Page 9 of Enzo (Redcars #1)

NINE

Robbie

FOUR MONTHS LATER

“Hey.”

I glanced up to find Logan standing outside my door, which I’d taken to leaving open the last few days. Not wide enough to be an invitation for anyone to come inside, just enough to mean I was trying. He held a small square of yellow paper between two fingers—the note I’d left on the table this morning.

“What do you mean by duplicate?” he asked, touching the spot where his scar began. I didn’t know the whole story behind it, but the line from his temple to his lip gave him a rugged, unyielding look.

“That one’s doubled,” I explained.

Logan blinked. “What?”

I pointed to the pale green invoice on the corner of my desk—the one I’d been staring at half the night. It was buried under what I’d come to call the pile of stupidity—a stack of papers I didn’t understand the purpose of but kept sorting anyway.

“It’s a duplicate. For the shocks, you ordered on the eighteenth of last month. Same part number. Same delivery date. The serial on the packing slip ended in 2-1-4-8—this one does too.”

I handed it to him before I could overthink it again. He stared at the page, then back at me, and muttered, “Shit. You’re right. I would have just paid that.”

I wasn’t proud I’d found it. In fact, I’d spent most of the morning and all of last night debating whether I should say anything after what happened with the last missing payment I uncovered. I could’ve filed it away or shoved it in the garbage. But it hurt, sometimes, knowing things and staying quiet—especially when the people around me had been nothing but kind.

They wouldn’t use it against me—right? They wouldn’t make me do things because I could. Wouldn’t train me like a dog or lock me in a room full of files and say, don’t come out until you’ve memorized them all. They wouldn’t be like him .

John had thought it was a joke, at first. A trick. Then the scruffy, quiet kid from the group home he visited started rattling off strings of numbers, full sheets of client data, names of every guy John had told me to watch. I never forgot a single word.

I’d been proud of what I could do. I’d loved when he ruffled my hair and called me special. I left with him willingly, when he told me about the big house with the pool, the gardens, how a boy like me would love it there.

I never saw a pool, or a garden, and I was so young when the real bad stuff started.

I shoved the memory down.

I had to trust someone soon outside of the hugs I got from Enzo. And this—this felt small enough. Safe enough. Hence the note I’d left Logan this morning. Still, when he stared at me now, as if I’d revealed I had X-ray vision, I regretted opening my mouth.

“Good catch,” Logan said. “How do you know the serial number? You memorize that kind of thing?”

Fuck. I swallowed hard. “I… I just see it. I don’t mean to. I remember things. Not always useful things. Just… stuff.”

I didn’t want to explain. Didn’t want to have to be that again. The freak. The walking memory bank. The thing people poked until it bled facts, and when it couldn’t bleed any more, they used it in other ways.

“I didn’t mean—just forget it.”

He blinked at me. “Well, okay then. I’ll make a note, and we can, uh… well, you can file that one in the garbage, I guess.”

I shook my head. “We should keep these duplicates until all the invoices are paid.”

Logan nodded, scratching something down on the pad he always carried. “Smart.”

He meant it as a compliment. I knew that. But I still felt sick all the way through the afternoon and going right up to dinner.

I was getting better at spending time here on my own. The garage was locked up, the space eerily quiet now that Jamie and Rio had left and after Enzo had stepped outside to talk to Logan. I knew they took some conversations away from me—probably discussing why I was still here, or what to do next, or fuck… maybe they would talk about what I could do and how they could use it.

I trusted them and I was getting to be a pro at forcing back my fears. The terror they’d throw me out or send me back was always there, but sometimes, if I focused hard enough, I could ignore it all. I wasn’t going to be that person anymore. I refused to curl up in a corner and let John win. Not here. Not now.

Since that day I’d found Redcars by accident, I hadn’t left. I didn’t know if John or the other two were searching for me; or if he thought maybe I’d crawled into a corner and died along with everything I knew, but it was quiet, and nothing had hit the news. There was no one coming into the garage for me, and I was feeling a little more confident each day hidden with this new persona. Enzo hadn’t left, sleeping in the apartment upstairs, just him and a go bag in case he needed to leave for someone who might have to move in, but he’d spent every night here, watching over me. And the alarms were insane. Camera, motion detectors in the yard, entry codes, lockdown doors. No chance of John getting in should he find out where I was. He wanted Roman Lowe, a skinny malnourished long-haired blond with two different eye colors. I was Robbie Elwood, with dark eyes, and black hair, something I was still getting used to despite all these months of being this new me.

