Page 11 of Kane

As far as I’m concerned, Jasper is nothing to me.

“No,” I mutter solidly.

Margaret twists her lips, cocking her head to the side.

“Why not?”

Is she for real right now? I huff out an annoyed grunt, crossing my arms.

I glare at her. “You know why.”

Margaret remains poised, her expression solid, unwavering. She waits.

She’s patient.

It’s fucking annoying.

“It’s been two years, Kane.”

I grind my jaw. “I know how long it’s been. My mind hasn’t changed.”

I expect her to press me, to push me to talk about it, but to my shock, she doesn’t. Instead, she says something that actually takes me by surprise.

“And how is Carter?” she asks, switching gears, her tone lighter.

I sit up straighter in my chair, the leather squeaking. I swear the sound is like nails on a chalkboard.

But even hearing my friend’s name makes me feel a little lighter.

“Good, I guess. He’s been seeing someone. A cop.”

It’s the truth. Though Carter has been struggling like most of us—like me—for awhile, lately he’s been different. I don’t know if I’d say he’s happy, but he’s definitely not as quiet and he smiles a lot more.

Then again, getting laid will do that to a person, I hear. Not that I would know. I don’t remember the men I sleep with. Sex isn’t an easy thing for me, and the only way I can do it is if I’m drunk. Drinking shuts off the switch; which is why I try to stay in control as much as I can and avoid people. Relationships, hooking up…

But I fall off the wagon. More than I want to admit, especially to Margie. I’m sure she’d have a lot to say about that.

Margaret purses her lips. “And how do you feel about that?”

I shrug, looking away from her. “Doesn’t matter how I feel. It’s not my life.”

“Of course it matters, Kane,” she says evenly. “He’s your friend. He’s needed you, and now he may not need you.”

Her words slice through me like knives, unearthing the sharp-toothed, venomous monster within me. Her words hurt.

“No, it doesn’t!” I snap. “None of this fucking matters.” I feel the anger fester, boiling to the surface.

Fuck!

I punch the air as my face heats.

“Is there something you’d like to talk about instead?” she asks, apathetic and even-toned, which only pisses me off more.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her about Unknown. To tell her I fell off the wagon last week. That I can’t sleep because every time I do, I have the same nightmare, and it’s equally terrifying each time, and I don’t want to feel that horror over and over again. I want to be free.

I want to escape this prison that gets tighter and tighter every day.

But I don’t say any of that to Margie. I can’t. Because the minute I do, he wins the game, my father. The minute I admit he still has control over me after all these years, I become his thirteenth victim. And I refuse to let him win.