Chapter Ten
Kane
I used to dread Tuesdays like the plague because I knew Tuesdays meant therapy and group, which meant it was the hardest day of the week.
But now, Tuesdays are different. Because every Tuesday, at precisely five-oh-five pm, I walk through the doors and head to Nectar to get my weekly fix. And I’m not talking about the caffeine, or the sugar.
I just have to stomach therapy sessions with Margie for an hour, and then I get my reward.
Coffee and a cinnamon roll.
Pristine blue eyes and devilish smirks.
It’s been over a month, and though I have thought about asking him out on multiple occasions, every time I consider it, something gets in the way. A client or a new customer coming in, or there’s a line, or…
Something.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s the universe’s way of deterring me; of telling me that this mild obsession is too much and I should just forget about it. Forget about Ryder and focus on myself. On therapy, on work, on finding Unknown. Which Margie still doesn’t know about.
I don’t know if it’s worth bringing it up at this point, since I feel like it’s starting to be a fruitless endeavor.
Unknown hasn’t messaged me back. Though they are online a lot. I see their green dot, get a notification every time they are online. I swear they’re on there almost as much as I am, but yet…
Nothing.
Maybe Unknown has decided they don’t want to be found, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I’ve spent nearly two years searching records and files, even hired an off-the-books PI last year and paid him a hefty sum to stay as under the radar as he could to avoid Jasper finding out I was digging into his case.
After his refusal to hear me, to tell me the truth, I’m not sure he isn’t hiding something, but finding out what it is isn’t going to be easy, I know that.
Especially after the PI didn’t come up with much more than I did.
No Veronica.
No phone records.
No thirteenth victim.
“How are your nightmares?” Margie asks, her voice even as usual.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. “Still hanging around like the plague.”
Margie folds her hands in her lap.
“What do you see in these nightmares?”
I blink, taken back by the question. When I first started seeing Margie, we talked about my nightmares, but when she first asked me to describe them, I shut down. We haven’t talked about them in detail since.
I think about her question, but before I can answer her she says, “It may help you process things, might even trigger your memory.”
Her words are bait, and I know that, but…
I find myself taking it like the starving fish I am.
“Mostly that night,” I say carefully.
“The night your mother was murdered.”
It’s the way she says the words, so plainly. So nonchalantly. Detached.
I get it. It’s her job to be professional and detached, so she can help me sort through my shit. But something about the emptiness in the way she says it, strikes me deeper than it should.
“Yes,” I say, shifting again in my seat. “It’s like I’m right back there again, but—”
I look up at the clock, noting I still have at least fifteen minutes left.
Fifteen minutes too long, in my opinion.
“But what?”
“Sometimes things change. Little things, like… sometimes when the door opens it’s not Jasper. It’s—”
I don’t have to say his name for Margie to understand. She nods.
“And what happens when you see him?”
I look at my hands.
“I don’t know. I usually wake up then.”
My stomach flips as my throat tightens and I look out the window. It’s a gloomy day out. Cold. Rainy.
“Do you have somewhere else you need to be?” she asks carefully.
“Huh?”
“You keep looking at the clock.”
I tense at her words, trying to refrain from looking at the clock, because now I feel more of an urge to look. To see how much time I have left before I can escape this conversation.
“Is it a client?” she asks.
I could tell her the truth, but I’m not sure I want to. Especially because Ryder is so close. I don’t want to share Ryder with her. I want Ryder all to myself, and I know that’s a problem.
I barely even know him.
Sure, I know him in the sense I see him every week, know he likes mushroom coffee and brownies, and he works until close every Tuesday.
But I don’t know him. Not beyond our limited interactions to which might only be because I’m a paying customer. Though something tells me it’s more than that. And that something is what feeds my attraction, my obsession.
Every wink, every smile, every smirk feels deliberate. Like it’s personal, meant for me.
“Yes,” I lie. Because lies are easy to tell. The truth, not so much.
Margie nods, accepting my lie. She has no reason not to. So I continue, carefully choosing my words.
“I scheduled an appointment between our session and therapy.”
“Why would you do that?”
I shift in my chair, my foot bouncing.
“Reschedule. I try to be accommodating.”
“And this client… are they a regular?”
I shake my head. “No. First timer.”
She nods. “I see. And this… client. Are they younger, older? Male, female?”
