Page 56 of Rooke
With Rooke, the idea of his hands on another woman’s body makes me feel physically ill. Even thinking about him with girls in the past makes me seriously uncomfortable.
“Why?” I ask. “Why have you never brought anyone here?”
“Because. This is my space. I can think here. I can be real. Having someone else here compromises that.”
“Then why did you bringmehere?”
His smile turns crooked. “Because you’re part of me, Sasha. It doesn’t matter where I go with you. I can always be real. And so can you.” He pauses. “Tell me about him. Tell me the parts you miss the most.”
He’s talking about Christopher. I told him back in the car that I’d answer his questions, tell him anything he wanted to know. That doesn’t make this any easier, though. It doesn’t make my chest any less tight as I shift on his bed. I gather his bed sheets around me, covering myself, and I hug my knees to my chest.
“He was small for his age,” I say quietly. “His arms and legs always kind of looked too long for his body. All the other kids in his class were in the middle of growth spurts, but he seemed content with being small. He loved to play. He loved animals. He wanted to be a vet.”
I look down at my hands. I haven’t used them to sign in so long. It feels wrong to even be considering doing so right now, but slowly I begin to make the shapes that come rushing back to me. Monkey. Elephant. Duck. Mouse. Tiger. Dinosaur. All of Christopher’s favorite animals. Rooke watches intensely, taking everything in. Signing takes precise movement and practice. It’s strange to watch Rooke use his huge hands, hands undoubtedly intimately acquainted with violence, to mimic my movements. There’s an unexpected grace to him that makes my heart burn painfully in my chest.
I’m struck with a strange and saddening realization: Christopher would have really loved Rooke. Just like the man sitting in front of me, my son had a way of knowing how things worked, especially people. He would have been able to see beyond Rooke’s gruff, frankly frightening exterior and see the man beneath.
Rooke would have made him happy.
TWENTY-FIVE
THE NURSE
ROOKE
JERICHO:Asked around. Might know something about the guy from the museum. Come by after nine.
Mother. Fucking. Asshole.
I’ve been staring at Jericho’s text all night while Sasha has been sleeping, and I’ve been trying to decide what to do. I meant what I said to her. I promised her I would kill the fucking guy who broke into the museum and put her through hell, and I intend on following through with that promise. I just didn’t know if telling her what I am planning was for the best, though. There’s no way she would let me go. No way in hell.
Laying in bed next to her is such a fucking gift. I listen to her breathe through the dark hours of the night, and I think. I think really fucking hard. There’s a smart way to handle this, and there’s a dumb way to handle it. I asked Jericho weeks ago to help me find the fucker from the museum, and now he thinks he might know where he is. Okay. So do I go over there, guns blazing, demanding Jericho hand over the information so I can find this evil son of a bitch and shoot him in the back of the head? Or do I wait? Ask Jake what to do? Go and see Arnold, maybe see if he can find me some backup?
I lie there and I stew. At dawn, Sasha rolls over onto her side so that she’s facing me, her dark hair a mass of loose curls arranged madly around her peaceful face, and I just stare at her. She is so unexpected. Never in a million fucking years would I have imagined her into existence. I haven’t spent a great deal of time picturing what the woman I would fall in love with would be like. Honestly, a part of me just assumed I never would allow myself to do something so fucking stupid as fall in love. Now that she’s here, naked in my bed, her hands curled into fists like she’s trying to fight off demons in her sleep, I’m undone. I’m not thinking rationally. I want to protect her so badly that I can’t seem to focus on anything or anyone else, and my blood feels like it’s constantly on a low simmer as it travels through my veins because I can’t seem to keep her from harm. Harm caused by other people, as well as harm caused by herself.
I stroke the wild strands of her hair out of her face and I study every line of her, committing them to memory: her high cheekbones; the slight, gentle upturn to her nose; the thick, dark lashes that rim her eyelids; the swollen pout of her lips. I try not to see the fading bruises, or her spilt lip. Seeing them only makes me fucking crazy. She’s so fragile. So breakable. I’m determined to make sure nothing ever happens to her again.
At five forty I climb out of bed, careful not to wake her. It’s still dark outside, the world shrouded in shadows. When I look out the window, I find everything masked in a thick layer of white, so much snow for as far as the eye can see, buildings, cars, mailboxes all buried and hidden. That will make life harder for me, but not impossible. Quickly collecting some clothes from my walk-in, I gather everything I need together and I bundle it under my arm, then I stoop down beside Sasha and I reach underneath the bed. My go-bag is right where it always is. Right next to it is a smaller black leather bag. One I don’t normally take out very often. I grab both of them by the straps and I make my way out of the bedroom, holding my breath, hoping Sasha doesn’t wake up. She doesn’t even stir. Downstairs on the ground floor, I put on my jeans, thermal shirt, down jacket, a rain jacket, and my thick waterproof Sorels, and I check inside my bags. My tools are inside my go-bag, every one of them where they’re meant to be. I take the small leather pouch containing my throwing knives and I slip it into my back pocket. From the other bag, I remove the Browning Buck Mark that I’ve had ever since I got out of juvi. The gun is small. Nothing special. There are plenty of far more impressive, flashier, more theatrical pieces out there that I could have bought, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Gang bangers go for big guns. They go for bling—a weapon that, in their eyes at least, reflects their status. Gun dealers talk when they sell a piece like that. They keep tabs on people, and they show an interest. I wanted something average and unremarkable that would get the job done. Something that wouldn’t have people following me in order to see what I was up to twenty-four seven.
The clip is full. The safety is on.For now.Outside on the street, Jake’s car is missing. He took it with him when he went to play his gig last night, and he hasn’t brought it back. Could be he got snowed in somewhere. Could be he hooked up with a groupie and got his dick wet. Either way, I can’t borrow his ride.
I turn my keys over in my pocket as I hurry down the street. Cold.Sofucking cold. I don’t seem to feel it, though. I’m numb from the pores of my skin down to the very basement of my soul. By the time I find a cab and make it across to Jericho’s place, the sun is a brightly burning disk of silver in the sky, hovering just above the buildings on the horizon.
The garage isn’t open. I hammer my gloved fist against the shutter, and Raul eventually appears, his mouth set into a grim, downturned expression.
“You’re late. We thought maybe you changed your mind.”
I don’t say anything. I slip silently past him, gritting my teeth together. Inside, Jericho is standing over the auto repair pit with a pair of bolt cutters in his hand. The front of his shirt is drenched in blood. His eyes are filled with murder when he lifts his head and looks at me.
“Have you been dealing with my problems for me, Jericho?”
He grips a toothpick between his front teeth, grimacing at me. “No, no, Cuervo. This is one ofmyproblems. I’ll happily deal with yours, too, though. I’m on a roll.”
I don’t look down into the pit. It would be ill-advised. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a dead body—not since I left juvi—and looking a dead man square on the eye right now would only make me question what I have to do next. I don’t care who’s down there. Jericho’s business is Jericho’s business. I need to concentrate on handling my own. “You know where he is?” I ask.
Jericho tosses the bolt cutters over in his hand and spits his toothpick down onto the mess he’s made in the pit. “I do. Margot Fredricks. You know who this is?”
“I’ve heard of her. She’s a nurse or something.” When you’re in this line of work, sometimes you get hurt.Often, you get hurt, and you can’t just walk into the hospital. Get patched up like a civilian off the street. People ask questions about gunshots. They want to know how you ended up with five stab wounds to your torso. They call the cops when it looks like you’ve broken eight bones in your hand because you’ve beaten someone half to death. So people like Margot exist. People with medical training, who’ll take money under the table in exchange for treatment.
