I slid down the cabinets until I was sitting on the cold tile. It felt like I was being ripped into jagged little pieces. Tears fell freely and hard, and I couldn’t catch my breath. One memory triggered another, reminding me of what I never had and likely never would.
I had never felt so alone in my life.
If this is really living, like Max said, I’d rather mow the fucking sidewalk.
THIRTEEN
Cane
The smacking soundmy pen made as I tapped it off my yellow notepad was soothing in some crazy way. It was a distraction from—well, my distractions.
I sat back in my office chair, the late Thursday morning sun heating my office. I got up and twisted the blinds shut, blocking out both the heat and the light.
I wish I could block shit out of my life that fucking easy. Where would I even start? Jada? Or Powers?
Definitely Powers.
Grimacing, I headed to the mini-refrigerator across the room and grabbed a bottle of water. Max’s latest bit of information had me perplexed and slightly nervous.
“My friend at the police department said that they suspect Powers of being involved with the Sinaloa Cartel. They’ve been watching him for a few months now.”
It made sense. It explained the apparent trips to the border. It explained the money and even the interest in an open officebuilding to use as a front for his operation, if there really was one.
But would a cartel use a tool like Powers? And how would he even get involved with a Mexican cartel?
Too many questions and not enough fucking answers.
I sat back down in my chair, my mind, like a magnet, going back to Jada Stanley.
I am certi-fucking-fiable.
Her eyes begged me for something I couldn’t give her. I’d stayed away intentionally. The only thing keeping me sane was that Max saw her almost daily. And, with a few threats involved, he divulged how and what she was doing. She hadn’t really said anything about me, but she hadn’t said anything about Simon, either. So I guessed, on some level, that was good news.
I wasn’t sure why I gave a fuck. It wasn’t like it made any difference to me.
I knew that she didn’t want me—not really. She wanted to fuck me, and I sure as hell wanted to fuck her, too. But for some strange reason, I had a conscience about this. I didn’t want her regretting it.
Is this what guys like Max feel like all the time? Poor bastards.
As much as I hated to admit it, Jada was right. I couldn’t give her what she wanted.
I didn’t want complications. I didn’t want a relationship. I didn’t want the responsibility. I didn’t want monogamy.
I didn’t want to fucking prioritize.
And even though Jada seemed to turn a one-eighty the last time I saw her, I couldn’t take advantage of that.
I kicked my feet up on my desk.
When did I, Cane Alexander, not take the advantages laid out in front of me? Why did I give a fuck about all of this? When did I become such a pussy?
My life revolved around a carefully constructed set of guidelines.
1. Trust no one.
2. Take responsibility for your own success and failures.
3. Embrace being alone.
