10
Angelo
Back to the 50’s
Ileft Laine in Jess’ hands for two whole days after discharge. Not because I didn’t want to face her first days out of the hospital, but because I knew Laine needed time. I know battered women, and I know Laine needs me gone and out of her space.
So, leaving a whole lot of faith in Jess, Kane, and a therapist that I don’t know, I stepped back and kept up only with updates via text.
Surprisingly, Kane’s kinda chatty via text. Or maybe after ourshared experiencewith Graham the other night, he trusts me now. He trusts my willingness to do anything for her, so he figures I deserve updates.
Kane normally has a housemate – Eric, his handler from when he was a cop – but with Laine temporarily moving in, Eric volunteered to move out.
It would seem Eric knows battered women, too.
He packed his shit up before Laine’s discharge papers were signed, and with a fast phone call and a handshake, I now have a brand-new tenant in the apartment above my garage, and I can sleep knowing the only man inside that house is both capable and willing to lay his life down for those girls.
The fact Kane’s so stupidly in love with Jess that hitting on Laine would never register in his mind, is a tidy bonus that helps me keep my shit under control.
She’s as safe as she can be, short of me forcing her to move into my house.
But now, on the third day after discharge, I’m going to see her. Because I want to. Because Ineedto. Because I can’t stay away.
I’m not looking to take advantage of a girl in pain, I’m not here to manipulate her into a damn thing, but she’s been my friend since forever, and I miss her the way I’d miss my leg.
I drive up to Kane’s house in the tidy suburban street and pull the revving Buick soft topSuperstraight into the already open garage.
I have a surprise for her.
A project.
Pocketing the keys and exiting the garage, I move up the front steps and stop at the door. I’m so unsure of myself, I don’t even know if I should knock. If it was Oz’s house, or Marc’s or Scotch’s or anyone else’s, I wouldn’t knock. I’d just let myself in like we’ve been doing since school.
But this isn’t one of the regular guys.
It’s Kane.
And it’s the home Laine is staying in.
I open the wire door and knock on the solid timber. They’re home. A truck and two smaller cars litter the street out front, but Kane had the driveway and garage emptied on my request.
That asshole never asks questions.
He’s been conditioned into a life of, once you trust a guy, you don’t ask questions. You justdo. And by the time I was done with a blowtorch and a pair of balls, he trusted me like he trusts Spence.
Footsteps move around inside the house. A TV drones in the living room, and music floats down from an open upstairs window. We’re sitting in perfect seventy-degree weather – shorts and tank weather, flip flops and sitting outside with tea weather – but when the door cracks open and stops on the chain, I frown at Laine’s head to toe black hoodie and sweatpants.
She’s in mourning.
And she’s scared.
“Ang?”
“Hey.” I muster the most convincing smile I can manage. “Just me. Open up?”
“What are you doing here?”
I don’t let it get to me; the rejection, the wariness. I don’t let it hurt, because this isn’t about me, it’s about her. It’s about her healing, her recovery, her mental wellbeing. And if she wants to wear sweatpants and a hoodie in this weather, if she wants to watch me like I maybe tortured someone a few days ago, then I’ll let her.