8. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Kane
The bright high beams nearly blind me as I spot Carter’s boyfriend—Nash, the detective who worked on his late boyfriend’s case—waiting in his truck, parked in front of the building.
The sight makes me both happy and equally sad.
Because I know this is where we part our ways now, Carter and I.
It’s been that way for a while. No more walking him to the subway every night and making sure he gets on safely.
Margie’s words reverberate in my head; our conversation a sharp echo in my psyche.
Of course it matters because he doesn’t need you anymore.
That’s a good thing, right?
We’re supposed to evolve. Get better. Move on…
So why did those words sting so fucking much when she said them?
“Your carriage awaits,” I tease him, noting the momentary blush in his cheeks. I glance up at Nash, whose gaze is set on Carter. Just like it always is when he’s waiting. The way he looks at him has me green with envy because no one, not even my subs, have ever looked at me like that.
Not unless you count Ryder…
But even I know that’s reaching. One look, one possible tip-flirtation does not mean the guy is my prince charming, and just because I grew up on the wrong side of town doesn’t make me fucking Cinderella.
The smile that forms on Carter’s face is genuine, and I feel a pang of guilt along with the jealousy.
He’s waited years to smile like this, and I am happy to see the guy living his life and moving forward, but it also hurts because I know Margie is right.
He doesn’t need me anymore. Because he has Nash, and Nash loves him and will make sure he’s okay.
Which means, one day, maybe even soon, he’ll probably stop coming here, because he won’t need the group anymore, either. Won’t need me or my sorry excuse for friendship because I can’t be as open and genuine with him as he is with me.
If there’s one thing I’ve noticed from a life spent in therapy and support groups, it is that people come and go all the time. Some might stay for a while, a few years, even, like Carter, or even me. But ultimately, one day they stop showing up, and no one ever questions it.
No one asks if they’re okay or wonders if they finally lost their battles and gave into their dark thoughts. Or if they relapsed.
No one wants to ask, because we’re all terrified of what the answer will be.
So we just move on, like they never existed in the first place.
Sometimes I look them up just to settle my unrelenting paranoia that they are not, in fact, dead in a ditch somewhere, alone. Sometimes I’m wrong.
But most of the time, I’m right, and that is a whole other brand of pain. Knowing that there is the possibility that this—all of this—might never actually help is like a sentence far worse than death.
Which is why I stopped trying to make friends in the first place, but somehow Carter weaseled his way past my defenses and now I’m afraid he’ll disappear, too.
“Later,” he says, waving with a grin and rosy cheeks.
“See you later.” I keep my hands in my pockets, praying that it’s the truth.
I wait until he gets into the truck and closes the door. Until I see Nash smirk, lean over, and kiss him, and that’s when I make my exit. They’ve offered me rides, but I need the walk.
I hunch my shoulders and make my way towards the subway, deeper in the chill.
At this time of night, with the weather, there’s barely anyone out, and there’s almost an eerie sort of stillness that pervades over the city as the snowflakes start to fall.
The subway’s sparse; save for a few people who look like they’d rather be anywhere else, and a homeless man dozing off at the other end of the car.
The lights in the subway flicker; shadows dancing like ballerinas at the opera along the faded, dirty walls and doors.
The silence is deafening; the low hum of the lights, the only sound, the only evidence of time moving at all.
I lean back, my head hitting the window pane with a thud and close my eyes, just for a moment, and when I open them again, it isn’t until we’ve hit my stop.
The homeless man still lays there, so I check to make sure he’s breathing before I get off. He is.
There’s already a few inches of snow on the sidewalk when I make it to my house, which is an old Victorian townhome split into a duplex, about forty-five minutes out from the city.
When I bought it, it was a complete disaster, but it was way more affordable than anything else I could find.
I’ve spent the last two years fixing up the place in my spare time, but it doesn’t look much better.
When I’m not working or researching, or trying to work through this mental block, or I can’t sleep, sometimes I tinker around with the projects I started, the ones that have been sitting for months, waiting for me to pick them back up.
I just… have no desire to keep pouring myself into it. I don’t know if that desire will ever come back. Just as I make it up the steps to my stoop, my keys in hand, I hear a rather loud, high-pitched meow, and a flash of orange lightning darts past me, kicking up snow onto my boots as it goes.
Fucking Pumpkin.
I sigh, because this has to be the third time this week Mrs. Burnside’s rambunctious new rescue—well, technically, I’m the one who actually rescued the little guy after she begged for my help to get him out of the sewer pipe he was trapped in a few weeks ago.
Though you’d never know it by the way he’s constantly causing chaos.
Kitten’s a regular Houdini, which is probably how he ended up in the damn sewer pipe to begin with.
“The fuck you doing out here you little heathen?” I tsk, scooping him up with one hand. “Trying to give me a damn heart attack?”
Pumpkin meows in protest, swatting at me with his tiny claws.
“Don’t you dare,” I growl as he wriggles in my grasp, meowing and hissing at me. Snow sticks to his fur and he sounds pissed, but when I tuck him against my chest and wrap my coat around him, he starts purring like a damn machine and nuzzles his face against my coat.
I roll my eyes, sighing in defeat.
