I lift my juice-carrying arm and point a dangerous finger. “You’re an asshole. Next time, I’ll aim a little more to the right and help you find God that much sooner. Go away. We’re forgetting we know each other. Stop skulking around halls, it’s creepy and might get you shot.”
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 shitIleft 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, theysparkle.
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 hedoesn’tgrab 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.