Page 47 of Kane

“Pumpkin…” I scoop him up and don’t bother trying to wake Mrs. Burnside. My fingers brush something hard and metal.

“Well would you look at that,” I say. “Looks like you’re official now.”

Pumpkin meows, but it’s sad. He buries his face in my coat.

“I know,” I say. “Change is hard.”

I let us into the house and close the door, but I don’t set him down.

This is becoming a frequent problem. I’m starting to get worried, not about Pumpkin, but about Mrs. Burnside. She’s usually better at keeping track of her cats. I make a point to talk to her about it tomorrow. If she needs help, I can help her, even if it’s just to make sure certain fluffy heathens don’t run wild.

I take off my coat, kick off my boots, and drop onto the couch.

The house is quiet, like it always is, but something is off.

“You’re being paranoid,” I tell myself, running a hand over my face. “Everything is fine. You’re just freaking out over nothing.”

Pumpkin curls up on the pillow next to me, flicking his tail as he gets comfortable.

I pull my phone out, glancing at the number I texted to myself. Ryder’s number.

Should I apologize? Say something? Or should I just wait until next week to see if I’ve been banned from the cafe for the foreseeable future?

I glance at Pumpkin.

“What would you do?” I ask, even though I know he doesn’t have the answer. He’s a cat.

I’m asking a fucking cat for advice.

Maybe Margie’s wrong. Maybe I am losing my mind.

I twist my lips as I stare at the number. It’s almost midnight.

I look back at Pumpkin. “You’re right. It’s late.”

Pumpkin yawns, exposing all his tiny teeth and then starts promptly licking himself. On my pillow.

I roll my eyes. “I guess I could take a shower. Probably not a bad idea.”

Pumpkin keeps licking away, ignoring me, so I get up and do just that.

It doesn’t take me long to get the water turned to the right temperature, and soon enough the bathroom is billowing with steam. I slowly remove my clothes, stepping into the spray.

The minute the hot water hits me, I feel like a spool of thread unraveling.

“Fuck,” I muter as I brace one hand against the tile. I hang my head, letting the hot water run through my hair, down my face.

I close my eyes and let out a low breath.

My mind races; fractured memories spliced with sapphires. I look up, catching my reflection in the shimmering tile and for a moment I swear, it’s almost like I can see Ryder in the reflection, same as I could in those steel walls.

My mind wanders to earlier; to what happened in that elevator, and my body responds of its own accord.

I shouldn’t do this to myself. I really shouldn’t. And if anything, I shouldn’t do it to Ryder.

I told him to wait, so what kind of hypocrite would I be if I didn’t lead by example?

Except, Ryder doesn’t know how often I’ve thought of him. He doesn’t know how many nights I laid in bed, wondering how his lips or his tongue would taste. He has no clue how many times I’ve imagined those plump lips and all the things I want to do to his tempting mouth.