Page 48 of Redline Baby

"I’m being financially responsible!" I say.

"Kit."

There it is. Just my name again. Heavy. The same way he said it at Redline last night before everything went wrong.

I feel tired. Really, really tired. Soren sees that too. His expression changes. Softens without turning pitying.

"I know why you're saying no," he says. That almost makes it worse. "You lost your job yesterday. I know."

My throat tightens.

"I know you don't know how you're going to make rent yet."

I look away.

"And I know the idea of somebody paying for you feels like another thing you've lost control of."

I stare harder at the race-bike photograph. He doesn't move closer. Doesn't touch me.

"Let me solve one problem."

My eyes burn unexpectedly. I hate that. I blink hard.

"I don't want to owe you." The words come out before I can stop them. Soren is silent for a moment.

"You won't."

"That's not how money works."

"I'm not talking about money,” he says, serious. I look at him. "You don't owe me access to you because I help you. You don't owe me obedience. You don't owe me a dynamic. You don't owe me affection. You don't owe me anything."

My chest hurts in an entirely different place now.

"I want you to get medical care because I care whether you're hurt. And if I pay for it, I'm paying for it because I decided that's what I wanted to do with my money."

I swallow.

"You make everything sound annoyingly reasonable."

"I work very hard at it."

That gets the smallest laugh out of me. Soren's eyes warm. At some point in the last several minutes, I don't know exactly when, my boot has stopped moving. The toe that had been tapping the rung of the stool since I sat down has simply gone still. My foot is flat against the metal. The tapping has stopped. I look down at it. Then at Soren.

He is watching me. Not my foot.

Me.

Chapter 14. Soren

The waiting room is all fluorescent misery. Hard plastic chairs bolted together in rows. Scuffed linoleum that was probably white once and is now a particularly miserable gray under lights bright enough to make everyone in here look ill. The air smells like antiseptic and floor cleaner. A TV mounted in the corner plays a muted weather segment, the meteorologist gesturing enthusiastically at a pressure system nobody in this room cares about. Across the aisle, a toddler in a stained shirt is stacking paper cups someone gave him to keep him quiet, building a tower that collapses and gets rebuilt, collapses and gets rebuilt.

I keep one hand near Kit's elbow as we cross to the intake desk. The intake nurse is a woman in her forties with her hair pulled back tight. She looks up from her computer screen as we approach.

"Name?"

"Kit Matthews," Kit says, and the performance snaps into place. His voice goes up half a register. Picks up speed. "Well, technically Christopher, but nobody's called me that since my third-grade teacher, and she's probably dead now, so let's stick with Kit."

The nurse types without looking up.