Page 8 of Enzo (Redcars #1)

EIGHT

Enzo

Memories of scaring Robbie, of catching him, of feeling the weight of him in my arms, made it so there no hope in hell of sleeping tonight. I sat at the scarred kitchen table, fingers curled around the mug of cocoa, lost in thought with just the hum of the fridge for company. I didn’t sleep much anymore, not since Robbie had arrived and SC had tagged the outside wall like a calling card anyway, but after holding Robbie… nah… not happening.

I stayed at Redcars every night. Crashed in the upstairs apartment, half-dressed and ready to move if something went down. The security system beeped when anyone came in or out, and I still jumped every damn time, with a tire iron by the bed. I hated that Robbie was downstairs in his room, but I could be with him in seconds if he needed me. But tonight sleep wasn’t happening so I was down here in the kitchen.

I heard the soft creak of Robbie’s door. I didn’t move. Figured he was heading up to the bathroom. He’d been doing better, sleeping a little deeper, trusting the space. Still, I kept half an ear on the floorboards.

Then came the footsteps—quiet, careful. Not upstairs to the bathroom, but toward me. I stiffened, every muscle tightening on instinct and a second later, Robbie stepped into the kitchen. His hair was a mess, as though he’d been tossing around in bed for hours. He wore sweat pants and one of the oversized shirts I’d left in the pile outside his door—one of my old Redcars sweatshirts, faded red, nearly swallowed him whole—and his eyes were wide, soft with sleep. God, those eyes. I couldn’t see the color in the dim light, but I knew them. Knew the exact, impossible shades. Unique. Stunning.

He hovered in the doorway his feet in those cute-as-hell hospital slippers and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“Robbie,” I began, and then I had nowhere to go with what to say next.

He hesitated, and I waited. “I’m… I’m hungry,” he said, and then cleared his throat. “Hungry,” he repeated.

I pushed back from the table, reacting before my brain caught up. “Yeah, of course,” I said, standing too fast.

Robbie flinched.

Shit.

I sat right back down, slow, palms open on the table like I could prove I wasn’t a threat. “Sorry. I can make you something. Eggs? Toast? Or?—”

“Do we have any more cookies?” he said, then his eyes flicked toward my mug. “and can I have some of that as well?”

I nodded, already reaching for another mug. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Cookies and cocoa are coming right up. Sit. I’ll get it.” I moved around the kitchen as quietly as I could, digging out the last few of Carters’ cookies from the cookie jar we kept sealed tight in the cupboard. I poured the cocoa into a clean mug and then reached over to set both the cocoa and the plate down in front of him. He hunched protectively over the food, and my stupid heart broke a little.

“Thanks,” he said, barely above a whisper.

I nodded. “No problem.”

Then came the hard part— not watching him. I focused on my own mug. On the little bubbles where the milk had frothed. On the chip in the rim. Anything but Robbie. But I still saw him, in the edge of my vision. The way he picked up a cookie as if it might vanish if he wasn’t careful. How he took the smallest bites and sipped his cocoa so carefully.

My hands curled into fists in my lap. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just sat there, silent and still, like maybe if I didn’t breathe too loud, he’d feel safe. He took another bite. Then a sip of cocoa. His shoulders dropped a fraction. Not relaxed—just a little less braced. The kind of change you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking too hard. And hell, I was always looking too hard. Worrying. Watching. Waiting. Falling into his eyes.

He glanced up, met my eyes. I turned away quickly, cleared my throat. “Sorry they’re not fresh. Jamie was meant to grab more today, but he got called out and... yeah.”

“They’re still good,” he said.

If I stood too quick again, he’d bolt, so I stayed still. In the kitchen. At the table. Eating cookies and drinking cocoa like maybe this was normal. He’d eaten half a cookie, then another, and some of the cocoa, and I was pretending as if I wasn’t watching every movement when he cleared his throat softly.

“I finished all the filing,” he said, eyes fixed on the rim of his mug when I slid one toward him. “Everything’s in the folders. Alphabetical. And I matched all the invoices to orders.”

I nodded. “That’s great. Logan’ll be happy.”

He picked up his mug and stared into the cocoa as if it held answers to questions he hadn’t asked yet.

“You did all that today?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual, wanting to get him to talk.

He nodded, still not meeting my eyes.

I leaned back in my chair, watching him for a moment. “I’m amazed at how much you pulled together. How do you remember it all?”

