by Emilia Finn
Turning away, I continue up the final flight and pretend his laughter doesn’t echo behind me. Emerging into Kane’s poorly lit hallway, I watch as doors crack open and glassy eyes peek out like I’m a cop ready to raid, but when they see it’s ‘just’ me, the doors close again.
I’ve become a resident, it would seem.
Not a tasty new creature to torment, but a regular.
Awesome.
I push Kane’s front door open and step into his living space, and realize this is the first time I’ve ever seen it messy. He’s normally so organized, and today’s no different. The mess consists exclusively of shit I left out. A spew bucket. Wet towels. Water glasses. Messy bedding.
And a bullet hole.
All me.
The gun isn’t where I left it, but the running shower draws my attention. I place my grocery bag and backpack on the end of his bed, put my coffee down near the TV as I step out of my sneakers, and move toward the bathroom. Stopping in the open doorway, I watch Kane as he sits on the floor of his shower with his broad arms folded across his chest, his knees up high, and his eyes closed.
The shower stream hits the top of his head and dribbles from the tip of this nose. Tears prick the backs of my eyes at the sight of his purpling lips, but I see his chest expanding, so at least I know he’s breathing. Stepping into the small bathroom, the lack of steam in the air is my first clue that his shower is cold. But as I move closer, the icy spray mists and hits my arms until goosebumps break out along my skin.
It’s not freezing outside. But it’s not warm, either.
It’s definitely not weather for a cold shower.
“Kane?” I reach over him and flip off the taps, but not before cold water dribbles up my arm and tickles my bicep. Lowering to one knee beside him, I catch sight of the shiny black gun sitting on the closed toilet lid beside a fresh glass of water.
Reaching up, I run a thumb along his brow. “Kane? Are you asleep? You’re freezing cold.”
He pushes his face into my hand.
“Kane? Wake up. I wanna help you, but I’m still mad, and you’re too heavy for me to lift.”
He forces his eyes open until deceptively long lashes kiss my palm and black eyes lock with mine. I’ve seen them sparkle with rage before, I’ve seen them sparkle when he jokes. I’ve seen them when he’s killed a man, and when he’s solicited me for sex.
Black eyes or blue, they sparkle.
But today, they don’t sparkle. Today, they simply look like death.
“You came back.” His pain filled voice breaks my heart. “I thought you left me.”
“No.” Prying his hand away from his chest and twining our fingers together, I try not to cry when he doesn’t grab on tight. “I went home to get clothes, but I came back. I got you some juice, too. Come on.” I grab him under the arms and work to pull him up, but I can’t move him a single inch without his help. “You need to use your legs. Or lose weight. I can’t lift you alone.”
“You got me juice?” He licks his lips and studies my face. He’s as excited about the juice as he is when he talks about me and his dick in the same sentence. “Is it cold?”
Laughing, I try to pull him up again. “It’s icy cold and waiting for you. But I need you to get up.”
Instead of standing, he moves to his hands and knees. His chest heaves like he just ran a twenty-second mile. Leftover water droplets run along his tattooed ribs, following the markings as though they were carved out rather than drawn on.
Breathing through his teeth and scrunching his eyes closed, he slowly moves to the toilet and fists the gun. If I didn’t trust him so much, I’d worry he might shoot me in retaliation for my tantrum earlier.
But of course he doesn’t. Criminal or not, he’s not going to hurt me.
Shakily climbing to his feet, he brings his hands to his eyes and presses the heel of the gun against his flesh.
So much pain. So much damage to a young, fit body.
I dash forward when he begins swaying on his feet. Ignoring my wet knees, I take his right arm over my shoulder and help take some of his weight. If he pitches over, there’s not much I can do to stop his fall, but as long as he can stay up, I can help minimize the swaying.
Steering toward the living space, we leave the fresh glass of water on the toilet and slowly work our way toward his bed.
“I’ve never been so sick in my life, Blondie.”
