Page 13 of Kane

And of course, that’s the moment my stomach decides to remind me that I haven’t eaten anything except a bland cookie from Margaret’s office during our session.

I spent most of my day before at the library, trying to find what I could about Unknown, using what little info I have. Their username is still a string of anonymous letters and numbers, but they’ve listed their location. Of course, New York City encompasses a lot of places, but it’s still a start. But unfortunately, there was not much to dig up, even with my limited hacker skills. Robbie was so much better at this shit. Why did he have to be an idiot?

My stomach growls again, and I glance at my watch, noting that group won’t start for almost another hour. I thought the walk would help; the rush of the cold, fresh air, focusing on something else to keep my mind distracted from the thought that I may never find Unknown—or my other potential siblings. Or Veronica, for that matter; whoever the hell she is.

Chapter Four

Kane

Maybe a sweet treat would help, I think to myself.

Even if it is to satisfy the hunger pangs and nothing else.

Jasper never allowed sweets in the house. Like the rest of my life with him, everything was structured, scheduled, and pre-planned, even our meals. It’s not that I couldn't have had something sweet then, but I would have had to ask for it, and honestly? I would have rather guzzled glass than ask Jasper for anything. Because that would mean I owed him, and I didn’t want to be in his debt. I never asked to be adopted. I never asked ‌him to send me to private schools or pay for expensive therapies, or to buy me the latest toys or tech. And as far as I’m concerned, he could never give me anything I wanted because the one thing I wanted was dead because of him.

No cake or cookie was ever going to change that, no matter how sweet it probably was.

Though now I don’t reach for sugar unless I’m drunk. For the most part, I try to eat healthy; stay in shape. I work out every day, usually first thing in the morning when I get up. Margaret says my working out is just another form of control. I think she’s full of shit, but what do I know? I’m not the one with the degree. I dropped out of Syracuse after my first semester because I’d only gone to placate Jasper, who insisted I needed to go to college to get a good job.

If only he could see what I do now. He’d probably have a heart attack, considering I make more than he does, and I don’t even have to leave my house.

Still, the smell of cinnamon and sugar is too much to ignore, and I can’t deny that I could go for a coffee right now, if only to warm up my insides after being exposed to the bitter cold and because the coffee group provides us tastes like leftover burned sludge. I rarely drink it because of that reason, opting instead to hold it to keep my hands warm because the heat in the room doesn’t always work right.

Besides, I think I deserve it after that disaster session with Margie. Maybe it will make me feel better.

So I follow the scent of cinnamon rolls and strong coffee, my footsteps echoing in the cavernous lobby. I don’t usually spend much time up here on the main floor, on account I usually head straight to the elevators and take them down to the floor where group meets. But some of the guys have tried the new cafe that opened up here about a month ago and said it’s pretty good, and it’s close, so I figure why the hell not. I glance at the coffee kiosk, at the sign that reads Nectar Coffee & Tea, and realize this is the first time I think I’ve ever actually explored the first floor. But I’ve got time to kill, and could use the distraction at the moment.

And then I look to where the barista is leaning over the counter, looking bored as shit as he scrolls through his phone. He’s young, judging by his features—primarily the clearness of his skin, his lack of facial hair, and the absence of fine lines. I’d say he’s probably in his early-twenties, if I had to guess. His stance is tight, yet there’s an air of apathy about him that I can’t quite ignore. He looks bored, but something tells me it’s more than just the job that has him so disinterested in the world around him.

Call it a hunch.

I walk up to the counter, waiting to see at what point he’ll move. If he’ll pull himself from his doomscrolling and address me. But he doesn’t. It’s like he doesn’t even see me. Like he’s lost in his own little world.

I clear my throat, the sound bold and direct. The sound of my grunt, low and deep, bordering a growl, echoes in the space between us.

He looks up from his phone, and I swear I’m looking into the prettiest pair of deep blue eyes I have ever seen. I’ve seen a lot of eyes in my thirty-seven years of life, but I’ve never seen eyes such a deep shade of blue before. They almost remind me of sapphires; of Mama’s blue velvet dress that she’d wear sometimes when we needed to get dressed up. Not that we did that often; I can only remember getting all gussied up twice in my life. Once for a funeral, and once when Mama took me to see a play downtown. Phantom of The Opera, I think it was. Though I can’t be sure, it was a long time ago, and most of my childhood memories that I do remember are sort of hazy and vague at best. But as I look into those deep, vast pools of sapphire, I can’t deny something inside of me awakens; something foreign but familiar at the same time. I take in the sight of him; of his youthful innocence juxtaposed with an intriguing darkness.

His complexion is fair; a hauntingly beautiful contrast to his deep blue eyes and dark brown hair. I don’t miss the way he checks me out; the way his gaze drifts from my eyes to my mouth, or the quick glance that dips lower before rising back up to meet mine.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his voice smooth and decadent like sweet icing.

There’s an intrinsic desire; a spark, if you will, that wants to ignite within me. Part of me wants to tell him yes, I know precisely what I want.

Him.

Or more specifically, to watch the pupils of those big, sapphire eyes dilate, while my cock disappears between his plump, perfect lips. Because I’m a fucked up asshole who can only be with strangers whose names I’ll forget in the morning along with the memory of any pleasure.

The urge to switch on that persona—the bold, dominant part of me that knows how to command, how to get exactly what I want, at least when it comes to boys like him—boys I can break and put back together again piece by piece—is tempting. But that isn’t why I came here, and though I know it would be far too easy to let go, to give in, I can’t bring myself to do it.

But I want to.

More than I should.

Maybe if we were anywhere else—a cafe in the city or a bar, or a club—I wouldn’t think twice about flirting with him, about telling him exactly what I want him to do to me. Something tells me he would like that. Call it Master’s Intuition. But this place, this building, is sacred. It’s my sanctuary, the one place I can be myself, even if it is only in bits and pieces. I don’t need to taint the one good thing I have with memories of mistakes I shouldn’t be making in the first place at my age.

For an hour or two, every Tuesday, here in these walls, I can just be Kane. The guy who lost his mom and misses her more than anything. Who wishes he could have stepped up and saved her. Who holds onto the smallest bit of hope that one day he’ll know true happiness, even if it seems elusive at best. Maybe it’s a pipe dream, but it’s better than a nightmare on repeat.

I steal a glance at Mr. Cute Barista’s name tag, noting his name and its rather unique spelling.