Page 37 of Kaine

Chapter Eighteen

HIM

“Another double, please,” I motion to the bartender.

“Maybe it’s time to go home, Mr. Ashley.”

I say nothing. In a battle of wills, my driver will let me win every time.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Henry nod to the bartender, who reaches for the bottle and tips it into my glass.

The burn down my throat when I tip my head back to swallow my drink whole is nowhere near harsh enough.

I want it to sear like a hot poker has stabbed me in my gullet.

Something, anything to distract me from that image looping in the back of my head.

A girl in a hoodie, with no other clothing to hide what’s lurking in those shadows between her legs.

“Another one,” I growl, beckoning the bartender over with a flick of my wrist.

“I really think you’ve had enough now, Mr. Ashley.”

“Go get the car. I’ll meet you outside.”

“But...”

“Or would you rather I stay here all night?”

“But.”

“Go.”

“Yes, sir.”

“One more,” I say to the bartender. “You heard me. One more and I’ll go.” He doesn’t move.

“I said, ONE MORE!” I slam the glass down onto the bar and it shatters. Blood drips instantly from the cuts on my fingers and I shake my hand to get rid of the glass fragments.

“Mr. Ashley!” Henry exclaims, running back to my side, grabbing a handful of napkins to wrap my hand in.

“I can do it. Just go get the car.” I take the napkins from him and press them against my hand, pushing myself away from the bar.

“Well, well. What the fuck happened here?” I hear a familiar voice speak up, and the hairs on the back of neck prickle.

“Go, Henry,” I say, low and calm to my driver when I hear a rumbling in his chest. Glad to know the sight of my uncle isn’t only disturbing to me.

Henry slowly exhales and pushes past Jacob, his shoulder making contact, knocking the older man slightly off balance.

“What a thug,” my uncle scoffs in Henry’s direction before turning back to me. “Is that the kind of company you’ve been keeping, Kaine? Thugs. Or just saving damsels in distress from them? Or maybe they’re not damsels... so much as gold-diggers?”

As much as I’ve had to drink, it takes the sight of my adopted uncle to make the contents of my stomach churn. But that’s not new. It surprises me, though, that he’s picked up that the mystery man with the hoodie in the news is me. His slur on Jade is vicious and unnecessary and if my hand wasn’t already injured, I might just be inclined to use it to break his face.

“What do you want, Jacob?”

“Nothing, little K,” he says, the corner of his mouth curling into a sneer. “I was just walking past this here quaint neighborhood bar. And saw you nursing a drink and thought you might like to shout your dear ol’ uncle a drink, for good old times’ sake.”

“What good old times?”