Page 59 of Redline Baby

We take half a step to the side, and she looks directly into my eyes.

"Kit hasn't been to therapy in over a month. And now he's avoiding me. I know he's been talking about you, and that you helped him after the crash, so you're my last hope. He doesn't listen to any of us."

Her hands come together in front of her, fingers interlacing, knuckles pressing against each other hard enough that the skin whitens. She doesn't look down. Doesn't break eye contact.

"I'm worried," she says. "I've tried talking to him. He deflects. You know how he is. He's very good at it. And I—"

She stops.

"I don't know how to reach him without making him run. And I'm afraid if he runs again, he'll run somewhere I can't follow. I know he was fired, but he's already paid for all these sessions in advance. He needs it, Soren. He really does."

"I'm worried too," I say. "I've been watching him do exactly this since I walked in tonight. I'll talk to him."

She smiles, relieved. We both turn at the same time. Kit is still at the bar. Bottle in his good hand, head thrown back in a laugh. His bandaged arm rests on the bar top. And I know this isn't how he behaves when he's at ease. Because I've seen him at ease with me.

His boot heel taps against the barstool rung.

Tap.

Tap-tap.

Tap.

Tap-tap-tap.

His knee bounces.

"He needs to go to therapy and take his meds as prescribed," Allie says quietly. "I don't know if he's doing either one. When Charles was with him, he kept Kit on track with his meds and therapy. Now..."

I raise my eyebrows at that. A lot of how Kit works makes sense now. I watch him for a full ten seconds. The laugh. The gesture. The bandaged arm. The tapping heel. The way his eyes scan the room between sentences, quick and restless, mapping exits the way he always does. The performance.

Allie is watching him too.

Her arms are crossed now, and she has the look of someone who loves a person enough to see through them and hates having to.

"She's going to discharge him," she says quietly. "His therapist. If he doesn't show up for the next scheduled appointment, she's closing his file. He knows that. I told him." A pause. "He laughed."

I nod once.

Tap.

Tap-tap.

Tap.

I push away from the wall.

I reach the bar and place my hand on Kit's shoulder. His laugh cuts off mid-note. His head turns. His eyes find my face, scanning quickly, reading for intent. Whatever he finds there makes him stop.

"Hey," he says. His voice lands in the bright register, the one he uses for strangers and deflections. "If you're here to tell me my tab's getting ambitious, I have a very compelling speech prepared."

The grin accompanies it. I don't take the bait. I keep my hand on his shoulder and my voice level.

"We should find somewhere quieter."

It's not a question. His grin disappears. Fast.

"Sure," he says, quietly. “Quieter's good."