I’d started to feel as if Logan and the rest might let me stay. Tudor spent enough time telling me I was safe here, and Logan fell all over himself to tell me he’d be lost without me. Now I was hopeful they wouldn’t ask me to leave, and determined to at least try to make myself indispensable. It started with the filing, and with my eidetic memory, I knew every detail of orders and invoices and what matched and what didn’t. Last month alone, I worked out there were over nine hundred dollars in outstanding payments, and Logan liked that a lot.

Today I’d asked him for more responsibility—maybe booking in clients.

That felt huge. Like stepping onto a stage with the lights too bright.

But I meant it. I wanted to try.

I mean, I didn’t look like Roman anymore. That shell felt a thousand miles behind me. My face was rounder now, not so hollow. I was filling out in ways I hadn’t expected—healthy and a little stronger. I wore clothes Enzo had helped me order from an online store—fitted pants jeans, my Redcars shirt, sleeves rolled up like I had somewhere to be.

No one who came in would recognize me. More importantly, no one here would let them near me if they tried.

Not even John and the two men he worked for would know it was me, and they’d been obsessed with how far they could push the pain without breaking my brain when I’d stopped helping them. They knew every inch of my body and where it hurt most.

Stop thinking. Stop.

I could act confident. I’d been watching Logan for weeks—how he spoke to clients, how he walked around as though everything was under control. I’d studied it, written down half his phrases word-for-word. Enzo had smiled when he’d caught me muttering my way through my scripts in the mirror, but it wasn’t cruel. He got it.

Now I picked up my notebook—one of many I kept close like a lifeline—and flipped through to the page I’d written and rewritten a dozen times.

Good morning. Welcome to Redcars. Do you have an appointment, or are you dropping off today?

I had a whole speech in there. Options. Backup lines. Little arrows reminding me to smile and make eye contact if I could.

Logan had agreed that tomorrow would be a good day to start. First thing in the morning. Nothing too full-on. Just checking a car in.

I could do that.

At least—I was going to try.

And maybe, just maybe, I’d get to see that expression on Enzo’s face again. The one where he didn’t say I’m proud of you, but I could feel it like sunlight on my skin, because I was getting better. Stronger. Smarter. And I could stop looking over my shoulder long enough to believe that I belonged here. I wasn’t only surviving.

Or at least, that was what I kept telling myself; I believed it for a moment. Yesterday after everyone had gone home, and Enzo was taking a parcel to Logan, I’d stepped outside—just long enough to feel the evening breeze on my face, cool and sharp on my skin. For a second, I let myself believe I was okay, that I could do this. But then the familiar panic crept in, tightening my chest and knotting my stomach. My breathing hitched, and it took every ounce of willpower not to bolt like a scared animal. My fingers trembled as I gripped the doorframe, forcing myself to stay still.

Of course, I’d unintentionally set off a door alarm. Enzo and Rio arrived in minutes, their faces tense. I barely managed to stammer out an apology before Enzo launched into a tirade about me not knowing who could be outside the door, and only stopping when I began to cry, and he apologized, and I sat on his lap like a sniveling kid for an hour. Rio didn’t say much—just paced back and forth, as if he couldn’t decide if he was angry or worried. And when Jamie arrived soon after, a baseball bat clutched tightly in his hand, ready to defend Redcars—and me—it felt like I’d dragged them all into my mess. I promised I wouldn’t do it again. I promised I was sorry. I meant it too. But I hated that I kept needing to.

Despite the embarrassment of being an idiot, it had felt like a victory, even if my hands had been shaking afterward. Small and insignificant, maybe, but real. And tonight, sitting in the quiet garage trying to read my book, waiting for Enzo to come back in I clung to that feeling, faking confidence until it might become the truth.

When Enzo still wasn’t back, I couldn’t settle, so I headed into my room. Since moving in there, I now had a tiny closet with my own clothes, a desk with a chair, and bookshelves. No one asked if I wanted them; they’d set them up and let me drag them inside, allowed me to have my space without making a big deal about it. The filing cabinets stayed, pushed against the walls, but now they weren’t storage for mess—they were part of my space, my place.

No one else came in here but me. I had a lock on the door, and it was mine. It wasn’t much, but it was safe. That mattered more than size or comfort. I didn’t need a window—I didn’t want one. What I needed was the panic button installed inside the door, which gave me the illusion of control and security. Maybe neither were real, but I clung to it anyway, the same as I clung to this space, to the tiny piece of Redcars that belonged to me alone.

I tidied up, pottered around, and straightened the covers on my bed, smoothing out invisible creases as if order could settle the restlessness inside me. My gaze landed on the calendar tacked to the wall—showing July from some fifteen years ago, abandoned in here, an image sunset over the ocean, the colors soft and blurred at the edges, with some classic car front and center. It had been there when I arrived, part of the room before it became mine, left in the clutter and space.

