I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2)(71)

“I’m finished here,” I say, pushing past.

The junkie whose ass I just kicked moans, and Kyle calls out, “Wait.”

I reluctantly turn around. Kyle’s leaning over the junkie. I can see the guy is a mess. He’s bloodied and battered, and can’t talk to save his life. He’ll probably need medical treatment, but he’ll live.

Kyle’s dark eyes bore into me. “Something set you off, Gartner. You’re not so very different than you once were. You just keep telling yourself that you are, keep feeding yourself the lies.” I turn back around and start to walk away. I don’t need f*cking Kyle Tanner getting in my head.

Still in earshot, I hear Kyle laughing as he yells, “I won’t mention your name when they want to know who did this. I owed you one, man. And now we’re even. You never told them where you got the X, did you?” I don’t answer, I just keep on walking.

Kyle is undeterred, he keeps talking. “I appreciate that, my friend. Come see me at the house. Anything you want, Chase. Blow, weed, pills, I got all your old favorites. First buy, it’s on me.”

I clench my fists and shut Kyle out. When I reach my truck, I jump in. I can’t get away fast enough. When I glance in the rearview mirror I watch the old life I revisited tonight fade back into the past. But, still, I don’t feel right, I am edgy and irritated.

To settle my nerves, I tell still air, “I have changed. That’s not me anymore. I am different.”

It sounds convincing to my ears, it really does. But if what I proclaim so easily is true, then why did I almost kill a man tonight? Why did I enjoy spilling his blood? I can’t lie—I thoroughly enjoyed breaking that junkie’s face.

But the bigger question, the one nagging at me the most is this: If I am so different, then why the f*ck are my hands shaking when I think about Kyle’s offer?





Chapter Ten


Kay


I hear Chase return. The sound of the shower turning on down the hall rouses me from my half-asleep state. As exhausted as I am, it’s a surprise full sleep has eluded me thus far. But worry has kept me semi-alert.

I roll over and hold tight to the pillow that’s comforted me while waiting for Chase to come home. The smooth, cotton covering smells of my retribution-seeking man—soap, male, and also trouble. But it’s that propensity for trouble that has made him my hero this night.

Before long, the water stops and the bedroom door creaks open. I roll over. Moonlight casts the room in monochromatic tones and my eyes meet Chase’s in the silvery glow.

“Did everything go okay?” I ask. “Are you all right?”

Chase nods once and remains standing in the doorway. He has his basketball shorts back on, and, like earlier, the rest of him is bare. Dampness darkens his hair, and water he’s not completely toweled away beads on his wide shoulders. From what I can see, though, there’s not a single mark on him, no injury marring his beautiful, strong body. Everything must have gone my badass boy’s way down at the apartment lot.

I think about asking for specifics, but then Chase jerks his head in the direction of the stairs. “I’m going to sleep down on the couch. I just wanted to check in on you first. Do you need anything? Water? Another blanket?”

The night has turned kind of chilly, but I closed the window a little while ago, so I’m not in the least bit cold. Nor am I thirsty.

I sit up and lean back on my elbows. I shake my head. “No, I’m fine.” And I am, but that’s primarily because my guy is back, unharmed.

Chase turns to leave, but I stop him. “Stay?”

My words turn him around.

There’s no reason why he shouldn’t sleep in his own bed. I tell him this, and add, “Besides, I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight. You shouldn’t be by yourself either, Chase.”

It’s true, we should be together tonight. I pull back the covers and pat the side of the bed next to where I’m lying.

Chase doesn’t hesitate. He crawls into bed and lies down on his side, so that we’re facing one another. For the longest time nothing is said, we speak only with our eyes, blue on brown, conveying friendship, trust, love, and having each other’s backs.

When Chase lifts his hand to brush my hair over my shoulder I place mine over his. His knuckles are slightly swollen and I feel abrasions under my fingers. My badass boy has sustained injuries, albeit small ones.

Chase winces and I loosen my grip. “Sorry,” I mumble.

“It’s okay,” he whispers back, his voice low and rough.

“Was it bad?” I ask.

Chase knows what I’m asking. Not so much about the fight itself—it’s obvious he fared well—but, rather, I’m asking how difficult it was for him to return to that side of town, to be around drugs and users, to be back where he himself once used.

“I didn’t think about it much until I saw my old dealer,” he quietly says. “The guy I told you about…Kyle.”

The evening we were at the miniature golf course, across from the church, Chase opened up about the days and weeks before he was arrested. As I’d suspected, my boy made the pilgrimage down that well-traveled dirt road to Kyle Tanner’s house a number of times. He also told me that—though he was caught with forty-plus hits of X—he never actually dealt any drugs. He admitted he would have, he’d planned to that night, but he was arrested before a single deal was ever made.