Kaine: A Men Of Gotham Novel (The Men Of Gotham Book 1)

by Daisy Allen

“Well, you brought me here.”

  “And now that you have someone to take you home, you can leave.”

  “I’m not leaving, Kaine,” she says.

  Her use of my name is dizzying. I sit up from my reclining position for balance.

  I want to hear it again.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. You heard me when I said it last night, and now I’m telling you again. Kaine, I’m not leaving until you come home.”

  And I almost hurl myself through the window to get to her.

  “I can call the police.”

  “Fine. Tell them to bring my friend up with them when they come, so I can do some work while I wait.”

  I watch as she sits up, her back straight, her hand waving emphatically in the air. She means it.

  “You...”

  “What?”

  “You’re a very stubborn woman, Miss Sinclair.”

  “Now that you’ve realized this, we can both move on. I’ll see you at home, your home, after work. Now please call your building people and tell them to let the crazy red head up to your apartment. I’ll take my work from her and send her along.”

  There’s a click and she’s hung up the phone. My eyes back to the screen to see what she’s doing. She’s leaning back on the couch, her bare legs tucked under her, her face calm, not smiling.

  I reach for the intercom.

  “Jemima, get my apartment building on the phone. Now.”

  ***

  As promised, after meeting her friend at the elevator, she takes the bag and sends her friend away again. Taking the bag to the couch, she spreads the papers around her, the laptop on her legs as she works, a coffee on the side table.

  The scene is so domestic, I can almost smell dinner on the stove and some prime-time game show in the background on the TV.

  And an ache spreads. I want to be there, be a part of it. Be sitting on the couch opposite her, my own work laid out around me, looking up now and then just to smile at her, to enjoy having her around. It’s a need I’ve never experienced before. A need to be a part of something, a couple, a family. I can’t understand these cravings. And why they’re appearing now. Why this woman is triggering them in me. A woman I barely know.

  I just want them to stop.

  It’s not a life that’s meant for me. The way I am, the way I’ve always seen myself.

  My hand reaches up to the left side of my face, running over the lines and bumps, reminding myself what the world is like, and why I’ve chosen the life I have.

  I turn up the volume on the monitor, and I’m surprised to hear the soft blues music drifting out of it. She’s turned on the music on her phone to help her work. I love this song.

  I lean back in my chair, swinging my legs up onto my desk, stretching out my muscles. My body dragging with fatigue, my eyelids fight to stay open, watching her.

  The song ends and continues onto another...and another...and then nothing.

  ***

  I wake up, coughing.

  It’s so hot, I think that if I touch my face, I’ll pull it away to see my skin melting over my fingertips.

  “KAINNNNNNNNNNE!” Someone’s yelling out to me. I think it’s Dad. DAD! There’s smoke everywhere, and I cough. And I cough again, dragging more smoke into my lungs as I struggle for breath.

  “DAD!!! Where are you?!” My knees crack as I fall to the ground, my eyes burning and all I see is smoke. Smoke everywhere. Dark, gray, angry plumes of smoke, its tendrils reaching out for me, and I duck and weave trying to avoid their restraints.

  I don’t know where I am.

  I’m crawling on the ground, looking for a door, a window.

  “Dad! Mom! Jenny!” I sob. Where is everyone? Why have they all left me here?

  “KAINE! Over here!!” It’s Dad’s voice again! There he is, on the other side of the kitchen. There’s a fire on the table, but I can get there, get to him.

  I get up, ready to jump! “Dad! Catch me!”

  There’s a crack and a scream, and I feel like I’m being skinned.

  And then everything falls dark. Forever.

  My eyelids snap open.

  I’m sweating. All over.

  I run my fingertips through my hair; it’s drenched.

  I swing my legs back down onto the ground, needing to feel them on solid ground, to remind myself it was all a dream.

  Except it wasn’t. It was all real. Too real.

  I look around, and it’s darkening. The light from Jemima’s computer is dim, she’s gone home, and the view over Manhattan is a canvas of dark, menacing clouds.

