by Emilia Finn
With shaking hands and zero clue how to use it, I wrap my hands around the handle and stretch my finger onto the trigger.
I point it right at the man’s back. “I don’t wanna hurt you, mister. I want to believe you’re here to help. But if you hurt him, I’ll shoot you in the gut and watch your blood run black.”
Surprised, he turns back with a lifted brow. His gaze flips between my hand and my eyes. Hitching Kane up securely, the man nods. “I won’t fuck you over. Just don’t shoot me in the back by accident.”
“I’m in control of the situation. You walk. I’ll follow.”
“You’re not in control of shit,” he chuckles. “Take your finger off the trigger before you shoot off a round. Guns 101, girlie. Not toys.”
“Shut up and move.”
Who am I?
I have a man at gunpoint.
Kane does this to me. He makes it so I’m willing to put aside everything I’ve ever worked for just to protect him.
He’s a damn criminal, but now, so am I.
My family is the law. I don’t know this dangerous and dark world that Kane is so entrenched in, and yet, I stand on the fourth floor of his shitty apartment building with a heavy gun in my hand and a willingness to shoot if this man makes the wrong move.
I’ve finally cracked.
This week is too much. Too big. Too scary.
And now it all ends in a stairwell when my savior is unconscious and a stranger thinks he can step in.
Braver than I would be if our roles were reversed, the man turns to the stairs and slowly moves forward. Kane is heavy, and though the man struggles and pants within three stairs, he slowly works his way up.
Please don’t be a bad guy.
Please don’t be a bad guy.
Please don’t be a bad guy.
I can’t take any more this week.
Kane vomits as they move, but it’s more of a choked dribble, since his stomach is officially empty. I walk a wide berth around the stranger and stop at Kane’s front door. Glancing between the doorknob and Kane’s dangling legs, I realize I don’t have keys. Kane would, obviously, but to get them, I need to get much, much closer to the man. Pushing my hands into Kane’s jean pockets will render me useless if the man decides he’s done being a good samaritan.
Indecisive, shaking like a dry leaf, I knuckle tears away with my gun hand and send the man backing away.
“Girl! You need a fuckin’ intervention. Put the damn gun down and open the door.”
“I don’t have a key.” I drop my hands so the gun points at my feet. “It’s probably in his pocket.”
“Just open it. I assure you, this building has no locks. It’ll be open.”
With narrowed eyes, I sidestep closer to the door and gingerly tap the handle. I nudge it open, and when the man moves forward and crowds me in the doorway I squeal and blindly aim the gun. “Step back!”
“Put your fuckin’ gun down, you idiot. I’m trying to make sure the place is empty.”
“Please don’t hurt us.”
“I already promised I wouldn’t, so cool your shit. Follow me in and close the door. Keep your gun ready, but stop fuckin’ pointing it at me.”
He warily moves through the entrance and peeks into Kane’s single bathroom. Flipping the lights on, he illuminates Kane’s half open eyes, but only the whites, which are more of a red. Declaring the bathroom safe, he moves into the living room and turns a full circle. There’s nowhere for an intruder to hide – not even under the bed which has a solid base and stops only two inches off the floor.
He glances up and gives me the go ahead to shut the door. Thoughtlessly, I swing it closed and realize too late that I’ve enclosed myself in this apartment with an unconscious Kane and a strange man who’s stronger than he appears.
I back up until my body is pressed against the timber. “Lay him down, then leave.”
“Don’t worry, girl, I ain’t sticking around. You’re likely gonna shoot somebody at some point tonight, and I’d rather it wasn’t me.” Grunting, he brings Kane’s lifeless body over his shoulder and slams him onto the mattress. “Keep him on his side all night. Or watch him. Whichever. If he vomits again, he could choke and die. Don’t let him.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
He turns to me with an incredulous expression. “How the hell’m I supposed to know? I just met you! Don’t leave him alone. He’s out, so if he spews, he’ll choke.”
“Okay. Do you… do you think his fever is a problem?”
