Chapter 15
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Booker
Sleep eluded me. A persistent anxiety kept me awake, even though I know for a fact that we wiped out all of Jerome's muscle.
There's a missing piece to this puzzle that's completely eating away at me.
I'm certain Jerome and Patrick will get what's coming to them once Rip, Icer, and Indiana get back from Pokey's send-off, but the lingering dread won't let up.
I start a checklist and mark them off one by one.
Nothing stands out as glaringly obvious, so I wonder if my paranoia has taken root and refuses to leave.
The ceiling tiles blur in the darkness. Sleep stays just out of reach.
Every time I shut my eyes, I’m back at that perimeter, hearing the roar of the fire and the scream of the engine.
We wiped out Jerome’s crew. Every last one.
But it feels too clean. That’s what gnaws at me.
I’ve been over the raid a thousand times in my head.
We got Kendall out. We got the kid. Everything went according to the plan, but something sits wrong in my gut.
I pace the small room, the floorboards creaking under my weight.
I’m hunting for the flaw in my logic. Maybe I missed a guy in the conflagration of fire.
Maybe a call went out that we didn't intercept. I run through the list again, ticking off the names, the positions, the timing. Nothing jumps out as a failure. I stare at the wall and think about the syndicate. Are they really done? Or are they just regrouping, waiting for us to lower our guard? It feels like we’re standing on a trapdoor and we haven't noticed the latch yet.
“It's done,” I mutter to the empty room, reminding myself of that fact.
My voice sounds thin. It doesn't convince me. I rub my face with my palms and sit on the edge of the bed. I’m probably just tired.
I want to believe that, but my instincts are screaming that the danger isn't gone.
It's just shifting its shape. I pick up the notepad again and start to scratch out the names of the Dragon members we know are neutralized. I need to see it on paper. If I'm missing a threat, it’s hiding in the gaps. I’ll find it before it finds us.
A soft, tentative knock startles me, and I’m on my feet in a heartbeat.
I yank on the jeans I kicked aside last night while trying to sleep.
“Give me a second!” I call out, pulling on socks to dodge the bite of the cold floor.
I trudge across the room, turn the lock, and pull the door open. “Kolter. You alright, son?”
“You said if I needed anything I could come to your room, right?” he asks, shuffling from one foot to the other.
“That’s right, I did. And I meant it. What can I do for you, kiddo?”
“Am I allowed to have breakfast? Have I earned it?” he probes, his face full of fear as he asks me this.
The question hits me like a physical blow.
I stare at him, feeling the air turn cold.
The idea that he thinks he has to trade labor for a bowl of cereal makes my blood boil.
Jerome really broke him, bit by bit. I want to hunt that bastard down in the catacombs and feed him my fists, but I shove the anger into a dark corner of my mind. I can't let him see that kind of rage.
I crouch down to meet his gaze. “Kolter, listen to me closely.” I keep my voice steady.
“You never have to ask for food again. You don’t earn it.
You don’t trade for it. You’re hungry, you eat.
That’s the rule here.” He shifts his weight, his eyes wide and uncertain.
“Breakfast isn’t a reward,” I continue, trying to soften the edge of my tone.
“It’s just breakfast. You’re safe now. I’m not Jerome, and we aren't playing his games. You want to eat, you go to the kitchen, and you grab what you want. You get me?” He nods once, though he still looks like he's waiting for the hammer to drop. I reach out and ruffle his hair, feeling how thin his head is beneath my palm. “Come on. Let’s go find something to eat.”
We walk past the room he shares with Kendall, and I notice the door is slightly open. “Mom’s still sleeping. I didn’t want her waking up and getting afraid that I wasn’t there, so I left it cracked. That way she’d know I just slipped out for a second,” Kolter offers in a small voice.
His reasoning hits me like a kick to the gut.
He’s already strategizing how to manage her reactions, terrified of being the trigger for her alarm.
It’s a survival mechanism, hammered into him by a bastard who forced him to shoulder the emotional weight of everyone in his life.
It makes me sick. He should’ve learned how to be a kid, not how to move through a room without making a sound.
“That’s real considerate of you, Kolter,” I respond, though I have to grit my teeth to keep my tone level. “But you don’t have to stress about that here. Your mom knows you’re safe, and she knows you’re coming right back.”
He glances up, scanning my face for a hidden agenda. “She won’t be angry?”
“She won’t be mad,” I confirm, my chest tightening. I gently nudge the door shut until it clicks, blocking the view of the bed. “And from now on, you don’t have to keep watch over anyone’s sleep but your own. You hear me?”
He nods, though he keeps a hand near his side as if waiting for a strike that isn't coming. I let it go for now. I can’t fix years of hell in ten minutes, but I can make sure his next meal doesn't come with a side of trauma.
