I frown. “Kane? You okay?”
He nods. “Yeah, baby girl. I’m good. Just glad you and my boy got your happily ever after, you know? Someone around here’s gotta get one, right?”
I reach out and pat his thigh—it’s akin to patting a fallen giant redwood. “You’ll get yours, Kane.”
He doesn’t answer, and I hope I’m right.
20Home
Rev
Iset the last box of stuff on the floor of the kitchen, with the other half dozen or so boxes. There’s a large white Ryder truck outside, a ramp going up from the ground to the back of the truck. There’s not much left. A deep, thick-cushion, high-back white leather couch with brass knob-divot things around the edges, a matching love seat and chair. And a bed. King-size, platform, with a headboard that looks like the back of a couch, matching the living room set—soft cream leather with brass accents. A pair of nightstands in black. There’s a large bureau to match the nightstands, six side-by-side drawers and several smaller ones above those, and an attached mirror. The bed’s gonna have to go, but I’ll tackle that with Myka later. Very least, we need a new fuckin’ mattress.
The furniture is Myka’s—Darren saw the light, it seems, and sold the house, had a moving company pack up everything in the house except his clothes, and had it shipped here to Vegas, along with a check for the profit on the house, which was, apparently, pretty substantial. He’s gone, in the wind. Nobody’s seen him, or heard from him.
The guys have all spent the day helping Myka unload. We guys do the lifting, she’s doing the unpacking—dishes, silverware, odds and ends. The first thing she did, though, was find the box of her photos and set about hanging them on the walls—framed pictures of her family throughout the years, at various get-togethers, photos of her and her siblings at her grandad’s ranch, on horseback, in a bunk house, around a fire, in the kitchen of a log house.
Now, all that’s left is the big furniture for the living room and her room.
I’ve been trying not to think about the bedroom. Been thinking of it asherapartment.Herbedroom.
My brain and heart won’t let me make any assumptions otherwise, even if I suspect what she might be assuming.
Kane and Chance take the couch, Si and Sol take the mattress, Sax and Lash take the headboard and footboard, and I bring the rails and platform pieces. Sax, who once moonlighted as a mover, has taken charge of the unload, directing and instructing like none of us know how to carry a fuckin’ couch. He puts the bed together, and honestly, he makes it look easy, where I’d probably have spent an hour cursing at the pieces.
The bed’s done by the time I get in with the first nightstand, and Kane follows with the other one.
And just like that, it’s over. Move done.
She’s got six or eight big boxes full of clothes yet to go, but the rest is done.
Myka, when she saw the mostly empty truck, ordered pizza, and even vanished long enough to come back with a case of beer.
The apartment is a ground-floor unit, one bedroom, with a large living room and a spacious kitchen. It’s not big, but it’s clean, newish, with decent appliances and fresh paint and new carpet. It’s a good area, and it’s less than half an hour to Sin, where her old motel was nearly an hour.
She refuses to let anyone leave, insisting the unload become a housewarming party. So, she plugs her phone into a speaker dock and blasts classic rock, and we hang. Sip beer, eat pizza, shoot the shit.
Kane, I notice, is morose, brooding. Unlike him. You talk to him, he lights up, puts on his usual charm and grin, but it doesn’t touch his eyes.
He also doesn’t drink. He never does, now that I think about it—I’ve never seen him touch alcohol.
Knowing him, there’s a story. And knowing him, he won’t share it.
I don’t know the first thing about him. Not even his last name. I know he was a Ranger, I know he saw a shitload of action in Iraq and Afghanistan, same as Chance and me. I know he’s from Montana, grew up on one of the biggest and most successful horse ranches in the country.
That’s all I know.
I sidle up to him, where he’s standing by the door, sipping a can of LaCroix, watching Chance, Lash, Myka, and Si play cards.
“Okay, bro?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Fine.”
I eye him. “Bullshit.”
He huffs a laugh into his can. His eyes are on Myka. “Happy for you.” He nods at her—she’s cackling, jubilant over some hand or play, her laugh lighting up her face and the whole apartment.
“Me too. But I’m askin’ about you, Kane.”