He winced. Not big, not dramatic, more of a quiet flinch, like I’d brushed against an old bruise. His fingers tightened around the mug, and his whole body seemed to go still. “I just do.”

“Well, my memory is shit—like, have you ever seen Finding Nemo ?”

The question caught him off guard and he blinked. “Uh… yeah. The fish movie?”

“Cassidy loves that movie. I’ve watched it with her. Oh wait—Cassidy’s Logan’s daughter? You haven’t met her yet, but she’s cool. Fierce like her dad.”

“I know who she is,” Robbie whispered. “I heard Logan talking to Tudor. She calls him Grampy T, right? Tudor I mean.”

“She does,” I said. “They’re not related by blood, but Redcars is family.”

He nodded, slow and thoughtful. “Why’d you ask about Nemo?”

“Oh, right.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “There’s this fish in it—Dory. She doesn’t have a good memory. And some days I feel like her.”

Robbie glanced up at me, puzzled.

I gave him a sheepish smile. “Last week I forgot the difference between a fuel pressure sensor and a crankshaft position sensor and stared at the damn engine for five minutes as if it was going to explain itself.”

That got the barest twitch of a smile from him.

I leaned in a little. “But you? You put that all together, and it was like this genius moment.”

His shoulders tensed again, but he didn’t look away. “Don’t say that. I don’t want to be… I want to be Dory.”

To forget whatever happened to him? I’d want to forget every pain inflicted on me like he’d had done to him. “Hey,” I said. “You’re safe here. I was just impressed and… proud of you, okay?”

He swallowed hard, nodded, and after a moment, whispered, “Thanks.” Robbie hesitated, then he glanced up, wide-eyed and serious. “Do you think Logan could pay me? For some of the work? If I promise not to fuck it up and keep on top of it?”

I blinked. “If you need money, there’s an emergency fund. It’s not—” I broke off at the expression on his face. “It’s not dependent on working.”

His whole body stiffened. “I work,” he said. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just… gutted. Like I’d said something cruel.

“I know,” I said quickly. “Okay. Okay.”

“I just…” He stared down at his hands. “I want to buy some stuff. But I don’t know how much money I need. It’s been a long time since… none of it feels real…” he stared into the middle distance for a moment, lost in thought, and I pulled my phone from my pocket and unlocked it. “I don’t have money… I mean I know where to get some but…” he was mumbling.

“What do you need? We’ll work it out.”

He stared at the screen. Then at his hands. They were pale, still thin but healing and his wrists were still reddened with worn skin, but his delicate fingers weren’t shaking now.

He swallowed. “It’s private,” he said.

I slid the phone across the table, making sure it was turned so he could see the screen opened at a big box store website. “Go for it. I won’t look.”

He didn’t touch it immediately, only staring down as if it might burn him. His fingers hovered, then curled in. Finally, he closed his eyes, drew in a breath, and stared at me with an expression of hope.

“Can you do it?” he asked. “I didn’t have a phone. They never let me have a phone. I mean, I know what one is, and I can use the ones like in the office, but it’s all moved on and…”

“Sure,” I said. “What do you want?”

He reached up and tugged at a lock of his long blond hair, pulling it forward over his shoulder. It was soft now, thick, with a natural wave. It had been a matted mess when he’d first showed up, but he’d been using the shampoo I left out. Combing it, maybe. Taking care.

“A box dye,” he said. “Black. Opposite of this.” I nodded. “And contact lenses. Some boring color. Blue, maybe, same as loads of other people, just not…” He trailed off, still tugging at the strand. “Not like my eyes now.”

I kept my face neutral. He was trying to change his appearance—I understood that, although the thought of his unique eyes and all that long blond hair being obliterated made me murderous at whoever he was scared of all over again. “Okay.” I wanted to tug him into my lap and hold him there, wrapped up in my arms, in my warmth, in something solid and safe. I wanted to press my cheek to his hair before he cut it off and tell him he was safe now. That I’d keep him safe. That he didn’t need to hide anymore.

“And I need scissors,” he added. “To cut it.” His voice cracked on the last part, a tiny fracture that gave him away, no matter how steady he tried to sound. The words cut going out. He was trying to take control—to vanish in the only way that ever felt safe.

“I can cut it if you?—”

“I can use scissors you know! I won’t try to kill myself.”

