Page 67 of Rooke
“And windows. And stairs. And a few walls, actually.”
She shrugs her shoulders in a prim fashion. “Once the insurance adjustors have closed their case on the house fire, I’m sure they’ll renovate very quickly. These things can take time, though.”
“Mmm.” I slip the key she just gave me into my pocket.
“Thank you for allowing him to stay with you in the interim. I hope he isn’t making a nuisance of himself?”
“He’s not seven years old, Ms. Blackheath. He’s an adult. We’re dating. He’s definitely not making a nuisance of himself.”
That seems to knock her calm exterior a little. “Yes. Well. I didn’t mean to sound obtuse. Forgive me. I suppose mothers always think of their sons as little boys, no matter how old they are.”
Or how tall they are. Or how many tattoos they get. Rooke looks every bit as dangerous as he is. She can’t have missed that.
“Anyway. I don’t want to keep you. I just wanted to return that key. It was very nice to meet you. Maybe soon, Rooke will bring you to the house and you can meet me and my husband in a formal fashion.” She gets to her feet. Brushes down her dress. “In the meantime, please ask him to call me. He missed our breakfast a few weeks ago, and I was beginning to wonder if he was still alive. I paid him a visit, but unfortunately he wasn’t home at the time. Please tell him that I hope the housekeeping I tended to on his behalf last week was not out of line.” Tipping her head to one side, she suddenly bears a more than startling resemblance to her son. He often wears the same, casual sideways tilt of the head. “It really was a pleasure,” she says.
Her heels sound like gunfire on the tile as she saunters off after Oscar.
******
“Housekeeping?” Rooke frowns at the key I hand over to him when I get home. He’s fresh out of the shower. Beads of water run down his back, over his shoulders, down his arms, over his chest. I put up a valiant fight, but in the end I can’t help myself. I feel like a teenager as I check him out. His tattoos are complex, interlinking, weaving all over his body. They’re mostly black, with a subtle touch of color here and there that accents the artwork. His body is out of this fucking world. He was smiling when I came in, a highly suggestive smirk on his face, but now he seems to be preoccupied.
“I had no idea she had a key,” he says quietly. His frame locks up unexpectedly, then, all expression sliding from his face. “Fuck.”
“What? What is it?”
“Housekeeping?No fucking way.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Housekeeping. People like Jericho use a housekeeping service. The Barbieris, too.Sheset that fire at the house.Shehad those bodies moved.”
“What?”
He sits down heavily, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “God. It all makes sense. It all makes such perfect sense. I can’t believe this. She must have done something about the car, too.”
“What car?”
“The one I stole and was driving across town. The one with Jared Viorelli’s—” He almost says something, then appears to think better of it. “Never mind. Fuck. My mother disposed of two bodies and committed arson. My world just shifted on its axis a little.”
“Does this mean we can stop worrying?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it does.”
“Then take me upstairs. I’d like some attention from you now please.”
A shadow falls across his face. He’s been quiet ever since the bridge, and it’s been obvious why. He hasn’t needed to explain. It seems as though that might have changed now, though.
“Sasha…”
“Rooke, it’s okay. I don’t need to hear it. I don’t need the get-out-of-jail free card from you. Not now. Not ever.”
He cups my face in his hands, leaning down so that his forehead is pressed against mine. “But you should have one. You saw some shit on that bridge. I’d love to say that’s not who I am, but it would be a lie. That’sexactlywho I am. The man who will kill without a second thought in order to protect you. Does that make me the guy who will lose his shit if someone is rude to you? Yes. Does that mean I might lay someone out for looking at you? Most definitely, yes. I am not an easy human being to be around, Sasha. This is the moment where you get to tell me that you’d like to walk away.”
Do I? I guess I have asked myself this question a number of times over the last seven days. Truth be told, I’ve thought about it endlessly, and I keep coming back to the same answer. No, I do not want to walk away from this. Watching Rooke beat a man to death was frightening, but he did it to protect me. I must have gone slightly mad over the past few weeks, because something that should have terrified me and made me want to run for the hills actually ended up making me feel safe and protected. How fucked up is that?
“Like I said. You can keep your card, thank you very much,” I whisper.
Rooke closes his eyes, blowing out a deep breath. “Thank fuck for that. I was trying to figure out how to stop myself from kidnapping you and it wasn’t looking good.”
