Page 43 of DOG Part 2
What the hell?
“Hold on. What are you doing?” I sputtered.
“We’re coming in there with you while you pack.”
“What, so that I don’t run away?”
“Something like that. We need to check the apartment before you go in there too.”
I groaned and pointed to the switch to turn on the living room light, making space for him to enter in front of me. “Fine. Whatever.”
“Big Tom, Kyle,” he called out in the direction of his crew. “Check out the apartment.”
I crossed my arms and snorted. What kind of a name was Big Tom, anyway? Mind you, one of the two men that approached looked like a close to seven foot walking wall of muscle and danger. He must have been Big Tom.
Once the bikers searched the tiny one bedroom and confirmed no one was lurking around waiting to off me, Kane gave me the go-ahead. Stomping my way into my bedroom, I grabbed the duffel bag from underneath my bed and began jamming clothes in it.
“No,” Kane said gruffly. “Not that. Find something smaller.”
I turned to him. “What?”
“That bag. It’s not going to fit on the bike. Don’t you have anything smaller?”
“Whoever said anything about going with you on anyone’s bike? I’m taking my car.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Says you,” I answered, turning to continue filling my duffel bag.
He looked around the room for a second, and picked up a small backpack hanging on a hook behind my bedroom door. “Here. Use this.”
I ignored him and continued what I was doing. In no time, he was standing beside me, reaching his hand into the open drawer. He picked up a pair of jeans. “I got your pants. Which drawers have your tops and underwear? Assuming you wear any.”
I just looked up at him. “Really?”
“What?”
I dropped the duffel bag and dragged the backpack out of his hand. “Don’t touch my things.”
“Look. You’re wasting precious time, Kim, but you don’t have to understand. You just have to do what I tell you, and do it fast. Got it?”
I opened the drawer or folded t-shirts and tank tops and mumbled, “Whatever.”
Kane stepped back to the door, and after a minute of welcome silence, he said, “Nice room.”
In my periphery I noticed his gaze roving over the free-standing Chinese partition screen in the corner, and the white lights strung around the window. He nodded over at a picture of my mom and me that was stuck into the edge of the wardrobe’s mirror. “Is that her?”
“Yes.” The word was thick and hard to get out past the tightness that formed in my throat.
“No pictures of your old man?”
“What do you care?” I snapped. “It’s none of your business anyway.”
He was silent for a while, but then added, “I’m sorry about what happened to your mother.”
I kept my gaze on the clothes. I knew it would help if I just said ‘thank you’ and left it at that. The problem with that was I’d have had to admit she was really gone. I couldn’t. The loss was too recent. The wound was wide open. I said nothing.
“So you just don’t like bikers, huh? Is that it?”
