Risk (Gentry Boys #2)(72)

“Truly?” Stephanie was softly knocking on my door.

“You need something?” I called, a bit harshly.

“I can hear you sobbing through the walls.”

I tried to catch my breath. I hadn’t even realized I’d been crying so hard.

You’re falling to pieces Truly Lee.

“Sorry,” I told her through the closed door. “I got a splinter.”

She laughed. “Is that what you Southern girls call it?”

I jumped out of bed and started pulling on some clothes. “Sometimes, although not in the case of Creed Gentry.”

I could practically hear my roommate shuffling with discomfort. She was trying to be a friend, no matter how unnaturally it came to her. “You want to talk about it, Truly?”

“Not right now.” I closed my jeans and opened the door.

Stephanie was leaning against the frame. She gave me a strange look, close to pity.

“I heard some rumors,” she said in a low voice.

Given Stephanie’s line of work, I could guess what the rumors were. “Is that so? You want to share the gossip?”

She slumped against the far wall and leaned her head back. “I thought the Gentry name sounded familiar. I never took bets on those underground fights. It’s just a little too brutal for my appetite.” She smiled faintly. “I do have some standards.”

I crossed my arms. “But you know something about it.”

She lost her smile. “Yes.”

“And you know about Creed?”

“Yes. I hoped it wasn’t true. There’s a guy I know, a friend of my father’s. He’s out of Vegas but makes it down to Phoenix now and again. I acted like I might be getting interested in these fights I kept hearing about but I was really only looking for the odds.”

“And what are they?”

She didn’t balk. “Not good, Truly. Not good at all. There’s too much green betting that he never gets up again at all.”

I sat down on the floor. Stephanie sat down next to me. I couldn’t think about how I would cope with such a loss. I just had to reach into the place where people found their faith and believe that I wouldn’t have to.

“You want an omelet?” I asked my roommate. “I feel like cooking.”

“Truly.”

“I don’t know if we have any cheese left. If not I’ll jazz them up somehow.”

Steph nodded slowly. “I’d like an omelet.”

“Good.” I worked quickly and tried not to remember the last time I’d been in front of the stove early in the morning. Creedence had been lured out of bed by the sound of my singing. He’d stood there in the doorway shamelessly naked, watching and listening.

Stephanie picked Dolly up and sat at the table while I flipped an omelet.

“That’s some gift,” she said, jerking her head in the direction of the sewing machine. It was still in the living room.

It was indeed. I paused in my cooking long enough to peer around the corner. I’d never been more stunned than when I came home yesterday to find it sitting there. I couldn’t guess where he’d found it or how he even understood what to look for. I’d only mentioned Granny June’s treadle machine once but Creed must have remembered every word because he’d gotten it exactly right. Of all the things I’d received from men over the years, none ever meant so much as this.

Stephanie gobbled up her omelet and then looked at the clock. “Shit,” she grumbled. “I’ve got to get to class.”

I took a sip of my coffee even though to me it was as tasteless as everything else was today. “How are you, Steph? I haven’t asked as much as I should.”

She grimaced slightly. “I’ll be okay. I mean, I can handle it.”

“You still haven’t told me what it is exactly you’re handling.”

“No,” she agreed wryly, “I haven’t.” For once she took her plate to the sink and washed it off. I watched her as she carefully dried it and set it back in the cabinet. She pointed to my shoulder. “What happened there anyway?”

“Paper cut,” I answered, glancing down at the shoulder in question. There was still a bandage covering my fresh tattoo. Creed hadn’t asked about it.

I waited until Stephanie was gone before I slowly peeled the bandage off. Cord had done a beautiful job with the artwork. The magnolia petals had an ethereal quality to them. I stared at the carefully inscribed date. Why hadn’t I told Cord to include the year?

Because it isn’t just one year. It’s every year. It’ll never end.

In all my long, rambling monologues to Creedence about my life, my girlhood, my sisters, I hadn’t breathed a word about the most important story of my past. I didn’t know what kind of answer he would give to that news. Would he have continued to hold me, patiently listening? Would it change the way he saw me?

I pulled a chair over to the sewing table. The time was barely eleven am. One way or another I would know the outcome of the fight before another turn of the calendar. I thought about it for a minute and realized I’d never hated any day as much as I hated today.

After pulling my old sewing basket out of my closet and finding a tiny bottle of oil, I set about tending to the machine. It had been well cared for over its many decades of life. Once I had threaded the bobbin and needle I began working the treadle. It gave me a good amount of satisfaction, watching the thread zigzag across the fabric.