“I know.” I rub a soothing hand over his sculpted stomach, the muscles more pronounced because of an empty stomach and dehydration. Lean muscles pop out from beneath skin that seems too tight, all the way to the soaked boxer shorts he’s still wearing.
Stopping at the end of his unmade bed, I pull out the single desk chair and sit it behind his legs. “Sit down for two seconds.” When he doesn’t focus on me, I reach up and grab his jaw. “Hey. Sit before you fall. Let me help you.” As if I’m shouting in his face, he scrunches his eyes closed and collapses into the chair, not even stirring when the frame creaks from his sudden weight.
As soon as he’s stable, I rush around his bed and tear the sheets up.
The entire apartment smells like vomit.
I take the cover in my arms and toss it to the floor, then I ball the sheets and toss them into the sticky vomit bucket. “Where do you keep spare sheets?” When he doesn’t answer, I look up just in time to watch him teeter to the left. Bounding over the bed and knocking groceries to the floor, I throw myself at the mercy of the universe and pray he doesn’t crush me to death. Catching him with both hands on his shoulder, I push back and jam him against the counter in an effort to stop the chair wheels from rolling away. “Kane. Wake up.”
“Sleepy.”
“I know. Come on, you’re letting the team down. Seriously, this isn’t cute – it’s annoying as hell. Wake up, pull yourself together, and help me.”
“Tomorrow.”
“It is tomorrow! Jesus.” Fuck it. I step back and let him slide to the floor. “I don’t care. I’m here to help you, but if you can’t even sit for three minutes, then I can’t deal with that. I’m not your mother.” I step back to the bed and look around the small room. “Where are your spare sheets?” Again, he doesn’t answer. Of course. Because he’s unconscious under the chair.
Shaking my head, I step to the chest of drawers he took jeans from yesterday. There’s almost no storage in this whole place, so pulling the drawers open, I go in search in the only places they could logically be.
Not in the top drawer, I move to the second. Socks and underwear.
Third drawer holds jeans, and tucked in the back, is a second and third gun. He hoards bullets the way a tire fitter hoards valve stops, or regular people hoard pennies.
A lifetime ago, not only would I be surprised to find guns in a drawer, but it would scare the crap out of me.
Today, I’ve become desensitized, so I simply shake my head and move on.
Finally getting to the bottom drawer, I find lime green sheets that make me laugh. I’ve moved on from anger and exhaustion, and stepped firmly into hysteria.
The dark man, the killer – the drug taker and possible drug seller whose other sheets are dark just like everything else in his life – has a lime green set of sheets.
That shouldn’t be funny.
In fact, I have lime green sheets, too.
But it is funny, because if I focus on the guns and the unconscious guy at my feet, I might cry again.
I take the fitted sheet from the pile and tuck it under my arm and I make my way to the single window in the apartment and work on the rusty locks. The fire escape exposes us to all sorts of crazy assholes, but I can’t live with the stench any longer.
Pulling the window up and gulping in the chilly air from outside, I cast an eye over the parking lot and stop at the man I spoke to on the way in. Not the flannel shirt guy, but the one who’s scared of losing his dick. I don’t even have a knife, much less a fishing knife, but the fact Murphey sits on my hood and waves with an odd
grin settles my nerves.
A milkshake sits by this thigh, a burger fills his mouth, and as he smiles like a fool, he looks almost like he’s giggling with unadulterated pleasure.
I think I gained a sort of security guy.
He’s still going to terrorize everyone else, but ten bucks bought me an ally.
Awesome.
I turn back to the room and pull the sheet from under my arm. Whipping it out wide, I begin on the corners. Surprisingly, despite the horrendous fucking night I just lived through, I managed to keep the majority of spew in the bucket. The sheets remain unscathed except for the scorch marks and single hole from the bullet I put through them
Oops.
Tucking the corners in, I work methodically and take comfort in his light snoring. He didn’t snore the night before last, but I guess a drug overdose and a giant hangover will do that to a guy.
Taking the top sheet, I repeat the process and whip it out. For such a guy’s guy, it surprises me that his sheets are wrinkle free. The corners were perfectly matched and folded.
