Chapter Fourteen
Chicago
My jaw stretches, teeth grinding away the ache that Quinn put there—again.
Asshole.
Maybe we needed it, though.
We didn’t talk. We fought. Plain and simple. Brawled our way around that jet like a pair of twelve-year-olds with nothing left to lose, until his skull bounced off the door and some element of sense came rushing back to me. Ten minutes of me backing away and dodging and he was wound up enough for me to land one final punch to the fucker’s cheek.
“Still all Cane,” he said, some smug satisfaction in his tone.
All Cane.
I stare around my lounge, looking at its minimal design, unsure what to do with myself. Normal protocol has me dressed and out of the door by six thirty most days, at the office an hour later, but that hasn’t been the case since I’ve come home. I’ve stayed here all day, choosing this outlook rather than sinking straight back into the office, but everything seems upturned somehow, like even the space around me is chaotic regardless of its clean lines. And I can’t concentrate properly. I’m lost in thought as I attempt to process numbers like I always do, part of me still hoping for relaxed beaches rather than cold calculation. I’ve even tried breaking into the FBI’s cyber security again, just for the hell of it, in the hope of diverting myself. It hasn’t worked.
It’s her. I know it is. She’s still inside me somehow, making me see things differently. I long for colourful prints to be laid on my bare surfaces, for laughter to echo through the desolate expanse of wealth I’ve created. It’s all so fucking cold here—the air, the December chill beginning to creep into Chicago’s gloomy sky. My home. There’s nothing but the mechanics of my computers, my systems, the protocols I’ve lived by, and the insular intelligence that affords me.
I might as well live inside the web itself for all the emotion I’ve allowed myself here.
The thought has me standing and walking towards the window to gaze up at the main house illuminated by the night lights, perhaps hoping for inspiration to tell me what to do. Quinn’s still not moved in. He’s chosen to stay in his own place on the grounds. I’m not sure why. Maybe when they’re married and he gets her here full-time, he’ll change his mind. Or maybe the fucker is a little more occupied with the image of killing our father than I thought.
Mother.
I gaze at her window, wondering if I should go visit her. I haven’t been since I got back. For some reason, I’ve found the thought difficult. Not that she will have even noticed I’ve not seen her for nearly a month, but I should check, make sure the nurses are doing their jobs correctly. I snort and turn back into the room, grabbing my coat as I head for the door. I don’t know why I’m worrying. Everything will be as it always is. Safe and secure. Her meds exactly as they should be. If there’s one woman Quinn does love, it’s our mother.
The fresh chill hits me square in the guts as I step outside and walk towards my car. I half halt and look at her room again, then shake my head and open the Jag’s door. I’m not in the mood for her. Not ready to hide my feelings from her. She knows me too well in her moments of clarity, sees inside me quicker than anyone can—Quinn included. And last time she asked me about Josh, asked where he was. I didn’t have any answer for that.
Still don’t.
The drive is as silent as it always is. No music. A gentle lull in the engine beneath me. Nothing more than that. I never push its power or give in to its abilities. I’m not like that. I used to find it peaceful, use the silence to focus my thoughts on whatever fucked up plan Quinn was amassing into Cane life. Now I find the stillness around me disrupting. It gives too much space for my brain to remember dreams rather than focus on anything productive.
I turn the radio on, punching at buttons until some monotone drone tries to disperse the air. It doesn’t work. I’m still as infatuated with the sound of her voice, her eyes, and her laughter, as I’m pretending not to be. It’s all her, has been since the moment she disappeared. And it still makes no fucking sense at all.
A car overtakes me, barely avoiding crashing into me as it cuts back in front. I snarl at the white BMW, my foot hovering on the accelerator ready to shunt the fucker into the middle of next week. But that’s not what Nate Cane does either, is it? No. Nate stays controlled and looks for the simplest solution, tracks the odds of engagement before he goes headlong into something without a plan. My fingers tighten on the wheel, though. They grip on, grinding the leather between my palms as my foot presses the pedal a little more.
Fucking cars and noise.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m tailing the dick, car ramping up to eighty-five with barely ten inches of distance between us. I can see his eyes glancing back at me, a look of uncertainty in them as he tries to swerve around and get out of my way. I press down further on the pedal, revving the hell out of the engine and crawling in closer until I feel the touch link us together. Fury embeds itself in me for no fucking reason at all. It rises inside, sending visions of that missing rucksack reeling back into my mind.
His break lights flash, which only makes me increase the pressure and start turning my car slightly, pivoting him off to the left towards the railings between the freeways. The fucking eyes widen then. They keep flicking back to me. That’s fear right there. I know it well. And for some reason, and maybe for the first time in my life, it excites me. Enough so that I press harder still, pushing him closer and closer to the rail with no care for what the end result might be.
Metal grates as he crunches into the rails. It screeches and churns, infiltrating my eardrums and bringing some clarity to what I’m doing. I blink, fingers loosening a touch as I watch the sparks jump around the front of his hood and spray into the wind behind us.
The hell am I doing?
I ease off slowly, a sharp pull of breath trying to calm me down as I watch the BMW regain control of itself and taper onto the shoulder alongside us. I stare at him as I go by, steely resolve iced into my features to let him know who he just pissed off. He looks scared, frightened. I’m not surprised. He should be thankful it wasn’t my brother driving this car. Lucky is what he is.
Damn lucky.
By the time I get into Chicago I’ve barely reached a decision as to why I’m even here.
I pull into the office bays then swing the car straight around and head back out onto the road again. I can’t think. There’s nothing in my mind but her and why the hell she disappeared. Over and over I’ve churned the information, analysing the shit out of it. Why the hell it’s so important to me, I don’t know, but it’s the only thing occupying my thoughts. I’m pissed at her. Aggravated. I need a reason, something to end it correctly rather than have it strung out with no conclusion. Fuck. It was easy when I knew there was an end point for us. Easier still when I thought there might not have been one at all. But this shit? Running off and leaving me with no explanation? That shit is not acceptable.
I need to find the bitch.
I need a fucking drink.