I reached out and adjusted it, nudging it a fraction so it sat perfectly straight. It was a small thing, but it mattered—the same way it did to keep my books, or smoothed the quilt flat on the bed until every corner aligned, or the way I hid my newest book beneath the worn, dog-eared copy of The Hobbit.

I’d spent years with John reading nothing but accounts, until I could barely remember what it felt like to get lost in a story. Now, reading had become my escape—my safe space, as much as being here with the men of Redcars.

The new book was from Enzo—something about counseling and post-traumatic recovery, thick with advice that made my heart ache and my head spin. I hadn’t gotten far. The words felt like knives some days. Not sharp enough to draw blood, but enough to make me flinch. The Hobbit was safer. I knew where that journey ended.

But that didn’t mean I wasn’t trying.

My shelves were a mismatched blend of whatever the guys found for me. A stack of law textbooks sat on the far end and I’d started reading them because I’d run out of things to read, and then I couldn’t stop. Criminal law, constitutional frameworks, even one on ethics that made no sense to me, given the world I’d escaped from. Where were the ethics in imprisoning someone, abusing them, handing them over to other men like it was okay. I could quote whole sections word for word, not because I wanted to remember, but because my brain wouldn’t let go.

That was the thing about eidetic memory—it didn’t ask what I wanted. It just took. Every phrase, every case citation, every ugly little footnote. I’d memorized whole pages without meaning to, the words bleeding into me. And now they were part of me, whether I liked it or not. I didn’t want long-term memories. Not really. Not the kind that took root and grew and reminded me of things I wasn’t strong enough to face. But my brain hoarded them anyway and it wasn’t fair, the way it worked—that I could remember stupid facts like the exact legal definition of constructive manslaughter.

Still, I read. I couldn’t help it.

A forensic psychology textbook made me nauseous, particularly page 147 with its graphic explanation of conditioned compliance and the grooming cycle—how abusers break someone down with kindness before they ever lay a hand on them. How control can look like love. How silence can be manufactured.

I’d lived that. I didn’t need to read it.

Logan and Enzo both said they’d arrange it if I wanted to talk to someone, but both of them understood if I talked to a counselor about what happened then A, it would be the first time anyone else would know my shame and horror, and B, people outside of Redcars would know I was here.

John might know I was here.

Where is Enzo? Should I start dinner? Is he coming back? Will we watch a movie again tonight?

I should have asked how long he would be because now my thoughts ran in circles. An anxious knot tightened in my stomach as I berated myself for not getting a straight answer before he’d left. Fuck. I hated how quickly uncertainty could set me on edge and how easily my thoughts could spiral into worst-case scenarios. The counseling books I’d read told me it was normal—PTSD, they called it. My mind was still stuck in survival mode, hypervigilant, always looking for danger, always expecting the worst. It didn’t matter how safe I was in; my body hadn’t figured that part out yet.

There were nights I couldn’t sleep because I was sure I wouldn’t wake up again. My heart would race, pounding so hard I’d press a hand there just to feel the rhythm and convince myself I was still breathing. The fear of dying would creep in like a cold draft under a door, turning my stomach inside out. I’d remember John’s threats, the way he’d cornered me, the bruises. The money that changed hands. The pain. Even now, in the quiet of Redcars, those memories clung to me like smoke, impossible to shake off.

The books said it could get better—I could train my mind to push past the panic. Some days, I believed that. Other days, I wasn’t so sure.

Like now.

Where is Enzo?

I don’t like being on my own.

This is fucking ridiculous.

I’m a fucking idiot!

I exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over my face, then forced myself to move. Sitting here overthinking, wouldn’t help. I headed toward the kitchen at the back of the garage, past the office and storage area, my footsteps echoing in the stillness. The space was small, tucked away, but functional—Logan had ensured that. A stove, a sink, a well-stocked pantry, and enough counter space for me to work. It wasn’t fancy, but it was mine.

Cooking helped. It kept my hands busy and gave me something to focus on that wasn’t the nagging worry twisting inside me. I reached for a pot, filled it with water, and set it on the stove, watching as tiny bubbles formed at the bottom. The routine steadied me, and if Enzo came back, dinner would be ready. If he didn’t… I’d deal with that later.

Please come back.

I was stirring the pot of Mac and Cheese when I heard the door unlock and footsteps. At the first click of the lock, my muscles tensed before my brain caught up, my grip on the spatula tightened, and my heartbeat thudded. Years of instinct, fear, and adrenaline coiled tight inside me like a spring ready to snap. No one got into Redcars after hours without knowing both codes, and only a handful of people had them. I shouldn’t have been startled. But still, the way my pulse had spiked reminded me that I was always on edge, always expecting the worst.

