4. Kane
KANE
Ispent the entire night tearing myself apart.
I sat on the edge of my bed in the dark, staring at the floorboards, beating myself up for letting her walk away. I had her right there in front of me, and instead of giving her a reason to stay, I sounded like a maniac.
Why do you want me to work for you?
That was her question. A simple, normal question. And what was I supposed to say?
Because I can see the universe of pain in your eyes? Because I want to build a fence around you and keep you safe for the rest of your life? Because your fake smile is breaking my fucking heart, and I want to eliminate whatever threat forced you to run to my town?
Yeah. That would have gone over great. She would have run even faster.
The image of her face when that phone rang haunts me. One second she was teasing me, her dimples showing, her eyes bright with victory. The next, the color drained from her skin, leaving her looking like a ghost. From sunshine to a dark, starless sky in half a second flat.
I crank the wheel of my truck, turning onto Main Street as the morning sun barely clears the jagged mountain peaks. I’ve been driving around Forge Creek for an hour, looking for her beat-up sedan. I’m not letting her slip through my fingers again today.
As I pass the local diner, a flash of faded blue catches my eye in the back corner of the lot.
My heart slams into my ribs.
Her car is tucked behind the dumpster, out of sight from the street. I pull my truck in right beside it, killing the engine. Through the tinted rear glass, I can make out a shape stretched across the backseat.
I step out of the truck, my boots silent on the gravel, and look through the side window.
She’s asleep. Cuddled into a ball on the torn fabric of the backseat, wrapped in a thin blanket that isn't nearly warm enough for a mountain morning. Next to her is a case of cheap bottled water, a stack of food wrappers, and a single flat pillow.
She’s living in her car.
A wave of pure, scorching rage hits me so hard my vision spots with red.
Not at her—never at her—but at myself for not realizing it sooner, and at whatever bastard forced her into this position.
She’s been sleeping in an ancient car, defenseless, in the cold, while I’ve been sleeping in a warm cabin up on the ridge.
Before my brain can step in and calculate the tactical risk, my hands take over.
I grab the handle of the rear door. It’s unlocked, which only deepens my anger. I yank it open, reach into the backseat, slide one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, and scoop her out into the cool morning air.
"What the—!" Marlowe awakens with a violent start, her small hands instantly flailing. She gasps, kicking against my chest, her fingers clawing at my shoulders. "Get off me! Let me go!"
A soft, terrified whimper rips from her throat, and the sound hits me like a bullet.
Fuck.
I immediately lower her, setting her feet gently on the gravel and stepping back two full paces, raising my hands to show her they’re empty. "It's me. It's Kane."
Her back hits the side of her car, her chest heaving as she stares at me, wide-eyed and trembling like a leaf.
"What the hell is wrong with you?!" she shrieks, her voice tight with embarrassment and sheer panic.
"You can't just wrench open doors and yank people out of cars!
Is this a normal Thursday morning activity for you?
'Oh, look, a sleeping woman, let me just haul her into the wild like a sack of potatoes'! "
Defiance flares in her eyes, sharp and blazing, but beneath it, I see the exposed vulnerability. Marlowe lifts her hand to the left side of her ribcage, wincing slightly as she presses down. Jesus, did I hurt her?
I swallow hard, hating myself. I scared her. Possibly hurt her. The one thing I swore I’d never do, and I did it within five seconds of seeing her.
“Are you okay? I didn’t mean to–”
“Fine! Totally great. Aside from, you know, being ripped out of my vehicle by a grumpy stranger.”
My gaze darts from her face to her hand, and back into those green eyes that hide so much. “Are you hurt? Did I…?”
“You can’t damage me that easily,” Marlowe replies, her sass in full bloom.
I narrow my eyes at her, thinking of what, or more troubling, who, could have hurt my precious girl.
"You shouldn't be sleeping here," I rumble, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. It’s a far cry from how I want to yell at her to get her ass in my truck and let me take care of her, but still not as friendly as I was hoping. Not that I know how to be friendly, but I’m trying.
Marlowe takes a deep, shuddering breath. She closes her eyes for three seconds. I watch in real-time as she shoves every ounce of terror, embarrassment, and anger down into a dark box, locking it away.
I get it. Fuck, do I get it. I have plenty of demons imprisoned in the pitch black corners of my soul. Still, I hate the fact that she’s experienced enough trauma at her young age to have acquired that coping mechanism.
Who are you, Marlowe? What are you running from? What happened to make you this desperate when you’re just starting out in life?
Our obvious age gap should be like a cold bucket of water over my head.
Instead, molten lava courses through my veins as I think about how much she needs a protector.
A safe place. A home where she can be free to explore her interests and grow.
She deserves that. Not a life lived in survival mode.
I know from experience, that’s no life at all.
I’m brought back to the present moment when Marlowe opens her eyes. She plasters a bright, dazzling smile across her face. My girl is convincing, I’ll give her that. But she knows her little act doesn’t work on me the same way it does with most everyone else in town.
"Well!" she chirps, her tone completely artificial as she smoothes down her rumpled shirt. "Let's pretend that didn't happen and start over. Good morning, Kane! You caught me taking a little early morning nap in my vehicle before heading inside to get a nice, big breakfast at Kincaid’s!"
She acts like everything is completely normal. Like there isn't a case of water and a blanket visible right behind her through the open door.
I want to call her out. I want to tell her I know she’s broke, homeless, and running for her life. I want to grab her, put her in my truck, take her up to my cabin, and lock the world out.
Instead, I hold her gaze, forcing my posture to settle. I nod slowly toward the diner entrance, sweeping my thick arm out.
"After you," I say.
Marlowe looks at me, then glances back at her car, then at the diner's glowing neon sign. I know she doesn't have a dime to her name. She knows it, too.
She hesitates for two painful seconds before pulling her shoulders back and stepping past me, heading for the front door.
I follow half a step behind her, my eyes dropping for a fraction of a second to the lush curve of her hips. I snap my head back up, my jaw tight, stepping up to open the door for her.
She’s getting a meal. She’s getting a job. And before this day is over, she’s getting a roof over her head. Whether she likes it or not.