  I’ve been asleep for hours.

  More hours than any night over the last few weeks.

  The figure on the screen isn’t there, and I flip the view. She’s in the kitchen now, still in my hoodie, but with an apron tied around her waist. She must’ve found it hanging in the pantry.

  The scene playing out in front of me is worlds away from the nightmare I’ve just awoken from.

  The music coming from the speakers is more upbeat now; she’s switched to a pop radio station, and is dancing to the beat as she cooks.

  Barefoot, bare assed, hips swaying and cooking in my kitchen.

  I’ve never had more reason to go home.

  There’s a message flashing on my phone that must have come in after Jemima left for the day. I press the button and turn up the sound.

  It’s her. That sweet, husky voice that belongs on a siren, singing on a jagged cliff, calling sailors to their deaths.

  “Kaine. I’m making pork chops for dinner. Again. And this time with my mum’s special marsala mushroom sauce. Be home by seven. It’ll be hot and waiting for you.”

  Checking the time on my watch, it’s 6:50 p.m.

  I close my eyes and imagine a life too good to be true.

  “ARGHHH!” I scream, digging my fingertips into my scalp.

  I get up and run out the door.

  Chapter Seventeen

  HER

  I’m so hungry, I might eat a table leg.

  Which seems so ridiculous, considering there are two perfectly cooked pork chops dripping in marsala mushroom sauce, homemade pasta and a green salad on the table right in front of me.

  Well, they were perfectly cooked.

  Now they’re perfectly ruined.

  I check the clock on the oven.

  8:35 p.m.

  Dickhead.

  I push myself away from the table and carry the two untouched plates of food back to the kitchen. I snort as my mind flashes with a “déjà vu” sign, and I wonder how many pork chops will be sacrificed before he finally decides to come home... while I’m actually awake.

  Wrapping the plates tight I put them in the fridge before skulking over to the kitchen to gather up the dirty pots and pans and carry them to the sink. I turn the tap on, hard, all the way, and the water splashes on me, little water droplets clinging to the hoodie for a second before absorbing into the material, leaving a dark stain.

  “Fuck!” I curse and I feel a hot flush slowly climb up from my chest to my neck.

  Why didn’t he come home? Am I really so offensive that he couldn’t even bear to be with me for a few minutes? Even if it’s just to get rid of me, to get me out of his home?

  “Fuck HIM!” I yell this time, grabbing the sponge and scrubbing at the greasy pot with a renewed vigor, not caring that water and suds splash all over the sink and the bench.

  “What an asshole!” I tell the pots about their owner. He might be a life saver, but he sure wasn’t much good at anything that needed people skills.

  There’s a traitorous twitch of my chin, and I try to ignore it, biting the inside of my cheek. A hot tear splashes from my eye down into the bubbles-filled sink.

  “I’m only crying because I’m tired,” I mumble out loud to myself. “I want to go home too, you know.”

  And you’re hurt he didn’t come home to see you, the voice of truth pipes up in my head.

  “I am not! I couldn�
�t care less!” I argue with myself.

  My hands are rubbed raw when I finish the dishes and I suspect some of the branding of the pots have been rubbed off, too. I find a dish towel and dry the clean kitchenware, putting them back in their exact places while growling at the impeccable order and organisation of his kitchen.

  “Neurotic tight ass,” I grumble, pettily.

  The sky is completely black now, and while in the beginning it was a little unnerving to be staring out at the uninterrupted view, I’ve become quite attached to it.

  Turning off the lights, the entire apartment turns dark instantly and I wander back into his bedroom.

  The memory of the silken decadence of the quilt cover overtakes reasoning. And an irrational desire to annoy him rises in me.

  I bet a stranger sleeping in his bed would annoy the fuck out of that tight ass, I giggle to myself.

  In a sheer moment of crazy, I pull the blanket corner from the bed, I slide myself between the sheets.