It’s just Enzo.

Enzo.

“I’m back,” Enzo called.

Relief flooded me when I saw him, and my body relaxed. I let out a small breath, the tension in my shoulders easing as the corners of my mouth lifted in a self-conscious smile. “Hey,” I murmured, the words barely louder than the bubbling pot behind me. I stepped into his space and hugged him, and as usual he held me carefully, as if I was going to break.

One day I’d ask him to hold me harder.

And he’d lift me off my feet, let me climb him.

“Smells good in here,” he murmured, and I had to agree.

It had taken a few months after arriving at Redcars before I could keep real food down. After the soup, I’d moved onto plain pasta, the only thing my stomach would accept. Enzo cooked it every night for me, never pushing, never making me eat more than I could handle. Slowly, I started taking over, first just stirring pots as he stood out of the way, then adding ingredients, testing the limits of what I could manage and each time he stood closer to me. My stomach got used to more than soup and crackers and the impossibly good cookies from Carters, and eventually, I craved more.

I asked Jamie to pick up some second-hand cookbooks for me one day. A few days later, they appeared on the counter, neatly stacked, as if waiting for me to take the next step. Afterward, the ingredients magically appeared in the pantry whenever I left a book open to a recipe. I never asked who was behind it, but I had my suspicions when I saw a flash of Jamie’s distinctive leather jacket after the latest deposit to the counter. I experimented with dishes, testing flavors, pushing my comfort zone, and finding control in creating something with my own hands. My best dish? Mac and cheese. Simple, warm, familiar. It became my signature meal, the one thing I could always make without thinking, without fear of messing it up.

And every night Enzo ate with me before heading up to the apartment, and sometimes he’d ask me if I wanted to watch a movie, and I’d go up with him and sit on the sofa and lose myself in elves and dragons

But I missed Enzo when he wasn’t where I could see him, so much that it hurt. The silence after he left felt too loud, the shadows too deep. The fear crept in, slipping through the cracks, but I refused to give in to it. I’d come too far and learned too much. So I did the only thing I could—I cooked.

“Want extra cheese in your pasta?” I asked, keeping my tone deliberately light and casual, the same as always. It was easier to pretend this was a normal conversation and not the highlight of my day. He never once complained that my mac and cheese had become a staple and never suggested I try making something else. If anything, he seemed to love it. I hoped it was more than only a meal to him; that me doing this for him meant something. Like a thank you.

“Of course,” he said too quickly, and I glanced up at him. He looked almost embarrassed as if he hadn’t meant to answer so fast, and warmth curled in my stomach at the thought.

I turned back to the stove, focusing on dishing up the pasta. Anything to keep my hands busy. I’d changed since coming to Redcars, grown stronger, but there were things I couldn’t hide—scars on my wrists, the faded band of red around my throat, the way my knees bore the rough imprint of a past I never talked about. I had reinvented myself as Robert James Ellwood—Robbie—with a fake ID to match, a name I could wrap around me like armor. My hair was black as night, my contacts turned my eyes hazel, and I never left Redcars.

I trusted all the guys here with my safety, but it was Enzo I hid behind when necessary, although I never let myself admit this out loud.

I set the pasta down on the table, pushing a bowl toward him, then sliding over the container of extra grated cheese before taking my seat. We ate like we always did—silent, comfortable, the steady hum of the kitchen filling the space between us. The steam from the pasta curled upward, hitting my face and stinging my eyes. I blinked, the heat making my contacts feel tight and dry. It was a stupid little thing, barely noticeable most of the time, but tonight it felt unbearable. My fingers itched to pull them out and stop pretending I was someone else for just a few minutes, and I sighed, before reaching for the small case I kept tucked in my pocket.

I slipped the lenses out, placing them in the container, and snapping the lid shut. It was a routine now, a habit as much as dyeing my hair or keeping my head down—another layer of the disguise I had built for myself. Without the contacts, I was too recognizable because my heterochromia was so rare.

I swallowed against the lump in my throat, blinking a few times to adjust to the world without the filter of hazel-colored lenses. I dropped my gaze to my plate, stabbing at my pasta, pretending nothing had changed.

“I wish you didn’t have to wear those,” Enzo said, and I stiffened. Was he going to ask me why I was hiding—he’d asked me once, and he’d never asked again. Then Enzo’s voice cut through the quiet. “Your eyes are stunning,” he blurted, and turned scarlet.

I froze, caught off guard.

What the hell do I say to that?