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 imaginetheKane 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.