Page 18 of Kane

“Thank you,” I manage to force out, but the words sound a little too high pitched, and I feel like I’m in high school passing a note to my crush or something.

I clear my throat, realizing that this is it. This is where we part our ways.

The words come naturally, as he backs away slowly, sipping his coffee, but his gaze remains steadfast on mine.

“Come again.” I mutter the words as politely as I can, but I can’t help how dirty they sound, or the thoughts that fill my brain after I say them.

Kane licks his lips as he nods at me. It takes much more concentration than I want to admit, to wave goodbye to Kane, to act like a normal, well-adjusted person. And as I watch him walk towards the end of the hall, towards the elevators, a new spark ignites inside of me because something tells me I will see him again.

I’m sure of it.

Chapter Six

Kane

“Does anyone else have anything they would like to add?” Tim asks, his voice distant, even though he’s only a few seats away from me.

The room is packed tonight; most of the regulars are here, including Carter, Hunter, Jackson, and a few other folks I’ve seen from time to time who don’t talk much, but sit and listen, like I do. But there are also a lot of new people—some younger, some older, and though I normally would say a few words—carefully curated, of course—to help welcome the newbies, I can’t seem to focus on anything tonight. Well, that’s a lie—I can focus. Just happens to be the only thing I can focus on is a tempting little blue-eyed barista.

Ryder.

The logical part of me thinks his flirtation was nothing more than a ploy to get a good tip; which I did give him, of course. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s flirted with me for a tip. It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s into me, or even into guys, period. I’ve worked with enough straight guys to know some aren’t above such things, not if it is the difference between rent that month and sleeping on the bench in the park. But this felt different. For a minute, it felt like we were almost friends. Or that we could be friends, or something like that. I don’t know how to describe it, it’s just a… feeling. Like even though we don’t know each other, somehow it feels like we do.

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, though. Brought on by the guilt and loneliness, no doubt. Even if he did do it for a little extra cash, I didn’t tip him an extra few bucks because I thought he was cute. Though he probably thinks that’s the reason, and I wouldn’t blame him. Maybe it should have been.

No, I’m just messed up enough that I tipped Ryder because I liked talking to him. It felt easy, natural even. I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation with someone that wasn’t a part of my small circle—Margie, Carter, the guys, Mrs. Burnside, and about seven cats—who genuinely made me feel… not miserable.

Still, no matter how creepy or stalkerish it might sound—which I know it does—I feel like something clicked, like a lightbulb has been turned on, except I don’t know where it is in the house, because everything is still dark. That reason alone should make me want to steer clear of the guy at all costs, but it doesn’t. Quite the opposite, actually.

I’m already considering coming out tomorrow just to see if he’s working —discreetly, of course, because I don’t want to make things weird. I should have asked him when he worked next, but I was too distracted by his gorgeous peepers, so I fucked that up. Now the only option I have is to swing by and see if he’s working or ask one of the other baristas when he’s working so I can come back when he is.

Yeah, that totally doesn’t sound stalker-ish, Kane.

Christ on a cracker.

I shake my head, trying to dispel my overanalytical thoughts, when I hear someone call my name.

“Huh?” I look to my right, to Tim, who’s sitting in his chair, patiently, his gaze on me. Though it’s not sharp or hard. It’s softer, warmer. The kind of stare that makes you want to talk and let your secrets out, but some secrets are better kept inside, I think.

Mine certainly are.

“How about you, Kane?” Tim’s voice cuts through my thoughts, dispelling all images of pretty young men and sexy smirks. “Do you have anything you’d like to share with the group today?” He looks at me with that same resting patience that he always does, like he’s got all day and not another twenty minutes or so. I have to envy the guy sometimes; I’m sure running a group for survivors dealing with guilt and trauma from all walks of life is a lot, but he never looks like it’s getting to him, or like what we talk about here is too much.

I wish I could be like that—wish that I could just manage my thoughts, my trauma, my fucked up shit like it’s a piece of clothing I can put on and take off, but that’s just not the case.

When I started coming here—purely because I’d just happened to stumble upon it on my way back from the bar one night—I never intended on staying. Not after that first night, honestly. I was drunk when I walked in, and Tim should have definitely called the cops on my ass, but he didn’t.

He just introduced himself, gestured to an open chair, and said if there was something I wanted to say, I’d have to wait until Oliver finished what he was saying. But there I was, one week later, on my way to the bar, and Carter was there, sitting on the bench outside the subway station when I got off. He looked terrified, paler than a ghost, and I was half-concerned he’d turned into an actual icicle. I could have kept walking. I didn’t owe him anything, after all he probably didn’t even remember my drunk ass crashing his party the week before. But I recognized that look of fear etched on his face, and so I asked him if he was okay. I didn’t expect him to be honest, but something about that honesty made me reconsider my plans that night. I walked him out of the subway, all the way to the building, and when it came time to go, I stayed. I didn’t say anything, though. But I sat there, and I listened to Carter, and the guys, and Tim, and suddenly it was nine and I was walking Carter to the subway station where I’d found him. That was three years ago.

Sometimes I think the only reason I keep coming here is because Carter does. At least when I come here, and when we sometimes hang out afterwards, I can breathe a little easier. Even when we go to the bar, grab a beer, I don’t drink as much. We don’t talk about anything interesting, either. Just small talk, mostly. Or sometimes, when the discussion’s been intense, we talk through stuff. Hearing his story—about how he lost his boyfriend, his guilt about not being able to save him, and the case going cold—in some weird, twisted way, it makes me feel like at least there is one person in the world who knows what this pain is like. Even if he doesn’t entirely know the reason for it. For now, that’s enough for me to keep coming, I guess. Camaraderie, even as facilitated as it is, is enough to make me feel like a normal person for a little bit.

“Nope,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “Nothing new going on here.”

Tim blinks, waiting a few seconds because he obviously knows I’m bullshitting him. I don’t usually tell him no, at least not when we’ve got new blood or first timers. But I’m not in the mood to talk tonight. What I am in the mood for is a cold beer and a good edging while I think about Ryder and how perfect his mouth would look wrapped around my cock.

But I digress.

Thankfully, Tim doesn’t press me, and I breathe a sigh of relief internally. He nods as he gets up, addressing the room with the same poise and warmth he always does no matter what.