Page 58 of Kane

There’s also a part of me that is tempted to say yes.

“It’d be nice to see a familiar face from time to time, you know.”

There’s a sweetness, a warmth in her voice that makes me feel guilty and ashamed, because I don’t know if I can do such a thing. Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t know how. I mean, I know how, but…

“Maybe,” I say. It’s the best I can do.

I scratch Pumpkin’s ears and tell him to be a good kitty before I make my way back over to my place.

After I’ve completed my workout, showered, and dressed in clean clothes, I shoot off a text to Carter to ask about the shelter, and if he knows anyone who might be interested in adopting a cat or kitten. I go through my emails, respond to my clients. Make myself something to eat. It’s what I’ve done for the last two years. But for some reason, today, it’s harder to focus than usual.

Because I can’t stop thinking about Eddy.

Or that weird memory of him and my dad, out on his… farm?

Who was Veronica and how did they know her? Why was my dad supposed to kill her? I have more questions than answers, and though I wish I could tell someone, I know I can’t, because I’m not even sure what there is to tell.

Everything feels so fractured and confusing. Not to mention it feels like the constant people in my life—as limited as they may be—are moving on to better things, and probably wouldn’t understand even if I did try to talk to them about all of this.

Carter has Nash.

Mrs. Burnside is moving in with her son, which is where she should be. I tell myself Eddy is a common enough name, it’s probably just my own anxiety and paranoia drawing parallels. My traumatized brain trying to reach for something to make it fit.

And then there’s Pumpkin. The little heathen.

He’s still a baby, and while everyone loves kittens and I’m sure he’d go in an instant at the shelter, the thought of putting him there makes me want to throw up. He has a hard enough time as it is and struggles to get along with the other cats because he’s scrappy and rambunctious. He had a rough start in life, and though he struggles, he’s loved and safe, and…

Taking that away feels cruel beyond all comparison. Even if it is for the purpose of finding him someone who will give him all the love and attention he deserves.

Why do I care? He’s not my fucking cat.

I don’t even like cats!

I shove the thought aside as best I can and try to focus on menial tasks. Emails. A few client sessions for my regulars who are off today. I put my attention into my orders, my commands, and doing what comes naturally for me. By the end of both sessions, my subs thank me for helping them, like they always do, but…

It feels empty. Why is that?

I spend the rest of the day combing through message boards and making posts about rehoming Mrs. Burnside’s seven cats, and just as I am about to put my phone down, I get a notification.

A text.

My heart swells more than it should when I see the name on the screen.

Ryder: Hey

It’s one word. Three fucking letters, but I can’t explain the relief that overcomes me when I read it.

I text him back immediately.

Kane: Hey. What’s up?

The little dots appear and reappear a few times before a text comes through.

Ryder: This place is deader than a graveyard today.

I chuckle as he sends me a skull and crossbones emoji.

Ryder: I think I might actually die of boredom.