It was a balancing act of pushing but not being an idiot. Any one of his officers could shoot me if they thought I was threatening him.
“I’m not afraid of you anymore.” I lowered my voice. “Do your worst. Let’s fucking dance, Arnie. Let’s see who wins this time.”
Chapter Seventeen
Elle
WAS IT WRONG of me that I’d taken Penn’s box?
Was it immoral to sit on my bed after the longest bath in history, biggest dinner I could stomach, countless checks on my father and his heart, and endless cuddles from Sage to open his box of secrets?
For the past three hours, I’d assured Dad I was okay, made sure he was okay, answered his questions, dodged others, and then lamented with him while he directed his red-hot fury at Greg.
Steve called professing apologies, David stood guard at my door—even though I told him that wasn’t necessary—and Sage wouldn’t let me go even to use the bathroom on my own.
She curled up on a towel on the edge of the bath while I soaked away the aches and bruises Greg had given me.
Afterward, she swatted the belt of my Terry cloth robe as I padded warm, tired, and finally alone to my bedroom.
And there was Penn’s box.
Begging me to read its contents.
To pry.
To sneak.
To steal everything I could about him.
I’d stared at it for the past hour while both angel and devil squatted on my shoulders, whispering to keep it closed, muttering to open it, murmuring to trust, nudging to search.
I’d failed him in the hallway when he was taken. I’d failed him when he’d kissed me, and I fought the knowledge my heart already knew.
Was I failing him again by picking apart his lies and seeking the truth without him here to fill in the blanks?
He’s Nameless.
Wasn’t that all that mattered?
I thought it would feel different to finally know.
To hear him admit that he was there, he was the chocolate kisser, he was the Central Park romance.
But his confession had split me. I couldn’t add up the Penn I knew and the Nameless one I didn’t. They didn’t match. Why had he changed so much? Had he changed or was it all an act?
The stupid fantasy that I’d believed in of finding Nameless and picking up where we left off, faltered. What if that kismet attraction and instantaneous lust weren’t enough to delete the mess between us and start afresh?
I’d slept with him. I’d lost my virginity to the man I’d been dreaming of for three long years.
I felt...ashamed.
I’m confused.
I’m angry with him and myself.
I didn’t know how to make sense of anything anymore.
It made me doubt everything I’d felt that night and tarnished it because if I could be around Penn this long and not fall insanely in love with him, then what did that mean about that night in Central Park?
Open the box.
Stop wasting time.
Sage batted it with her paw, meowing softly as if she didn’t approve of the foreign object taking up space on my lap. Her soft silver fur glowed warm like a tiny moonbeam, her tail flicking in impatience and curiosity.
“Don’t look at me like that. Go. Fetch.” I threw her purple mouse that was missing its tail and half of its whiskers.
She arched a kitty eyebrow as if pitying me that I thought she’d play catch like a dog. I merely held her stare until she scowled and leaped off the bed, hunting for the thrown toy.
While her back was turned and her judgy eyes were elsewhere, I cracked the lid and held my breath.
I held my breath until my head swam and my heart knocked on my ribs in a reminder that it needed oxygen to breathe.
I didn’t want to breathe because beneath the emergency contact numbers was a driver’s license of a man I wished I could forget; one I wished I could delete and pretend never existed.
Baseball Cap.
Gio...I believe.
I recalled the two men calling each other names but couldn’t be entirely sure I’d remembered them correctly.
Then again, his name printed on the license told me I was right.
Why could I remember him so clearly when I’d struggled to place Penn?
My fingers shook as I plucked the laminated identification and stared into the heartless eyes of the man who’d tried to rape me. Without the cap, his hair was shaggy and unkempt, mousy brown with matching uneven stubble on his jaw.
He was nothing like Nameless.
Nothing connecting us enough to evoke the emotions Penn did.
How could I think Penn was him?
How could I have let the years erase the feeling of disgust and terror?
Penn wasn’t Baseball Cap or Adidas.
He could never have been, and I must have known that all along.
Oh, my God.
Dropping the license, I clamped a hand over my mouth.
How insulting to him.
What a slap in the face for me to believe he could be as evil as those two bastards.
He was right to hate me.
Could he forgive me?
But why does he have Gio’s license?
Gio Markus Steel according to his full address.
Steel...that name was familiar. It flopped around inside my head like a fish on a line, ready to reel in, but the string was too tangled to haul.
What was Larry keeping secret on Penn’s behalf? Who was Penn? Where did he come from? His family? His past?
He’d given me a tiny part of himself, but I needed more.
So much more.
Steel!
I sat upright in bed, recalling the day Penn had ambushed me at work. The day I’d done my floor inspections and come upon a little boy having a suit made from a man’s.
Master Steel.
Same last name as Gio.
Did that mean Stewie and Gio were related?
Argh!
How could I unravel this mayhem and make sense of it without Penn to guide me?
Penn had saved my life—multiple times—but now, I needed him to save me from my questions.
There was only one way for him to do that.
I have to see him again.
Chapter Eighteen
Penn
I KNEW THE process—I’d done it a few times before—but it didn’t make it any easier.
The first time had been scary as fuck with a night in the station, arraignment with a useless public defender nodding to felonies I hadn’t committed, and no cash to post bail. It took days to join gen pop before I settled in to serve time for a crime I hadn’t done.
That night had also been the first time I’d had the joy of meeting Arnold Twig.
Fucker.
I’d served one year, one month of a three-year sentence—let off for good behavior.
The second time was unfortunate bad luck, but once again, Arnold was there to ensure I was the perfect scapegoat.
A night in the holding cells, another useless arraignment, another district attorney advising bail I couldn’t afford, and then I was back in jail.
Once there, I enjoyed a two week stay in the infirmary after a vicious beating ensured my lips remained firmly shut about the secrets Arnold Twig had no intention of letting me spill.
I’d served three years, two months of a four-year sentence—let off once again for good behavior.