Leaning over Kane like they’re brothers, he presses his hand to Kane’s brow, then his throat. “I dunno. Maybe grab a washcloth and put it on his forehead every now’n again. His pulse is weird. I ain’t a doctor, but the way it’s going ain’t normal. You sure you don’t wanna go to the hospital?”
My hands shake. “He said not to. He’s usually right, so I have to do as he says.”
Chuckling, the man dusts his hands off on the thigh of his jeans. “Okey dokey. I’m outta here. If he dies tonight, you never saw me. I don’t have time or leniency to get wrapped up in this shit. In fact, even if he doesn’t die, forget you met me. You’re super woman, you carried him up here yourself.” Moving toward me, he stops when I lift the gun. “I just wanna get out, girlie. Let me out. I won’t touch you.”
Edging along the door and out of the way, I step aside and allow him space to brush through.
“Put your pots and pans up. Then keep the gun nearby. If your friend survives whatever the fuck is wrong with him and your gun, buy that son of a bitch a lottery ticket tomorrow.”
“He will survive. I promised I wouldn’t let him die.”
With a wink, he steps into the hall and closes the door most of the way. “That’s the spirit, darlin’. Catch ya.”
“Goodbye.”
“Don’t forget the pots and pans. And get him a spew bucket. And a washcloth. And water.”
“Okay.”
As soon as the door closes and I’m all alone in the tiny apartment with a man lying on his back, I hurriedly reset the pots and pans, then sprint into the bathroom for supplies. I find a clean glass and fill it with water, and sitting it on the counter, I find a towel and run it under the tap. Setting the gun beside the water glass, I yank my jeans down and sit on the toilet, because I’ve needed to pee for over an hour.
At Kane’s coughing and groaning, I jump up and toss my jeans and sneakers aside, running around in panties and top to grab the things I need. Sprinting back to the room, expecting to find blue lips and a vomit caked face, I find him only coughing, and my heart leaves my throat long enough for me to draw a breath and set the water glass on the bedside table.
Putting the towel on the corner of his bed, I turn a full circle in search of something that will do for a spew bucket.
Why am I here? Why has this become my life?
Not only am I touching guns, I’m pointing them at people.
Not only am I near a cocaine user, I’m preparing to sleep in his bed.
Again.
I find a small garbage can near the TV, and when I turn it up, two single scrunched notes fall to the floor. I set it down beside the towel, then moving between his legs where they dangle over the end of his bed, I begin working on his belt.
He needs to get out of his jeans. He needs to get comfortable and rest.
And maybe I need to call an emergency line and ask an anonymous question.
Finding divots in the leather, I stop and run my thumb over the marks my teeth left behind only days ago.
Feels like a lifetime ago.
He helped me when I was out of it – I hardly remember a thing from that night. I was attacked, I went to work, then I was bleeding and found myself here.
This stranger took care of me, and now, I’ll take care of him.
Pulling the belt from around his waist, I toss it near the pillow and get started on the button of his jeans. I had planned on making him more comfortable, but as I lower the zipper and fist the waistl
ine of his jeans, I realize I won’t get anywhere unless he wakes and lifts his hips.
“Kane?” I place my knee on the bed between his legs and climb up until we’re face-to-face. “Kane? I need you to wake up for a sec. I need to get your jeans off.”
Grumbling, he turns his face away and ignores me.
“Kane?” I tap his cheek. “Just two seconds, then you can go back to sleep.”
“Sick. I’m gonna kill Abel.”
“Okay. We’ll do that tomorrow. But for tonight, I need your jeans off.”
Grinning, even in his state, he gives a weak shake of his head and goes back to snoring.
Crap.
Sliding back to my feet, I stand at the end of his bed with my hands on my hips and my eyes on his crotch. “Kane? Handsome? Lift your hips and I’ll suck your cock.”
My eyes narrow when his hips instantly spring up. If I didn’t see him vomiting all night, if I didn’t see the way his eyes rolled around in his head, I’d believe he was tricking me. But I did see those things. And now I see his hips bridged high and his dick pushing against his jeans.