  ‘OH. MY. GOD,” I moan. It’s like floating in a pool of butter. I thrash my legs around, enjoying the feel of the smooth fabric on my skin. I roll over to the middle of the bed and do an Egyptian cotton angel, waving my arms and legs in arcs, unable to contain my giggles.

  I curl onto my side and let my head sink into the firm but supportive pillow.

  A strange sense of calm and security washes over me.

  And I’m asleep before I know it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  HIM

  “Another double, please,” I motion to the bartender.

  “Maybe it’s time to go home, Mr. Ashley.”

  I say nothing. In a battle of wills, my driver will let me win every time.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Henry nod to the bartender, who reaches for the bottle and tips it into my glass.

  The burn down my throat when I tip my head back to swallow my drink whole is nowhere near harsh enough.

  I want it to sear like a hot poker has stabbed me in my gullet.

  Something, anything to distract me from that image looping in the back of my head.

  A girl in a hoodie, with no other clothing to hide what’s lurking in those shadows between her legs.

  “Another one,” I growl, beckoning the bartender over with a flick of my wrist.

  “I really think you’ve had enough now, Mr. Ashley.”

  “Go get the car. I’ll meet you outside.”

  “But...”

  “Or would you rather I stay here all night?”

  “But.”

  “Go.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One more,” I say to the bartender. “You heard me. One more and I’ll go.” He doesn’t move.

  “I said, ONE MORE!” I slam the glass down onto the bar and it shatters. Blood drips instantly from the cuts on my fingers and I shake my hand to get rid of the glass fragments.

  “Mr. Ashley!” Henry exclaims, running back to my side, grabbing a handful of napkins to wrap my hand in.

  “I can do it. Just go get the car.” I take the napkins from him and press them against my hand, pushing myself away from the bar.

  “Well, well. What the fuck happened here?” I hear a familiar voice speak up, and the hairs on the back of neck prickle.

  “Go, Henry,” I say, low and calm to my driver when I hear a rumbling in his chest. Glad to know the sight of my uncle isn’t only disturbing to me.

  Henry slowly exhales and pushes past Jacob, his shoulder making contact, knocking the older man slightly off balance.

  “What a thug,” my uncle scoffs in Henry’s direction before turning back to me. “Is that the kind of company you’ve been keeping, Kaine? Thugs. Or just saving damsels in distress from them? Or maybe they’re not damsels... so much as gold-diggers?”

  As much as I’ve had to drink, it takes the sight of my adopted uncle to make the contents of my stomach churn. But that’s not new. It surprises me, though, that he’s picked up that the mystery man with the hoodie in the news is me. His slur on Jade is vicious and unnecessary and if my hand wasn’t already injured, I might just be inclined to use it to break his face.

  “What do you want, Jacob?”

  “Nothing, little K,” he says, the corner of his mouth curling into a sneer. “I was just walking past this here quaint neighborhood bar. And saw you nursing a drink and thought you might like to shout your dear ol’ uncle a drink, for good old times’ sake.”

  “What good old times?”

  “Aw, don’t be like that. I’m sure my brother wouldn’t like it. I’m sure he’d want us to be looking out for each other. Just like he looked out for us. Wait, no, that’s not right. It wasn’t us he looked out for, it was just you, wasn’t it?”

  “Go away, Jacob, we have nothing to say to each other.” I drop two 100 dollar bills on the counter, avoiding the broken glass. The bartender takes one and puts it in the till, putting the other, his tip, into his pocket before grabbing a rag to clean my mess.

  “Hey, hey, where are you going?” Jacob blocks me, as I try to make my way towards the door.

  “Get away from me, Jacob,” I growl, pulling the hoodie tighter around my face, as I notice a crowd starting to eye us, curious about the scene that’s inevitably coming.

  “You think you’re so good, don’t you?” he spits at me, his voice ugly, his face pinched with bitterness and resentment. “Sitting up there in your skyscraper and penthouse. Well, don’t get too used to it. All of it was supposed to be mine. And it will be again one day.”

