17
Temperance
The next morning, I wake to an empty bed and tangled sheets that aren’t my own. It takes a moment of panic and confusion for me to remember where I am.
With my stranger. No, he has a name now. With Kane.
Memories of what we did last night come back with complete clarity, despite the alcohol I drank. Shockingly, I don’t have so much as a headache, even though I tossed back the hard liquor like it was my job. Hit-man trick?
The offhand thought stops me cold.
Hit man.
My brother is a smuggler, and I’ve helped boost and chop cars, so it’s not like I can get on my high horse and judge anyone . . . but this feels different.
Bigger. Foreign. Scary.
I’ve always been able to convince myself that Rafe’s smuggling is a victimless crime. I know that’s essentially burying my head in the sand, but it’s what helps me sleep at night. I’ve chalked up my past life of crime to poor decision-making or necessity. After all, beggars can’t be choosers, and I’ve fallen into the beggar category for most of my formative years.
But a hit man? That’s even harder to accept in the morning light.
The scent of coffee wafts into the room as the man at the center of my thoughts steps through the threshold carrying a mug.
“I wasn’t sure how you take it, so I guessed black.”
He crosses the room, stopping at the edge of the bed and holding it out. I accept the warm mug and inhale the rich aroma. It smells completely different from the industrial-type brew we make at the distillery in the communal pot.
“Black works.”
The mug’s heat soaks into the palms of my hands as I curl them around the pottery. When I take a sip, my assumption is confirmed—it tastes like manna from heaven. As he said before, wet work pays well. And not just well enough to afford the fancy coffee, but a massive warehouse and the world’s largest collection of restored four-wheel drives.
The delicious coffee suddenly tastes a little more harsh and bitter on my tongue as I’m reminded of the blood money that bought it.
I can’t stop myself from asking the question burning in my mind. “How do you live with yourself? Doing what you do?”
The warmth in Kane’s expression turns to frost. He pivots and strides out of the room without a word.
Great way to start the day, Temperance.
Feeling like a complete asshole, especially when I find my clothes neatly folded on a chair, I dress and linger over the cooling coffee. I’m not sure I want to face him, and definitely uncertain whether I can apologize for the question.
I shore up my courage and carry the mug out of the bedroom, forcing myself down each stair to face him. How is that I felt so connected to him last night, but everything feels so different this morning? I should have started with asking about my brother and what progress he’s made in that direction.
That’s what matters.
Nothing else.
I tread carefully on the stairs and pause midway down when I spy the cluttered countertops of the kitchen.
What the hell?
Kane has his back to me while he works at the stove, but he must know I’m there because he stiffens. But all of this is secondary to the stacks of newspapers on the bar.
I glance at him and finish my trek down the stairs.
“You want an answer? How can I live with myself being a trigger man? Pick up any one of those papers and tell me the world wouldn’t be better off without at least one of those sick fucks.”
I cross to the first stack of papers and read the top headline.
Girl Held Captive for 16 Years Finally Speaks Out
Then the next one.
Man Responsible for Mall Shooting on Trial
The next stack has a paper from Paris, and my French, while not perfect, comes through.
Terrorists Kill 7 by Crashing Car into Crowd
“If you don’t want the hands of a killer on you, I won’t blame you. I also won’t apologize for what I do.”
I find my voice. “So some people just need killing?” I whisper. “Is that it? It isn’t about the money at all?”
“No amount of money can make me take a job if I won’t be able to live with myself after it’s done.”
I look up at his somber face and somehow find comfort in his solemn tone.
This isn’t a man who kills indiscriminately and has no care for the value of human life. He actually probably understands that value more than anyone, because he knows how it feels to pull the trigger and end it.
“I believe you.” I set the coffee mug on the counter and pick up the paper to my left. The one with the headline about the girl who was held captive by a deranged man. “I would’ve killed this bastard myself if I’d had the chance.”
His icy expression melts a few degrees.
“I’m not just saying that. I mean it.”
“I believe you.” He echoes my words from a few moments before.
For almost a minute, we stare at each other in silence, and I’m not certain what to say next. Thankfully, Kane speaks first, changing the subject.
“What time do you need to be at work?”
I glance at the clock on the oven. “As soon as I can. I’m usually there before anyone else.”
“And you stay later than everyone else.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “Usually.”
“You’re going to have to cut your hours shorter this week.”
“Because we’re going to be working on finding Rafe?”
“I am going to be working on that.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m helping. He’s my brother. I know him and his patterns better than anyone.”
“Which is why you’re going to tell me all of it and let me do my job.”
Oh, hell no. “You aren’t cutting me out of this. You told me yourself that I’m in danger too if we don’t figure this out, so don’t expect me to sit on the sidelines.”
He opens his mouth.
“And don’t you dare tell me it’s too dangerous. I’m not going to be on lockdown and shut out of whatever you’re doing.”
“Get ready for work. We’ll discuss it on the way.”
“As long as the discussion ends with you agreeing with me, I’m fine with that.”
I turn on a heel and head back up the stairs, already thinking of the order in which I’m going to unveil my arguments on the drive to the distillery.
Kane hasn’t seen anything yet.