“Yeah.”
The old man claps me on the shoulder and opens his mouth. Before he says what’s on his mind, we’re interrupted.
“Sir, I wanted to let you know the Red Cross is on their way.”
My head swivels around, and I fix him with a glare.
Before I can kill the guy, Richard steps in. “Get out of here, Davis. I’ll take care of it.”
“Is he kidding?” I growl.
Richard shrugs. “It’s the way we do things. You said you were the owner. Any normal person would be out of a place to sleep.”
I know he’s referring to my many outings of late. I haven’t slept in my own bed in probably a month. Letting his comment slide, I prepare to leave.
“Deal with the charity. I’ll take care of the insurance. Once they clear the place, call me. Doubt there’s anything salvageable, but I’d like to look.”
“Will do. Hey,” he calls as I start back toward the crowd.
I stop and give him my attention over my shoulder.
“How’s the girl?”
Just the thought of her makes my body respond in several different ways. Anger wars with curiosity, and they both mingle with stress.
Snap out of it, asshole. Her well-being is not your priority.
“Fine. Elias has her.”
Richard gives me a look I can’t quite interpret, and it pisses me off. His shoulders sag, and he glances down at his sneakers for a second. “Good,” he responds when his eyes meet mine through my shades.
After another chin lift, I walk back through the onlookers and straddle my bike. With one last long look at the remains of my childhood home, I start the beast and pull away.
Back to Elias’s, back to the girl with the haunted look in her eyes, back to everything that symbolizes the life I don’t have, don’t want, and don’t fucking need.
After swinging by the bar to see what paperwork pop stored there, I grab a bottle of liquor from the storage and head back to Elias’s. The place is silent when I walk inside, so I set about fixing myself a double and plant my ass on the sofa. I reach for the remote and flip through the channels until I find some sports highlights on ESPN. The TV is nothing more than a sound barrier for anyone else who may be home. My mind is too consumed to pay attention to the screen.
I can’t even comprehend the fact that every last bit of my missing sister went up in smoke and flames early this morning. My stupid ass doesn’t even have a picture of her in my wallet. And I was too proud to display her angelic face at my own place. I felt like building her a shrine would solidify the fact she was gone and dead and never coming back. I was too much of a man for that. Too big and proud to give up on finding her and accept that Molly was dead and gone. That the only thing I had left was a memory in a frame.
Now I’m kicking my own ass through half a bottle of scotch.
It couldn’t be more than fifteen or twenty minutes after I sat down and started my path to drunken oblivion when I hear a door creek down the hallway. Of course it’s the little princess because Elias doesn’t walk like a goddamned fairy.
I pretend I didn’t hear her through another swallow when her tiny, scraggly head peeks around the entryway to the living room.
Even ignoring her, I don’t miss the way her body relaxes, and her shoulders droop when she sees me.
“Sorry to bother you, Sin. I just heard someone come in and wanted to see who it was.”
“Been here for twenty minutes,” I grunt through another swallow.
The anxiety etches itself in the crease of her brows and the frown of her lips. “Yeah…I was too scared to come check,” she says sheepishly.
My insides contract.
“I’ll whistle.”
Her face scrunches in confusion. “What?”
“When I come back, next time I’ll whistle.”
“What will you whistle?” she asks, stepping farther into the room.
I shrug. “Something. Like this,” I say, then demonstrate a three-note low whistle. I’m not stupid enough to do a catcall, and this isn’t the fucking Hunger Games. “Like that. Just think an intruder wouldn’t fuckin’ whistle. You hear that, that’s the all-clear.”
The girl smiles a shy smile. Her lips tip up, but it doesn’t meet her eyes. I don’t know if she even knows how to produce a genuine smile like that. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” I go back to drinking while she edges herself farther into the room. When I go to pour myself another double, her quiet voice interrupts me. I look up to find her nearly right next to me on the couch.
“Do you have cat feet?” I ask a little drunkenly.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re so goddamn quiet I didn’t even hear you cross the room.” I sit back with a big swallow.
“I think it’s a learned skill.” The tone isn’t to be mistaken. She’s referring to sneaking around the traffickers.
I’m a fucking idiot.
“Sorry,” I grunt.
“It’s okay.”
Silence engulfs the two of us fucked-up people sharing a couch. So what do I do? Drink. Nothing breaks the awkwardness like a healthy dose of alcohol.
“Why do you do that?” She breaks the quiet.
My head turns slowly to take her in. She’s wearing another tee that’s way too huge, this one black, and a pair of flannel sleep pants. These seem to fit her better than the tee, so I’d guess that Elias picked them up from somewhere. She looks warm and timid, like a little, soft rabbit.
I realize I’m glaring when she cowers a little. “Sorry. Do what?” It doesn’t escape me that I’ve apologized twice now in the span of five minutes. I spend every minute of every day apologizing to Molly in my head, but I can’t remember the last time I uttered the words to another living human being.
“Drink. I mean, it seems like you’re drinking or drunk every time I see you. I don’t mean to call you out; I’m just curious why.”
The question angers me. My hands curl into tight fists. “Why the fuck do you care? It’s not any of your business.”
She scurries back against the arm of the couch, my words alone scaring the crap out of her. “It’s not, you’re right.” Her chest rises rapidly and falls slower with a long, deep breath. “All the men I’ve met in the past two years did nothing but drink. I can’t help but wonder if you’re one of them.”
The hand holding my glass of scotch freezes in midair. The breath I just took expands in my chest to the point it hurts, and I can’t take air in or let it out. I’m suffocating, choking on her words.
My back molars grind together so forcefully it’s a wonder one of them doesn’t snap right in half.
Using all my control, I force the air out through my nose. It’s a slow, painful process. Everything inside is screaming at me to let it out in a loud bellow of rage. My muscles tense with the desire to beat the fuck out of something. Before I break the glass, I lean forward and, as gently as I can manage in my drunk, furious state, I place it on the coffee table.
Only then do I move.
With perfect precision, I stand, plant a knee on the couch, and throw myself in the direction of the girl. An arm lands on each side of her, one on the arm of the couch and one planted in the backrest, caging her in. The girl’s eyes go wild with fear at my swiftness and proximity, but I don’t give a single fuck. Her words cut deep. So deep, I don’t think I can staunch the bleed.