“You know, you could have this all day,” I nip, my thumb brushing over his small head. His fur is soft, but slightly damp from the snow. “If you stayed inside like a good little kitty.”
Pumpkin mewls, his paws already starting to knead my coat. His tiny frame warms up against me as he purrs; ignoring my chastising.
“Come on,” I mutter, using one hand to clutch him close while I turn to head down the steps and over to his owner’s. “Let’s get you back to your mama,” I say, one foot on the step.
Pumpkin cries, almost like he’s begging me not to take him home, and I don’t know how I feel about that. But I guess if I was cozy and warm, wrapped up in a thick wool peacoat, in this weather, I’d want to stay where I was at, too.
I glance at my watch. It’s late, after eleven.
I can see from here that the lights are all out in Mrs. Burnside’s place, which means she’s probably sleeping, and likely doesn’t know Houdini’s escaped again, and the last thing I want to do is wake her up.
I could easily bring him back over tomorrow morning.
I’m tired as hell, and judging how he’s purring and breathing, Pumpkin’s probably tired as hell, too. Lord knows how long he’s been out here.
An hour?
All night?
Since yesterday sometime?
Which means he’ll probably need something to eat, too.
Good thing I have a stash of cat food for emergencies.
I don’t even like cats, so I’m not sure how I ended up in this position, but I guess there’s no use in fighting it at this point.
“Okay, fine, you win,” I say as I turn back around, giving in to the heathen’s smug meow. I softly stroke Pumpkin’s head and ears with one finger. I notice it looks like one has a little chip or bite, though it’s not bloody.
“What did I tell you about picking fights with the other strays, huh?” I touch his ear gently and he mewls like I’ve truly scolded him. Like he knows he’s in trouble.
I sigh as I open my door with my free hand. The shrouding darkness is a familiar friend.
“It’s safer in here, you know.” I lock the door quickly.
“Less bullshit. Plus it’s warm, and I know your mama gives you lots of treats.
” Pumpkin cries some more, and I sigh. “Why would you even want to leave a place like that?” I scratch his head as I make my way to the kitchen to get him some food, but when I go to set him down on the floor, he meows loudly in protest. I roll my eyes again, but relent and bring him back to my chest, where he gets comfortable.
I struggle to open the can with one hand.
It’s difficult because my fingers are numb from the cold, but I manage.
Then I swish my finger into the slimy liquid and hold it out in front of his judgmental face.
Pumpkin eyes me skeptically, as if he doesn’t trust me, but within seconds, his sandpaper tongue is licking my finger and he seems to forget all my former transgressions.
I can’t help the faint smile that forms on my face as I settle him onto the counter.
He settles willingly and goes to town on his dinner, which makes me happy, but also sad, too.
He’s just a baby, and though this area isn’t as bad as some neighborhoods, it’s still dangerous.
He could get hit by a car, or attacked by a raccoon or…
Picked up by an aspiring serial killer. After all, they rarely start with humans.
I watch as tuna spreads over his nose, his whiskers. Even his paws.
Is that how my father started? Were his first victims sweet little kittens and animals who didn’t know any better? Who were just trying to survive in a big, scary world, alone?
Something in my chest tightens, and I feel the unrelenting wave of sadness at bay. I can’t say he did or didn’t, because I don’t know.
All I know is that not everyone is good natured or as pure of heart as others.
I push the sadness down, deep into the pit of my stomach and head for the living room, taking off my coat and hanging it on the coatrack at the end of the hall.
“Bon Appetit,” I grumble.
I drop onto my couch, kicking my boots off merely moments later, and the minute my ass hits the cushion, I swear Pumpkin materializes onto the couch beside me. He meows loudly in protest, like I’ve personally offended him somehow. Like he owns the damn place, instead of me.
“Oh, hush,” I bite, but that only makes him meow louder. At least it sounds like he gets louder. I have no actual proof except for the blaring of my ear drums.
“Eat your dinner.”
Pumpkin mewls, and I growl as I stomp into the kitchen to find his half eaten can of tuna. I grab it and stomp back into the living room, setting the can on the cushion in front of him.
“There.”
Pumpkin mews softly as I crash on the couch next to him, and he crawls over my lap, his claws digging into my shirt as he makes his way up my chest to my shoulder, where he curls up like I’m not a person, but a squishy pillow.
“Aren’t you hungry?” I ask in defeat.
His face nuzzles my neck, cold, slimy cat food spreading against my skin which makes me want to gag, but then I hear his purr and feel his steady breathing.
I sigh in annoyance, because even though I hate cats, I don’t hate the feeling of his warm little body seeking refuge here in the crook of my neck and shoulder. This little heathen with the bite out of his ear with an appetite for danger.
He fits in that spot perfectly. Like he’s supposed to be there. I gently brush my fingers over his head and pet him, his warmth and breathing along with his purrs comforting in a way I don’t expect.
This is not what I wanted to do tonight.
This is not what I need right now, but there’s a part of me that is tired of fighting, so I don’t.
“Sweet dreams, Pumpkin,” I say, closing my eyes as exhaustion hits me hard, and suddenly I can barely keep my eyes open.
And as I lay there on my couch, in the darkness with a cat purring against my neck, I let sleep drag me into wordless, warm submission.