I guide him toward the kitchen, my hand resting on his shoulder, firm and steady.
“Let's go,” I murmur, “and don't worry about the door. It's time for you to just be a boy.”
I guide him to the kitchen through the main room that’s luckily empty. Usually, men are passed out from a drunken stupor and I’m not sure he’s ready to see that just yet. He’s still adjusting to not having to have his every move dictated for him.
“Do you like cereal or would you like scrambled eggs and toast? Those are your only options since I’m not familiar with a kitchen.” I tease as I go through the pantry to see what brands we have in stock. We usually have a wide variety since Elodie eats here sometimes before her school day begins.
Kolter stands by the island, watching me like I’m handling a bomb.
He doesn’t answer right away. I start digging through the cabinets, pushing aside boxes of protein bars and half-empty bags.
I pull out a carton of eggs from the fridge and a loaf of bread from the counter so he sees there’s options and he gets to make the final decision.
“Cereal’s easier,” I admit, tossing a box of flakes on the counter. “But eggs are better for you. You pick. I’m not gonna bite.”
He looks at the carton, then back to the cereal. “Eggs sound good, I think.”
I nod. “Eggs it is.”
I fumble with the frying pan. It’s been ages since I cooked anything more complicated than heating up leftovers. I crack an egg against the rim, and a stray piece of shell slips in. I fish it out with my finger, cursing under my breath. Kolter’s eyes widen.
“You’re doing fine,” I praise, catching his look. “It just takes a minute to get the hang of it.”
“I can help,” he offers quietly. “Jerome always made me cook his meals.”
The air in the room stills. I set the spatula down, feeling that familiar, ugly rage pulse at the back of my neck. I turn to face him, my expression neutral, forcing the heat out of my eyes.
“Not here, Kolter,” I insists, keeping my voice low. “You’re done with that. From here on out, you’re just a guest. You don’t cook for anyone, and you don’t clean up after anyone. You’re just a kid again. You get that?”
He looks down, his hands clenching at his sides. “But what do I do?”
“You sit there,” I tell him, pointing to a stool. “You watch me struggle with these eggs, you laugh at how bad I am at it, and then you eat. That’s your only job for today.”
He stares at me, searching for the lie. When he doesn’t find one, a small, barely there smile touches his lips. It’s the first real spark I’ve seen in him.
“You’re really bad at it,” he mumbles.
I grin. “Told you. You’re gonna have to eat burnt toast or runny eggs, so don't blame me when your stomach hates me later.”
He actually giggles, a soft, rusty sound.
It’s not much, but it’s a start. Kendall comes skidding into the room, her hair resembling a rat’s nest as she pants, searching for her son.
She spots Kolter and the air leaves her lungs in a rush.
She takes a shaky step forward, her hands hovering as if she’s scared to break the fragile peace.
“I woke up and the bed was empty,” she blurts, her voice frayed. “I didn’t know where you went.”
I hold up a hand, keeping my movements slow so I don’t spook her. “It’s alright, Kendall. He’s fine. We’re just making breakfast.”
Kolter spins on the stool, his smile fading into concern when he sees her distress. “I’m okay, Mom. Booker’s showing me how to cook eggs.”
She looks from him to me, the frantic energy slowly draining from her frame as she processes the scene. She lets out a tremulous breath, her shoulders sagging. “You’re really okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine, Mom,” Kolter replies, his voice gaining a bit of steady ground. Changing the subject, he makes fun of me by telling her, “He’s really bad at it, but he’s trying.”
I chuckle, scraping the messy eggs onto a plate. “See? I’m already getting roasted by the kid. That’s a sign I’m doing something right.”
Kendall walks over, her gaze still lingering on her son like she’s memorizing that he’s actually there. She reaches out and brushes a stray hair from his forehead, her touch trembling. “You scared me,” she admits, staring at him.
“I didn’t mean to,” Kolter whispers, looking down at his feet.
“It’s my fault,” I interject, sliding the plate of questionable eggs toward him. “I didn’t think he’d need to check in with you before grabbing a bite. Won’t happen again.”
She offers a weak, grateful smile. “Thank you.”
“Grab a seat,” I suggest, pulling another stool out for her with my foot. “There’s plenty.”
After a brief hesitation, she drops onto the stool, the last remnants of panic finally fading from her expression. It’s a minor triumph, but I’ll take what I can get. A playful smirk touches her lips as she looks at the food. “I don’t think that’s actually edible,” she teases.
Tossing my hands up in the air, I harrumph, “I suck at this.”
“Here, step aside master chef, let me help you,” she says as she walks around the counter and bumps my hip with hers. “You sit, I’ve got this.”
I do as she directs and watch her work her magic and fix what I screwed up.