Jesus. Fuck. “Of course you won’t. But are you sure you want to change the way you look?” I asked. I looked at him for a long moment and he nodded. “Okay,” I said, already rewriting the entire world to make it safer for him. One fucker at a time. “Okay then, we’ll get it. All of it.” I clicked around, found the box dye, “I’ll get the dye in the morning from the store, a few boxes for your roots when they come through, and uhm… oh… the contact lenses we can get…from…” I clicked around, pumped a fist when I found a place online that carried lenses to change eye color. “Dark hazel? Like a brown-green color?” I asked and got another nod in answer. “Done.”

“And Logan will pay me to pay for them ?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

He shifted on his feet. “Then I need a photo. Because I need ID for Robbie Elwood if I’m going to be new. But no one can know who I am, no one can find me. Can you do that for me? Do you know people?”

I met his eyes. “Yeah.” All of us at Redcars knew people who could get IDs—the kind of people who owed us favors and didn’t ask questions. Guys with heat-press machines in the backs of pawn shops and friends behind glass counters in state offices who knew how to bend rules far enough to help someone disappear. I didn’t pull on those connections lightly—but for him? For this? I’d burn through every last favor I had.

“Promise me it’s safe.”

“I’ll make sure it is.”

He didn’t press; just simply nodded as if that was all he needed to hear. Then he stood, picked up his mug and the cookie plate, and carried them to the sink where he rinsed them without a word.

I was about to thank him—something simple, something easy—when he spoke, voice tight.

“You held me today,” he blurted.

I paused, caught off guard. “Yeah. I’m sorry, I startled you and when you fell I?—”

“That’s not what…” He stopped, jaw clenching. His eyes flicked toward mine, frustrated, uncertain.

I waited.

“I didn’t hate it,” he whispered. “I d-don’t understand why.”

My throat closed a little. I raised both hands, giving him space. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. But if it helps to talk?—”

He took a breath. “Would you…” He hesitated, glanced down at his feet, then back at me. “Would you touch me again?”

That damn question nearly undid me. “I’d like that,” I said.

“Can I hug you?” he asked, and there was no confidence in the words—only confusion as if the want itself was foreign and dangerous.

“Of course. Do you want me to stand up?” I didn’t move, letting him decide.

“No… I need…” he sounded so confused then stepped toward me, awkward and uncertain, arms twitching like he wasn’t sure where to put them. Then he wrapped them around me.

“Can you hold me, again?” he asked, so quiet it was hard to hear.

I placed my hands on his lower back, light as breath. “Is that okay?”

He whimpered. But he didn’t pull away from this awkward side hug. He leaned down further, and wriggled until he was sitting on one knee, light as a feather. For a long time, we sat there, him moving gently until he was fully in my lap, and then he pressed into me, hard, burying his face in my shirt as if he was trying to disappear in it. I tightened my hold, to speak the words I couldn’t say out loud. I’m here. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you now . I poured every promise into that grip, hoping he’d feel it in his bones.

He shook once. Not a sob, more a shiver rolling through his whole body, as if letting himself be held was its own kind of earthquake.

Touch-starved. Care-starved. I could feel it in every line of him. How lightly he leaned on me at first, like he didn’t want to be a burden, didn’t want to ask too much—then all at once, he was there, clinging as if this was the first warmth he’d had in years.

I closed my eyes, let my hands rest on the small of his back, grounding him.

Grounding me .

His hair was soft against my jaw, freshly washed and still smelling of that lemon shampoo I’d left in the bathroom cabinet. I pressed my nose to it without thinking, breathing him in. Not in a way that crossed any lines—just to remind myself that he was real. That he was here. Delicate and brave and tucked into my arms like he’d always belonged there. Mine to look after. To protect. I wanted to gather him up, take him away from every nightmare he’d ever survived. Feed him, wrap him in blankets, make sure he never went cold. I wanted to leave cocoa warming on the stove and soft clothes folded in his drawer. I wanted to build him a world where he never had to flinch again.

“I’ll hug you,” I murmured, lips brushing the side of his temple, “whenever you want me to.”

“Just you,” he mumbled into my chest. “Not the others.”

God.

My throat tightened. I felt a hundred feet tall that he trusted me like that. Like this. And terrified of breaking it.

I didn’t say anything as I felt the rhythm of his breathing start to even out.

And he didn’t let go for so long I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep in my arms.