“Jesus, are you nearly thirty, or are you sixteen? Even in your sleep, your dick stands when I mention it.” I work hard to yank his jeans down broad thighs, and as soon as I clear his knees, he drops back to the bed with a pain-filled groan and turns to his side.
I move fast to pull his jeans all the way down before he tangles them around his ankles. Tossing the smelly denim aside, I turn back to the mess I have laid out in front of me.
A criminal.
A gun.
Cocaine.
Vomit.
And no fucking clue what to do with it all.
I glance around the room for any last minute supplies I might need, since I plan to be stuck about two minutes from now. I grab the TV remote and toss it to the bedside table, then my cell from my handbag in case he rolls over and smothers me in my sleep.
Climbing to the top of the bed, I plump the single pillow behind my back and sit against it with a huff. Reaching for my things – the bucket, the wet towel, the gun – I set it all out beside me, then open my legs and grab him under the arms.
“Wake up, Kane. Help me.”
Just like last time, he shakes his head, sending lines of sweat dribbling along his brow. “Sick.”
“Come on. Put your head between my legs. You have my permission.”
Snickering, he rouses enough to worm along the bed. Grunting and steering him, I keep him moving until his head rests between my boobs and his back on my pelvis. As soon as he’s in place and my heart races as fast as his, I grab the towel and use it to wipe his brow. “Sleep now, Kane. I won’t let you down.”
Grabbing the TV remote, I flick the small screen on, then reach out and flip the lamp off.
17
Kane
Jessie, the Angel
“I’ll protect you,” she whispers. “I promise.”
I stir at the sound of my angel’s voice, but the aches that dig into every muscle I possess forces me to scrunch my eyes shut. I burrow deeper into my bed and pray for relief. “Tired.”
“I know.” She strokes my forehead. Humming a song under her breath, she helps soothe the fire in my chest. “Sleep,” she whispers. “I’m on guard duty tonight. It’s my turn.”
“Back soon.”
With my ear over her chest, I listen to the bub-boom, bub-boom of her healthy heart and try to time my breaths.
My body aches from my ears to my toes. I’ve never been in so much pain in my entire life. Exhausted and nauseous, I turn to my side and press a kiss to the soft flesh there.
Need more sleep.
Flickering lights burn through my eyelids and stab my brain. I blindly reach out for the remote, but come up with nothing but soft skin, then a warm hand that twines with mine. “Shh.” With a melodic voice, thick with exhaustion, she helps me calm. “It’s okay. Relax.”
“Thirsty.”
“Okay.” She releases my hand and arches away. Electrical bolts zing through my brain, like a migraine, but a billion times worse than anything I’ve ever experienced in my life. As soon as her heart no longer beats under my ear, my system goes into a tailspin.
“Hey. Stop.” She pushes me down when I try to get up. “Here. Stop.” She presses an icy cold hand to my cheek, then a cool glass to my lips. “Tiny little sips. You need to relax. Don’t drink too fast, you’ll make yourself sick.”
Like lava over razor blades, I swallow the liquid and clamp my lips shut when my stomach threatens to send it straight back up.
“Better?”
I shake my head and slump back down against her body. Exhausted, I manipulate her until her heart rests beneath my ear. “All better.”
“Okay. Rest.”
Nodding, I bring my hand back up to cover my eyes. My fingers rest on her chest and my thumb in my eye. I tap my pinky against her skin. “My heart.”
“I know.” She places a cold towel over my head, but I barely react to her trying to smother me. I don’t care anymore, because when she brings her hand down to my chest to run circles in my skin, my toes uncurl. “I know it hurts. Try to breathe with me. Slow it down. Sleep some more. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”
Icy cold hands drag me back to the surface. She feels around my forehead, my cheek, my neck. “You have a fever, Kane. You’re really, really hot.”
I scrunch my eyes closed and burrow deeper into her body.
“Do you think you should have some ibuprofen?” She slides the soggy towel over my face, soothing me the way her nails against my scalp soothe me. “I don’t know how to help you.” She sniffles. “Will ibuprofen help? You’re scaring the shit out of me.”