Lifting the end of the mattress, I tuck the sheets under and let it noisily drop back to the base. If he was ‘regular’ sleeping, I’d be quiet. I live with shift workers, so I’ve learned to be considerate with daytime noise, but Kane’s sleep right now is of no concern to me.
In fact, childish as it is, I’m still mad, and I want him to wake up and talk to me. Even with him barely three feet away, I’m lonely as hell.
I’m tempted to go down to the parking lot and share a milkshake with my new friend, that’s how desperate I am for human contact.
I finish tucking the sides in, then toss the last cover over the bed and smooth it out until it’s perfect – something Kane seems to need. I square up the corners and grab his single pillow, plumping it and setting it right in the middle.
Why the hell does he only have one pillow?
How cheap is this man that he buys only one single pillow?
Stepping back from the bed and declaring it perfect – now that the bullet hole has been covered – I move to my groceries and take a long swallow of my cooling coffee.
I didn’t sleep more than three whole minutes all night, and despite my attitude and bad mood making it seem like I have boundless energy, I’m dragging hard. The adrenaline is gone. The worry that he’ll die evaporates with each laborious drag of air he takes in. He’s still struggling, but as far as my untrained eye can tell, he’s going to be okay.
Now he’s just sleeping off a hangover.
I take another long draw of the sweet coffee and turn back to the almost naked man at my feet and the way he hugs his gun to his chest – it’s almost like how he held me all afternoon yesterday. I let my eyes drag along his long limbs, though he’s in the fetal position; tattooed legs tucked up high, eyes closed, pouty lips open and dry, lying on the floor in wet underwear that leaves a mark in the ugly carpet.
Like a proverbial watch commander, the tattoo on his back is like an omen for anyone who tries to sneak up on him. Kane sees everything, he’s prepared, and if you try to harm him, the Grim Reaper will take care of it.
It didn’t work last night.
Someone – Abel – tried to hurt him, and he was almost successful.
Kane almost died.
He might’ve been thrown into the alleyway again, and I’d never know what happened. I’d just wonder, and as the days passed and his death was never reported – because it’s not like Abel would do the right thing and report it – I might’ve wondered if Kane just moved on.
I’ve told him a thousand times this week he should leave town, so if he disappeared, I might’ve assumed that’s what he’d done.
He’d left and made a better life for himself.
I’d mourn the loss of his presence in my life, but I’d go back to my normal non-criminal life; I’d sit my bar exam and might even allow the Alex clause in my new contract in exchange for partnership in the firm. I would go on and continue along the path I’d already set out for myself, but all the while, I’d assume Kane was living in some small coastal town with his tattoos and bad boy looks.
He’d stick out like a sore thumb, but he’d bag groceries and live a long and healthy life.
And the hole he’d leave in mine would never truly close.
The fact this man, who’s always so in charge and on the defense, is now laid out on the floor in front of me hurts my chest in a way it really shouldn’t.
It’s not often he’s this vulnerable.
I can’t imagine the Kane Bishop ever allowing his barriers down this freely on a regular basis, so I’m both honored and annoyed that he chose to check out on my watch.
Setting my coffee back down by the TV, I brush my hands over my jeans and walk around the muscled and heavy man. Placing legs on either side of his, I stroke his shoulder with my fingertips. “Kane? Wake up now. This is the last time I’ll move you, I promise.”
With a shake of his head, he latches to my leg and hugs it the way he hugs his gun.
“Bishop. Wake up. Last move, then you can sleep.”
“Don’t wanna. Tomorrow.”
I brace my leg before he buckles it and pulls me to the floor. Sighing, I shake my head and glance around the still messy apartment. I don’t know what the hell to do, but if he sleeps on the floor all day, it wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened to him this week.
I look back to the mostly-unconscious man, to the shiny black gun now pressed to my leg, and desensitized or not, being so close to a loaded gun scares the shit out of me.
