If anyone can understand where I am in my head right now, it’s Greg.
Part of the reason that our bond is so strong is because of how much he can relate right now. About a month after I met Greg, he sat me down and explained that he had lost his sister when he was overseas. Her husband was a real prick and Greg always wondered, but never confirmed, if he was slapping her around. Unfortunately, he was never able to save his sister; she was beyond his protection when he was off fighting for everyone else’s freedom. When he met me, he said that his first thought was how much I reminded him of her. That conversation wasn’t an easy one for him, but it helped me understand why he’d gotten so murderous the day he saw me standing on the curb of my old house, beaten, bruised, and broken. Looking back now, I understand how he was able to recognize my fear, and instead of lashing out, he took it in and turned into my lifeline, my protector. He’s been protecting me ever since.
“Baby girl? I know you’re scared. Iz, mark my fucking words, he will not touch you. Do you hear me? He won’t breathe your fucking air, I promise you that.” His fierce voice rumbles in my ears. He means it; I don’t doubt that. Greg would do anything to protect his family.
“I’ll find him. I’ve got a friend who just moved to town—Reid. He’s buying into Cage Investigation and Security. He’s been more bodyguard and muscle, but he wants to expand into systems, installs, and investigations—my shit. So we got you, baby girl. He’s been a big deal out West now for a few years. Ex-marine, badass motherfucker. I’ll talk with Reid, explain the situation, and we will take this. I don’t want you to even think about it, you got me, baby girl?”
How do you argue with that?
Easy. . . . you don’t. Not when it comes to Greg Cage in protection mode.
“Yeah, Greg, I got you.”
With plans for the night squashed by one unexpected package, Greg settles down with Dee and me for movies, popcorn, and beer.
I’m out before Mike takes the stage for the first scene. I vaguely hear Greg’s grumbles about watching “a fucking stripper movie” when the strippers have dicks.
CHAPTER 3
The next morning greets me much like yesterday, except I’m not hung over from Jack this time. My emotional hangover is much worse. My strength seems stripped from me in a way that makes it hard to remember that I am not that broken and weak woman anymore. I try to remember that I survived, there is no reason to fear life anymore, I’m free, and I am my own person. It’s hard, God it’s hard, to remember the positive in my life. I remind myself that I don’t want to be this woman anymore; I am strong and I will overcome this.
Then I remember the picture.
The carving over my empty womb.
And then all that strength and drive to overcome flies right out the window.
Fuck strong, I just want to curl up and die.
Knock, knock . . .
“Uhh, Dee . . . come back later. I don’t want to talk right now,” I whine, turning my head into the pillow.
Maybe if I’m lucky I can just go to sleep and she’ll go away.
“Not Dee, baby girl. Turn over so we can talk, yeah?” Greg’s deep voice hits me, leaving no room for argument. Why ask the question? I know he won’t leave until we talk.
But then I remember. Fuck that.
“Go away, G. Not interested in hashing out life lessons right now.” My voice is muffled by the pillow. He’ll get the point, and if he doesn’t . . . fuck him.
“Iz, get the fuck up—now. Love you, baby girl, but I won’t sit here while you self-destruct.”
He’s pissed, but not as pissed as me. Why can’t they just let me stay in bed? Maybe bring me some more Jack, the asshole?
“Go away, Greg.”
“So fucking help me God, Izzy, get the hell up now. Shower. Talk. Breakfast. That’s all I am asking, which isn’t fucking much.”
“Not interested in helping you play Dr. Phil, Greg. I just want to go back to sleep.” More of my muffled complaints fill the air, making it thick with bullshit.
“Goddammit, Iz,” he grumbles, standing up off my bed, giving me a second to release the breath I didn’t know I was holding. Thank God he’s leaving, is the only thought I have before the sheets are whipped off and I’m flying through the air. “Not dealing with this shit, Iz. We have shit to discuss, and I do not have time to deal with you being depressed. I get it, baby girl. I understand where you are right now, but you need to wake up and do it now. You have people worried about you. Dee and I are not going to let you sit here and turn into yourself again. No fucking way.” He is spitting each word out as he throws me over his shoulder and walks into the bathroom.
“GREG!” I scream. “Let me down now!”
“Not going to happen,” is the only reply I get before he dumps me into the shower, twisting the water on and slamming the curtain shut in my stunned, cold, and wet face.