“Dunno.” With shaking hands, I take the towel and lay it over my face. Block out the TV. Block out the heat. Block out everything except her skin on mine. “Goin’ back to sleep. Don’t wake me anymore. Sick.”
“I’m really scared,” she whimpers. “I won’t recover if you die in my lap. And I really think you’re dying.”
“Won’t die. Promise.” Shivering all over, I clutch to her thigh like it’s a buoy in a stormy sea. “Cuddle me, baby. Makes me feel better.”
She contorts her body so her chest remains under my cheek, her thigh between my arms and legs, and her other leg wrapped around my hips. Hunching over, she lays her lips on the top of my head. “I’ll never forgive you for this, Bishop. Swear to god, no one has done something so horrible to me.”
“Sleep, Jessie. Rest.”
“Kane.” Soft lips touch my brow. Then my cheek. Then my ear. “Kane. Wake up. Please wake up.”
I shake my head. “What?”
“You’re still burning up. You’re shaking. It’s been hours.”
“Let me sleep,” I groan. Kneading her thigh beneath my hand, I cuddle in closer. “Can’t get better, ‘cause you keep waking me up.”
“I’m gonna call an ambulance.”
“No.”
“I’ve been on the net,” she snaps. “What did Abel cut the cocaine with? Fentanyl? Washing detergent? Salt? Paracetamol? I need to know so I can help you. You’re in danger right now, Kane. Real, actual fucking danger.”
“Mm…” My calves cramp as I pull my legs closer to my chest. “Maybe. Dunno.”
“Fentanyl kills people! Cocaine kills. You’re dying, Kane, and I don’t want you to.”
“Not dying. Sleeping.”
“You threw up three more times.” She shakes me, setting off a chain reaction of nausea as wasps sting the inside of my gut. “Do you remember? You’re having seizures and scaring me to death. You aren’t drinking. You haven’t opened your eyes. You’re,” she tears my head back by my hair. “You’re terrifying me!”
My eyes feel like rusty windows in an old colonial as I force them open. “Don’t be scared, baby. It’s my job to protect you.”
“You’re doing a really shitty job of it right now. I hate you for doing this to me.” Tears dribble along her cheeks and over
pinched lips. “I hate you.”
“Did I hurt you? Am I squishin’ you?”
“No!” She wipes a tear from her cheek “But you’re breaking my heart.”
Grinning despite the fire in my stomach, I press a kiss to her chest. “You feel it, too. I like that. G’night, baby.” I take her hand and push her tear-soaked finger between my lips.
Comfortable, I suckle like a baby.
18
Kane
If Cocaine Doesn’t Kill You…
Sunlight burns through my eyelids and sears my retinas. Trying to escape it, I turn my face away and groan at the ball of fire sitting low in my gut. A vomit-coated tongue and furry teeth play havoc with my gag reflex as I come toward consciousness.
Fuck Abel.
Fuck that asshole for cutting his coke and testing it on us.
Grunting, I lift my legs to test them. So fucking heavy. So weak.
Blinking away the heaviness in my eyes, I turn to my side and drag my legs up the bed until my knees touch my chest.
I haven’t felt this bad since I had the flu two years ago.
A single man with no folks and no woman, I was left to die all alone until Jay turned up all fresh faced and stupid grins. He brought soup and declared we were basically fuckin’ homos. He fed me, helped me shower, then went out and fucked away his ‘gay-ness’ until he could come back the next day and do it all over again.
I should call him.
He ingested the same coke I did.
I bring my hand up and rub it along my stubbled jaw. Licking my dry lips, I pray for a bottle of water, just a sip. Just enough to wash the dead animal from my mouth.
I feel her eyes on me – the blazing glare burning into my already tender head. When I turn, I come eye-to-eye with pure fucking rage.
Her blonde hair is messy and knotty as she sits with her back against my apartment door, her knees pulled high as her shaking hands point a gun right at me.