It’s just details, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s not a name or a profile, or anything like that. I could be talking about anyone, so I relent and answer her as casually as I can.
“Younger. Male.” I clear my throat.
“Is that a common occurrence for you?” she asks, spinning in her chair. “Do you often get young men seeking your services?”
I think about her question, chewing my lip. I debate how to answer, but settle on the truth because I could be talking about any one of my clients.
“No.”
“How do you feel about serving a younger man?”
It’s the way she says that one word—serving. Like she can see right through my little act, even though I know that’s impossible.
There’s a pause; an awkward silence as I think about her question.
Do I want to serve Ryder?
I can’t deny that the thought is appealing, and I’ve certainly thought about such things—usually at night, when I can’t sleep.
I allow myself the thoughts, but I don’t allow myself to submit to them fully.
It doesn’t feel right. Coming to the thought of watching my cock disappear in his mouth, or between his ass cheeks, watching his skin pinken with blush… without his consent feels wrong.
So I let myself feel the lust, but I don’t give in. I can’t.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “He seems like a… nice guy.”
Margie smiles faintly. “And what is wrong with that?”
I blink, but before I can answer her, I see the big hand hit the twelve and I know our time is up.
I’m up faster than a jackrabbit, my coat on in seconds.
“See you next week,” I say, making no point to stay to answer her. Every second counts as I spring towards the building, towards my sanity.
The smell of coffee relaxes me as I make my way to the kiosk, spotting Ryder immediately, cleaning the countertop. The rainy, grey light shines through the windows, casting shadows on him, and I swear he looks almost aetherial.
“Evening, Ryder,” I say politely, though there’s nothing polite about the way I take in the sight of him. His gaze drifts up to mine, those vast blue eyes searching mine in return.
“Hey,” he says, clearing his throat as he stops his wiping. “Kane.”
I love the way he says my name, and I can’t deny I’ve fantasized precisely about all the ways I could make him say it. All the tones and timbres that could escape that beautiful mouth of his.
My gaze drifts to his plump lips, and my stomach growls; but I am not hungry for food. I mean, I am, but…
I brace my hands on the counter; the only thing that separates us.
Sometimes I think about leaning over this counter and grabbing his precious neck, and tasting him myself. Other times I think of answering his “what can I get you?” with “you, here, right now,” like some cringey actor in a porno.
Which is not like me. At all.
His gaze flickers to my lips so quickly, I almost miss it. He turns away, hiding his blush, pretending to wipe the counter behind him, because I note the rag never actually touches the surface.
I can’t help but smile, because the sight, the motion… it’s just… so pure.
And his skin looks so beautiful with that blush.
“Hope your day was better than mine,” I say as I pretend not to notice how he hides those pretty pink cheeks.
Like he’s ashamed of them, or like they are a nuisance.
If only I could be honest and tell him that’s precisely why I like it.
Because his body can’t help the way it reacts to me, and I find that quite tempting and intriguing.
“I’ve had better,” he says, finally turning back around. Sadly the pink tint in his cheeks has disappeared.
“Don’t tell me you ran out of mushroom coffee.” I give him a smirk of my own as I lean over the counter, propping my leg for weight distribution. The motion makes the cuffs of my coat rise, showing off my hand tattoos.
Technically, I am covered from the neck down to my waist, but most people rarely see that. Aside from my physician, and the occasional client, that is.
I note the way Ryder glances at my fingers, at the back of my hand. My wrist.
“See something you like?” I tease him, though the words are more of a double entendre than they should be. Not that he knows that.
“I like this one.” He points to the decayed rose in the center of my left hand. His finger gently grazes the top, almost af if he is unsure or that the touch itself was accidental.
But I like it, nonetheless.
“You can touch it,” I say carefully. “I don’t bite.”
Not unless you beg me to.
I have to stifle the image that thought produces, because the moment I feel the tip of his finger, tracing the thorny vines from the rose, my entire body tenses and a shiver runs up my spine.
Ryder gently traces the vines, gazing down at my hand, until his fingers come to the end of the vine over my middle finger, and then they trail over my 13.
I tense as his fingers smoothly graze my skin.
“Fan of Jason or something?” he asks, his voice strangely soft, warm.
Distracted in a way that feels almost vulnerable.
I stare at his finger, reveling in the warmth of his touch. It’s soft.