  “It was never yours and it never will be. I won’t let it. If it’s the last thing I do, to honor ....’s memory. It’s time you finally understand that and move on with your life. Instead of trying to steal mine.” I push past him and out the door. There’s the sound of tires burning on the asphalt and coming to a sudden stop.

  I step out onto the road, open the car door and climb inside.

  “Where now, sir?” Henry asks

  I’m too drunk to stop myself.

  “Home, Henry. Take me home.”

  ***

  It’s pitch black in the apartment when I step off the elevator. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust.

  The blinds are open and there’s almost no way to tell where the building ends and the sky starts. As if I just kept walking, I’d soon by strolling over the clouds hanging over Manhattan.

  I drop my keys and phone on the kitchen bench and the clatter they make echoes loudly in the otherwise silent apartment.

  I wander past the dining room. The table is set, two places. One wine glass is still untouched, the other carries a burgundy taint, and the mark of lips around its rim.

  I look past the dining room table and into the living area. There’s a blanket hung over the back of the couch. But nothing else.

  Where is she?

  Something catches in my throat at the thought that maybe she couldn’t carry through with her threat of waiting and she’s left. Gone home. Out of my life. My fingers run along the kitchen marble bench, trying to connect with the image of her touching the very same spot just a few hours ago.

  I should’ve come home earlier. I’m a dickhead.

  A soft murmur startles me and I realize it’s coming from the bedroom.

  The moonlight streaming through the windows illuminates a path through my home.

  There’s the soft sound again.

  A moan. No, a whimper? No, more like a restless murmur.

  I come to my bedroom and there she is.

  Curled up on my bed, her form covered by the sheet, weaving and dipping, up and down every one of her curves. I tip toe closer to her, taking note of the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

  She is beautiful.

  It’s a single thought. Clear and true in my mind.

  Her hair is strewn all over my pillow. It’s like a mane of cocoa and copper, brown and red tinged strands cascading down her back.

  Her cheek looks like it’s made of porcelain, and in my uninhibited state, I can�
��t help myself. I reach out to touch her. The side of my finger caressing the sweet, plump curve of her soft cheek.

  Her eyes suddenly fly open.

  And she screams.

  Chapter Nineteen

  HER

  For the second time in two days, I wake up screaming.

  But this time, someone is there.

  He’s standing a few feet away from the bed, his silhouette is dark against the backdrop of the lights of New York city.

  I flip my body up, sitting straight, pulling the blankets up to my chin.

  “What are you?” I demand of the intruder.

  His silence fuels the adrenaline rushing through my veins and I scream at him again. “Who are you and what the fuck are you doing here?”

  “I live here,” he says, and his voice is hard, gruff. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, before I realize it is him. He is here. And there’s a strange feeling as if something has caressed my cheek. “What are you still doing here?” He turns the tables on me.

  “I live here too!” I throw back at him, though I don’t know why, it makes no sense. I guess he’s caught me off guard and I’m feeling so defensive.

  “No, you don’t. Leave.” He moves away from the window and his face is thrown into complete darkness.

  “No. I won’t, you leave.” Again, with the crazy.

  “You are crazy.” It seems he senses it too.

  But it’s too late to go back now. And my mouth seems to have developed a mind of its own.

  “Excuse me, I’m not crazy. You’re the crazy one, hiding from your own home just because someone wants to thank you. Do you do that whenever someone says thank you? Like when you hold a door open for a stranger? ‘Oh, why thank you, Mr. Mystery Man. Ahh! No! Please don’t thank me, arghh! I’m going to run away now!’” I rant as I wave my arms around maniacally, as if sprinting away.

  I can’t see his face, his hoodie is on, of course, so I can’t see his expression. I can just see him standing completely still. Watching me.

  Making me feel like a complete idiot.

  Time to change tacks.

  “Huh!” I huff and pull the blanket off me and slide off the bed, careful to pull the sweater I’m wearing low enough to cover, well, cover me. “Well, are you hungry?” I ask, my voice still defensive and hard.