He uncurled himself, and I let him go, and he offered me a soft smile, then hugging the wall, shoulders hunched but no longer caved in, he padded toward the stairs. He paused outside his door, head tilted in my direction. “Night, Enzo.”

I swallowed. “Night, Robbie.”

He closed the door to his room, and I sat in the kitchen for a while longer, staring at the cooling cocoa in my mug, processing the hug and then already turning over the people I’d need to call about the ID.

Because Robbie was serious about becoming someone new.

And I’d do whatever it took to make that happen.

* * *

Three days later, I was under the hood of an ancient Honda with more rust than frame—when I heard the soft creak of the upstairs steps. I didn’t need to look up right away. I knew it was Robbie and that he’d taken the scissors, lenses, and the box dye up to the bathroom, and I didn’t want to follow my instincts and stare. Play it cool, Lorenzo. But when I finally saw him, I swear the breath caught right in my throat. Robbie stood at the bottom of the stairs, blinking in the bright garage light. His hair was short—cropped, jet-black, and still wet. The soft white-blond waves were gone, replaced by something sleeker, sharper. And his eyes… a flat brown with the contacts, and different from the wild colors I knew.

He looked… good. He was filling out a little now, not quite so hollow. Still thin, still breakable, but he had color in his cheeks. His Redcars T-shirt clung to him in a way that made it impossible not to notice how narrow his waist was, how the sleeves hung a little too loose over his upper arms. His sweats were slung low on his hips, and he looked as if he belonged at Redcars. Like any other guy rolling through the shop. Older. Wiser.

He walked a few steps forward, shoulders squared, chin up, and Rio gave a low, exaggerated wolf whistle. “ Damn. Who let the hottie in?”

Robbie flushed, hands twitching at his sides as if he didn’t know what to do with them. He glanced at me.

“Is this okay?” he asked, voice softer than his posture, all the uncertainty rushing back in.

I nodded. Managed a smile. “Yeah,” I said, rough and too low. “Yeah, Robbie. It’s okay.”

He was someone else entirely now. Not just because of the dye, the lenses, or the sharp new haircut. It was the way he carried himself—upright, steady, as if he believed, even for a fleeting second, that he could disappear the right way. The safe way. No one looking at him would ever guess he was the same kid we’d found trembling beside a heap of garbage bags. And part of me ached—for the soft waves of his hair, the uneven color of his eyes—but what mattered more was this: the way he stood. Like he wasn’t afraid to take up space.

And the way he smiled, shy and crooked, when Rio grinned and added, “Seriously, though. Someone call the cops—this guy’s got model energy.”

I laughed, and the sound didn’t feel forced. Robbie’s shoulders relaxed a little. He was still healing and figuring himself out; hiding and afraid.

But today?

He was here. He was alive.

The others drifted back to what they were doing—Logan muttering about the bank, Rio pretending to tidy up but mostly scrolling on his phone. Jamie heading out to Carters on a cookie run when Robbie turned toward me.

“Enzo?” he said, quiet but clear. I glanced up from the counter, and his hands were fidgeting, twisting the hem of his Redcars tee. “Can you hold me?”

He hadn’t asked since that night. The one where everything cracked open, and he let me in for a heartbeat.

“Yeah,” I said, already pulling out a kitchen chair. I didn’t hesitate to sit down and make space.

He came over.

Not awkward this time. Not unsure. He knew what he needed.

Robbie settled in my lap, his knees to either side of me, arms around my neck. I wrapped my arms around him—supporting his back, his waist—cradling him as if he were something precious. Because he was.

Jamie froze in the doorway, cookies in his hand, but he didn’t say a word. Rio glanced up, caught the moment, and for once didn’t grin or crack a joke, gave me a nod and looked away.

He was ours to protect, but he was mine to hold.

I held Robbie close, rubbing slow circles over the small of his back. His breathing evened out, the tension in his shoulders loosening bit by bit as he leaned into me, cheek resting against my collarbone.

He didn’t need words. Neither did I.

This wasn’t about fixing anything. It wasn’t about pain or pasts or promises.

This was just… Robbie in my lap, letting me hold him, exactly where he was supposed to be.

“If I ever found out who hurt you…” I whispered.

“ Three of them . You’d need to find three ,” he murmured.

“Robbie?”

He didn’t say anything else.

And I didn’t push.