He didn’t tell me her whole name; he called her Iz. I remember snorting humorlessly at the name yesterday. But yesterday, the last thing I thought was that Iz could possibly be one and the same, Isabelle West.
I’ve known Greg for close to a decade now. I still remember a few years ago when he called up, telling us he had to run to North Carolina and be some white fucking knight. I don’t remember the details, even though I wish to fuck I did. I just remember him going radio silent for almost a month after.
He has always talked about his two girls here in Georgia. The guys and I have been giving him a hard time for a while now about handing over his nuts since he liked hanging with pussy so much. He has always spoken about these two chicks like they are fucking queens, goddamn Mother fucking Teresas. I honestly don’t think I have ever heard him say a negative thing about either one of them.
Such bullshit. This little scrap of female is blocking the club owner’s office door like she would take out any threat that tried to get through her to try and reach Isabelle. Where the hell is the small sprite Greg said radiated glee like a fucking fairy?
“FUCK!” I roared. “Get out of my goddamn way, woman.” How does this tiny, one-woman circus think she is going to fucking keep me from breaking that door into splinters? I look over at Coop and Beck; they seem just as confused as I am about this whole standoff. Jesus, I am getting in that damn office, even if I have to physically remove this woman from my path. I’m tired of playing nice. I might not have a mother, but even I know to respect women; this one though would try the patience of a fucking saint.
Just when I am about to pick her up and remove her from my way, the door opens and out steps a red-faced, spitting-mad, Greg Cage.
“You”—he points at my chest, getting right up in my fucking space—“get the fuck out of here. You might be bigger than I am, but when it comes to her, I will fucking kill you.”
What. The. Fuck. The hell with that.
“Who the fuck do you think you are, brother, telling me that I can’t speak to her?” I can feel the vibration of unshed violence rushing through my veins. Even with the small thought in the back of my head that I would do the same thing in his shoes, I still can’t calm myself.
He takes a deep breath, looks me dead in the eyes, and spits out words that almost stop my heart.
“If you don’t back the fuck off right fucking now, Iz will end up leaving here in the back of an ambulance . . . again.”
The fuck? “What the hell are you talking about, Greg? Because it sure as fuck sounds like you’re talking in code.”
Sighing deeply, I can tell how much this little toe-to-toe is costing him. “Look, Reid. You know I respect the hell out of you. You have been my brother for a fucking long-ass time, but Iz . . . She is not in a good place right now. Yesterday was hard enough, but Dee and I have managed to keep her chill. Fuck, even with the package from that sick fuck, she didn’t go this deep. You need to back the fuck off for now. If you want to speak to her, fine, but it will be on her terms, not when she is fighting every demon that owns her soul. Not tonight. You hear me good, Reid. I will talk to her and set something up, but not until you tell me just how you know my fucking girl.”
“What do you mean your girl, G?”
I must be acting like a fucking idiot, especially after all his long-winded bullshit. Greg is gaping at me like he is trying to find a solution for world peace or some shit like that. He holds my gaze for a long while, and I can practically see the gears turning at full steam.
Finally, with an eerily neutral tone, he says, “Reid, just how long have you known Iz?” He might sound neutral, but his eyes seem to be silently communicating that if he doesn’t like my answer, there will be no talking with Izzy.
I look down at my boots and reach up to rub my neck, trying to ease some of the tension out of my body. What a loaded question.
“Why does it matter, G?”
“Humor me, brother. Just fucking humor me. How long have you known her?”
Straightening to my full six-foot-six height, trying to at least give myself that small advantage, I look down on him with a matching grim expression. What the hell is going on here? They are acting like Izzy is some wounded bird. No way in hell this is the same girl I knew.
“I’ve known Isabelle for going on sixteen years, and twelve years ago, when I left home, I left my heart in her fucking palm. I haven’t seen or heard from her since,” I respond with a calm I do not feel. Not in the least.
Greg’s eyes fire instantly, and after a moment of silence, he grunts, “Do not call her Isabelle. Ever.” Then he turns on his heel and leaves me standing in stunned silence with Beck’s, Coop’s, and Dee’s burning eyes on my back. With the exception of Dee, they seem just as confused and shocked as I am.