Page 6

CHAPTER

FIVE

INDIANA

Knocking on Zoey’s door, my gut is full of nervous tension. Even with the traumatic events she endured, she’s still the strong girl I knew back then and she doesn’t let anyone walk over her and rule her life. She was always independent, and I think a lot of that hardness she carries is courtesy of her low-life parents. To outside observers, they’re bible thumpers who live Christian lives. For those of us who’ve had the dishonor of meeting them, they’re anything but. They treated Zoey no better than a servant in their home. She did all of the cooking, cleaning, and paid the household bills. The lazy fucks.

They earned the money and gave her a budget for shopping and bills. By the time she finished stocking the house with groceries and other necessities, there was only enough left over to barely cover the invoices from companies that kept the lights and water on. Zoey wore secondhand clothes unless it was Sunday, then she better be wearing her finest or there would be hell to pay for the embarrassment.

I hate those fuckers and every time I cross them on the streets, I make sure they feel that animosity flowing from me. It’s no surprise to me that when my girl was viciously attacked, they blamed her. They always gave her a hard time about her shorts being too short, her tops being too small but did they do anything financially to help her purchase better clothes that fit her? Absolutely not .

Her clothes would’ve fit her if she didn’t have to scrounge through the donated items from the church. And it wasn’t like she was walking around with her ass hanging out or her tits on display either. Although in reality, no matter how a woman is dressed, it doesn’t mean they’re asking to be sexually assaulted. She could’ve been in jeans, a long-sleeve shirt, and a parka, and if that was their goal? It was gonna happen.

I just wish she hadn’t endured it. I mean, we’re definitely not choirboys and some of my brothers have run a train on a willing hangaround but that’s the key right there. The bitch was willing to take on one brother after another. Somehow, I feel as though Zoey’s assault was brutal and violent.

The door swings open and Zoey looks at me with wide eyes. She looks disheveled and I lift my hand to tuck a stray strand of hair that’s fallen out of its bun behind her ear. “Things went that good, huh?” I chuckle.

“I now don’t have to wonder what it’d be like to have two children instead of one,” she teases, a smile accompanying her words.

“The two of them put you through your paces I take it,” I taunt. Glancing over her shoulder, I see Elodie and Icer sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast.

My eyes nearly pop out of their sockets when I see it’s more than just bowls of cereal, it’s a huge-ass spread that includes pancakes that have whipped topping on them along with cut-up strawberries, a bowl of fluffy scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage patties, orange juice, and small cups of yogurt with what looks like granola on top. Jesus fucking Christ, Icer’s never gonna want to leave if Zoey feeds him like this all the time.

“They’re best friends and it takes time to become part of their secret society,” she whispers, a humorous look sent my way. “I figure the way they’re going; they’ll soon have a secret handshake.”

“Secret society, you say? Well that’s bullshit. We shouldn’t have to fight to become part of their fellowship.” I shake my head but can’t hide the comicality of it all. It’s good to see Icer let his walls down, but I’d like to know what it is about Elodie that helped him achieve that because at the clubhouse last night, he was acting like his normal self.

“I cooked, but apparently, I haven’t earned enough stripes to share the table with them,” she jokes, pointing at her plate that’s set on the counter in front of a barstool. A snort escapes me when I notice the two of them leaning into each other and whispering.

“I’m telling you, Zoe, this isn’t him. He’s not compassionate and he most certainly doesn’t share secret society meetings with a five year old.”

“Is it possible that she reminds him of someone he knew when he was younger?” Zoey queries. “I mean, that’s the only thing that makes any sense to me based on what you’re saying, Harrison. Plus, while Elodie is friendly to pretty much everyone, you have to admit that Icer’s a bit… scary and intimidating.”

“We grew up together, and even as kids, he liked absolutely nobody. He tolerated us and followed us to Canton, but he has no connections. He shrugs his shoulders if someone he knows passes and keeps moving along as if it's any other day. As a matter of fact, until Elodie, I don’t think he’s ever cracked a smile.”

“That’s sad,” she muses. “I can’t imagine never feeling anything. For anyone. What kind of life is that?”

“The only one he’s known. There are things that happened to him as a kid that he’s never shared with anyone, not even us, his brothers. But we don’t and won’t push because there’s no telling how he’ll react. All we can do is accept him for who he is and support him.”

“I hope someone comes along who breaks through that somehow because it sounds like a very lonely existence,” she says. “And I’m glad that he’s made a connection of sorts with Elodie. Maybe she’ll help heal something that’s broken inside of him.”

“Part of what we have to talk about today will floor you,” I tell her, reaching around and tucking her into my side, squeezing her waist.

“Icer informed me that while we had our chat he was going to hang out with his princess and watch some Disney movies,” she apprises me. “I think the first on their list is watching Aladdin .” Then she leans in closer and whispers, “And he read her a bedtime story last night. Did you know he can do different voices? He made each kitty in the book she loves sound unique. I’m never going to be able to duplicate that, Harrison!”

Shaking my head because I’m trying to imagine that, I sigh. “I wish I understood his obsession with that industry,” I mutter. “It goes against the grain of who he is.”

“If you want my opinion, I think that’s the only memorable thing from his childhood he has, Harrison.”

“I’m beginning to think you’re right about that, Zoe. Why don’t you finish eating and get dressed so we can find someplace private to talk?”

“Okay,” she answers. “But promise me there won’t be any secrets.” She side-eyes me before continuing, “You’ll tell me everything.”

“I’ll tell you everything I can,” I explain.

She harrumphs, shoots me a devilish look, then saunters over to the counter where she stabs the fork into her pancakes, her eyes never leaving me. She tracks me to the living room where I plop on the couch.

Zoey and I head to her backyard where she has a sweet set up on her porch. There’s an outdoor couch with a firepit in the center of it and two cushioned chairs. I can see many nights spent back here roasting marshmallows and sipping on some ice cold beer while unwinding after a long day. After reaching into the outdoors icebox, she hands me a cold brew and sits down beside me.

She brings out a bottle of wine and tips it over and pours a large amount into her wineglass. “I know it’s early, but I think I’m going to need this to help me get through everything you have to tell me.”

“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” I tease.

“I’m not a heavy drinker, but for some damn reason, this pending conversation has me nervous,” she admits.

“One glass will be plenty,” I state, removing the bottle from her line of sight and tucking it behind the outside couch. Twisting my body to where I’m facing her, I reach over and lace our fingers together, needing to have her touch while we talk about the ghosts from her past and I tell her about voting her into the club.

“You used to do this when you were worried about how I’d react to something you had to say,” she tells me as she stares down at our joined hands. “I thought you said it wasn’t bad enough that I’d need that bottle of wine.”

“Nothing about life is easy, but we can’t always use liquid courage to face our demons, babe. You’re the strongest woman I know, you can do this,” I encourage.

“But wine makes it more enjoyable to discuss,” she counters, popping out her bottom lip.

“Did that ever work on me, Zoe?”

“Sometimes,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “Depended on what type of mood you were in.”

“You saying I give in to a pretty face, Zoe? You forget, I use the word no like it’s nothing.”

“You saying my face is pretty?” she asks, fluttering her eyelashes.

“Pretty, no. That’s not a good enough definition. Gorgeous. Stunning. Extraordinary. A piece of art, those better describe how I see you, Zoe.”

She waves me away, but I see the prickle of tears gather in her eyes as she clears the frog from her throat. “Thank you, Harrison.”

“Only speaking the truth as I see it,” I tell her. “Now, if we’re done flirting, are you ready to start this conversation?”

“I suppose so,” she quietly answers. “Like ripping off a bandaid, give it to me straight, Harrison.”