Rafe (Inked Brotherhood 5)

Raylin is back.

Or was back and left again, apparently. For a moment, the shock erases all thoughts of Rafe and his ominous words.

The apartment is empty. I know because I checked, the only sign she was ever here the message stuck to the fridge.

Be back soon. Feed Horatio, will you? Love, R.

Soon? When is soon? When will she be back? Where did she go? Oh God, the rent is due in a week.

Raf—screw Horatio, this cat’s definitely a Raf—winds himself between my legs, meowing pitifully.

“Shh.” I lean down, pat him absently. I have a bad feeling about this, about Raylin going away. When I wander to her bedroom door, the unease intensifies.

I back away and try to think. Do I have enough money for the rent? Can I pull through this month until she’s back?

If she’s back.

Raf is between my legs again as I do my calculations, a furry obstacle, tripping me up. I stumble and lose my balance.

A moment of weightlessness, like flying, then I land hard on my hands and knees as Raf shoots away, hissing.

Ow. Owie. Shit.

I stay on all fours for a long moment, dizzy. It’s nothing serious, I tell myself over and over, and although I know it’s true, it feels as if my kneecaps are shattered and my wrists are on fire.

My eyes burn with unshed tears. I won’t cry, not for this. This is nothing. It’s just that… I’m lonely here without Raylin, I worry about the rent, I worry about Mom who isn’t returning my calls, and as for Rafe…

Dammit, this is pathetic. I’m not going to cry over Raylin, my Mom, or Rafe. With a groan, I sit back on my heels and turn my aching hands palms up.

See? I tell myself. Reddened, but not even bleeding. Just a bit of a rug burn.

With Rafe it’s the same. Rug burn. You’ll be over him in a heartbeat. God knows you’ve had worse. Not getting a guy you fancy isn’t the end of the world.

Though it might feel like it. Because I don’t just fancy him. It runs deeper than that, and…

Crap, this is stupid. We haven’t even kissed or anything.

Not that I didn’t want it.

Shit. I shove up to my feet, wincing at the pain lancing through my knees. My jogging pants are torn over the right knee. A tiny bit of blood is seeping through the gray flannel from a small cut.

Gritting my teeth, I hobble to the bathroom in search of Band-Aids. Raf watches me from the corridor, his fur on end.

“You’re a traitor,” I tell him as I dab disinfectant on the cut and grimace. “You R a traitor. Raf, Rafe, Raylin…” It strikes me then that my mom’s name is Rachel, all these names starting with an R, and suddenly I’m laughing so hard I double over. “All of you R traitors.”

Raf skitters away and vanishes into the kitchen.

Clever kitty. Knows I’ve gone round the bend. I mean, I lasted long enough—leaving home, running as far away as possible, always fearing that Mom’s asshole boyfriend will come after me for denouncing him, always fearing my own shadow.

Maybe I’ve held on to sanity too hard. Something was bound to snap, sooner or later.

Panting, I limp out of the bathroom and into the bedroom in search of a new pair of pants. This one’s out for the count. I grab my jeans and pull them on, smooth down my sweater, and then stare blankly at my hand.

My hand in Rafe’s. His long, strong fingers tangled with mine. Holding me against the wall of the coffee shop, his eyes smoldering. Steadying me on the sidewalk where I almost collided with him.

“Something frightens you. What is it?”

Why is he doing this? How is he doing this—making me want him, care for him without any effort on his part, just by frigging existing—and then tell me I should keep away?