I bend forward and begin peeling his fingers away from the handle. If we get shot after everything that’s happened this week, I’m going to be pissed. One eye closed, holding my breath, I pull each finger away and point the barrel toward the bed.
Maybe I should aim for the flannel shirt guy. See how he likes my second attempt.
With a final yank, I take the gun from Kane’s hand, only to yelp when he sits up and pulls me down so I straddle his hips. His strong hand wraps around mine and points the gun toward the wall. “No more shooting, Blondie.”
“Oh, you’re awake. Good. Get up.”
“Not awake.” His dark eyes, glassy and hooded, look into mine. “Still sleeping. But I need my gun.”
“It’s dangerous, you lunatic. Sleeping with a gun is about as healthy for you as snorting cocaine with Abel.”
His spare hand grows tighter on my hip, even as his eyes turn heavy and drop closed. “Give my gun back.”
“Let me up, get into bed, then I’ll give it back. You need to eat. And remember that juice you were so excited about?”
“Juice?” His lips turn up into a quirky grin. His face is still slack, his eyes closed, but his grin remains and his cock hardens beneath me.
“Wow. Juice really turns you on, huh?”
With a dirty snigger, he shakes his head and gently pushes me off his lap. Shakily standing, he staggers the three feet between where we were on the floor and stops at the foot of his bed. “No. You sitting on me turns me on.” His exhausted eyes narrow when he looks down his almost naked body. “Why are my shorts wet? Was that you?”
“No!” I climb to my feet and push him back until his ass hits the bed. If he falls again, I’m done. He can sleep on the floor. “Even in your state, you’re still a damn pig. That wasn’t me, that was you.” I step back to the set of drawers and yank out a fresh pair of underwear. “Take yours off, put these on. You’re all wet, and I just made the bed. Your dick will rot and shrivel up if you sleep in wet shorts.”
“Don’t want that,” he lazily drawls. Lying back on the bed, he lifts his legs and pushes his shorts down.
Naked.
Stark fucking naked, and his cock stands at a ninety degree angle. “You’re a pig.”
Snickering, he closes his eyes and drops his legs. “Take care of that for me, won’t ya? I was high as fuck last night, and I still didn’t get laid. Cocaine makes for a monster fucking Kane, and you kept saying
no.”
I toss the underwear at his face and start to turn away. “Put them on yourself. I’ll get your juice.”
Dramatically sighing, he brings his hand down to stroke his cock. “Another day, big boy. She’s still playing hard to get.”
I fuss with my shopping bags and yank the orange juice out, but in my peripherals, I watch his joking pat turn to a long stroke that I’m certain he didn’t mean. His groan syncs with mine, and from only six feet apart, our eyes meet.
He has about three seconds before passing out again, yet his dick pulses, and the adrenaline and fatigue of the last twenty-four hours – hell, this whole fucking week – makes me react in odd ways. Last night, I was genuinely terrified he’d die, and this morning, I shot at him. But right now, I’m honestly considering sitting on him and letting the spark of sexual tension that rests between us wash away.
Everything will stop being so intense once we fuck.
Once we get that out of the way.
Once he gets his fill and realizes the chase was more fun than reality.
Maybe then he’ll stop touching himself in front of me. Maybe then, I’ll be able to think with my brain again, rather than my out of control hormones.
“I see you, Blondie.” Grinning, he turns his head to the side. “You’re gonna burst that juice open if you don’t loosen your grip a little.”
I peel my eyes away from the naked man laid out on his bed and look down at the juice I hold in a white-knuckled grip. Loosening my hold, I crack the lid open and pull out the last clean glass from his sort-of kitchen cabinet. Pouring it to the very rim until the juice dribbles over to my hand, I lift the glass and chug until it’s half empty.
I wish it was tequila.
I wish he would stop sending me crazy.
Literally.
Chuckling, he sits up on the end of the bed and feeds his feet through the leg holes of his underwear. Instead of standing to pull them up, he lies back and lifts his hips, but even when they’re in place, the tip of his cock still pokes out the top and rests against his lower belly.
