single penny to my name away, if it meant I would have had my Izzy with me all these years. But, this Izzy, no. I don’t even know this Izzy.
The house I bought was over the top, I know this, but fuck if I would ever live cramped for space again. I’m sure there are plenty of shrinks that would love to get into my head; plenty of jacked up shit in there. I know why I bought this place and I don’t need anyone to tell me I am making up for my childhood haunts.
We clear the last of the Bradford pears that line my half a mile drive and the house is coming into view. Large and imposing. The deep red bricks almost look black against the night’s sky, the light next to the red double front doors beams bright and cheerful, almost inviting. Again, laughable. The colonial style house is made to be a home, not this farce I have going. The huge front porch looks cozy with the rocking chairs positioned between the large four columns and the flowers look domestic; it is just some huge juxtapose of my life. The outside doesn’t match the inside. The house is just as vacant as I feel right now and I don’t like it at all.
Time to get this over with.
Time to figure out whatever the issue is with her husband and find out what the fuck happened to her.
Izzy is still just gazing out her window, but since we are sitting in my dark garage, my guess is this is her attempt at avoiding me. How the hell she plans on doing that when she is in my damn house and unable to leave without me taking her, is beyond me.
I can feel my temper rising. I’m fighting myself for control, control against my own frustrations, control over the pain that has no place in my heart anymore, and control against my raging hard on that seems to be pointing right at Izzy. I have never had this many issues with controlling the situations around me.
She must feel my eyes on her because she finally turns to me.
“What now?” It’s barely a whisper and if I hadn’t been looking at her I might have missed it.
“Get out of the truck; we talk. Simple as that. It only becomes this giant mess of immature games when you become difficult. So, work with me, because I’m sick of fucking playing games.” I think that is nice enough, until the tears start rolling down her velvety cheeks.
Goddammit.
I climb down from the cab and start making my way around the hood to her side, fully expecting to have to pull her out and throw her over my shoulder. But, surprisingly she is waiting next to the door and is clearly pissed about her long climb down.
“This way.” The welcome is just rolling off my words. I’m sure she can feel the vibes choking her. It’s hard to miss when someone would rather be anywhere than with the person they are with. Hard to tell if I would even be going through all this shit if it wasn’t for Greg and his request to help his friend. My gut tells me that I should just leave her alone, forget about her and the answers I crave. My gut is screaming at me to let it die, pass it over to Locke or Coop and pretend I never looked back into those pale green eyes again.
Fat chance of that.
I open the door to the mudroom off the garage and motion for her to enter. The house is dark so she pauses next to the door. Coming in behind her, I enter the alarm code and snap on the light to the kitchen. There are chrome appliances, dark wood cabinets, granite countertops and a whole lot of nothing else. No table, just two bar stools next to the island. It screams welcome home.
I point over to the stool and bark off one word. “Sit.”
She is looking at her feet, doesn’t even attempt to fight me, and sits. I give her a second, she knows why we are here, so hopefully she will just tell me what I need to know without making this a big deal. Ten minutes go by with me looking at her and her wringing her hands together in her lap.
“Talk,” I bark, the sound vibrates off the naked walls.
If I hadn’t been observing her for the last eternity, I might have missed the small jump she takes at my tone. It’s hard to tell if I scared her or if something else is working behind her eyes when she snaps her head up.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” More whispers. Seems like I might need hearing aids for this conversation.
“Well, let’s see. I didn’t drag you down here to give you a tour, I don’t need to catch up on the latest town gossip and I sure as fuck didn’t bring you here for the company, so that just leaves one thing. First, you explain, in detail, what is going on with your husband,” I spit the word out, the bitterness on my tongue is loud and clear, “then you can explain to me what that fucked up package meant. Details, Izzy, this isn’t a game and I tell you this, if it hadn’t been for Greg basically begging me to help you, I would not be doing this.”
It takes her a second; I can see my words working around her mind. She opens her mouth a few times, but words never come out. Right when I start to lose any thread of patience I have left; she finally speaks.
“Can’t someone else do this? Do you have to be the one?” I want to throttle her. Fucking bullshit, Greg will owe me big for this.
“End the high school bullshit. He didn’t ask me personally to take your shit for the hell of it. I’m good at what I do, Izzy. Locke and Coop, sure they could do it but I can do it better. Now, what the fuck?”
She closes her eyes for a few minutes and inhaling deeply, “Brandon, my ex…well, almost ex. We had a…challenging marriage. I left a little over two years ago and moved here. He’s been fighting the divorce.” Didn’t take much of a deduction to guess she was leaving something out, a whole lot of somethings.
“Let me ask you something, Izzy. How do you expect me to look into this, into him, without anything other than you telling me your perfect marriage didn’t work? What, did he cheat on you or something? Finally get enough of living the perfect little life? Tell me, because I just don’t get it. The little I was able to dig up this week makes it look like you had everything your little heart desired. And what I really don’t get—what I really don’t understand is why he won’t just let you go.” Even to my own ears, that comes out harsher than I intended it to.
A little light on this situation would have been nice, because when she bursts into tears and runs off into the darken halls of my house I am completely thrown. Shocked. What in the fucking hell? Grumbling like a fool, I take off to find her.
Almost thirty minutes later, I finally narrow the search. Really it shouldn’t have been this much of a challenge since I have more empty rooms than furniture. This is what I get for buying a six fucking bedroom house I do not need. I look in every room on the main floor, nothing; jogged up the stairs and look in every room, nothing. I finally catch a break when I pass the bedroom next to the stairs, soft crying. I already checked this room and she hadn’t been there. I use this room to store all my old case files, being that all the other rooms except the one I sleep in, are empty she couldn’t pick a better hiding spot.
I finally find her, wedged between two big stacks of boxes. She has completely moused her way between them and turned into herself; legs pulled tight to her chest, and arms wrapped tightly around her body. She is rocking, fucking rocking back and forth.
“Izzy, come out.” I try.
Nothing but soft cries.
“Come on now, get out of there.” And try.
Silence.
“Really Izzy, I’m too fucking big to crawl in there for you. Out.” And try.
I keep going for ten long ass, frustrating minutes with no luck.
Enough of this shit. I start picking up the boxes around her, moving one at a time away from her small ball-like body. Once I have enough cleared that I can touch her, I reach my hand out to pull her up and out. I don’t expect her to throw herself back away from my outstretched hand. She has holed herself up so well that there isn’t much room between her head and the wall. She makes contract with a sick thud.
“Fuck,” I hiss out before scooping her up and carrying her down to my room. Flicking the lights on with my elbow, I walk over to the bed and place her gently down against the mattress before running my fingers through her hair.
