Page 10 of Kane

Yeah, I’m not in the mood for direct and brash today. Not in the least.

“Like shit,” I mutter.

If I sleep at all. Which I haven’t been able to do much lately, because the nightmares usually leave me exhausted.

“How much sleep would you say you’re getting? Eight hours? Six? More? Less?”

I know the right answer is eight hours, but truthfully, I’m lucky if I get half of that. No matter where I move, or whoever’s bed I end up in, I can barely get a few hours of sleep. And it’s even worse in my own place.

Nothing helps. Not medication, not sex, not drugs. Alcohol takes the edge off a little bit sometimes, but usually it takes a lot, and I end up waking up more because I have to pee like a racehorse. Which doesn’t help my no-sleeping problem.

So instead, I pass the midnight hours by working. Serving clients, perusing the Kinktastic boards. Sometimes I watch television or doomscroll. Read. Bake cake at two am. Anything to work out the anxious energy.

“Enough to do my job,” I tell her. Technically, Margie knows what I do, but she thinks I keep regular hours like her. I don’t. I work when I want to. My clients schedule their appointments, and most of them are regulars with day jobs, so our sessions take place at night, which is great because I don’t sleep much, and it definitely helps pass the time. And pays pretty well.

Better than most of the jobs I’ve had, to tell the truth.

In fact, my job might be the only thing that actually brings me some semblance of joy. I like what I do. I like helping people, even if that help is something most people wouldn’t understand. There’s a sort of rhythm and comfort in what I do. People need me to help them make sense of things. They need me to help them let go. They need me to keep them accountable. And yes, they need me to get off, sometimes, too. But most of the time, it’s less about that and more about finding the order they crave to feel like they aren’t a crumbling mess, and I know what that’s like more than anyone.

“And how is work?” she asks plainly, like we’re talking about the weather.

Which would be a lot easier of a topic, honestly. I’m not ashamed or embarrassed about talking about what I do. But today, I’m just feeling out of sorts, I guess. I don’t know why.

Well, maybe I do, but I don’t want to dig into that right now.

I would rather keep Unknown unknown where Margie is concerned—for now. Besides, it’s not like I know much anyway.

“Work is fine.”

Margaret clasps her hands in her lap. I wait for her to press me, but she doesn’t. Which is… odd.

Maybe she’s having an off day, too.

“And Jasper?”

I scoff. “What about him?”

“Have you spoken with him since we last talked?”

I shake my head. I should have known if I was curt, Margaret would bring up this shit. The shit I would rather not talk about.

It’s been two years—two years since I found that file, and Jasper lied to my face when I asked him if he knew anything about my dad maybe having other kids.

Of all the people in the world who I thought I could trust, the one I trusted more than anyone looked me stone cold in the eye and said it wasn’t possible.

Not that it might not be possible, just a hard, resounding no in a tone that said the conversation was over, and that was the end of that.

So I left.

I packed my shit and headed as far away from the city as I could, somewhere Jasper wouldn’t have any jurisdiction, and didn’t even leave a note.

He calls me once a week, leaves a voicemail. I never listen to them, though. I delete them as soon as they come in.

Jasper Carson failed me in more ways than he helped me.

He couldn’t keep my mother alive. He couldn’t keep my father in prison.

And he couldn’t tell me the truth when it mattered the most.