Butcher & Blackbird (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #1)(75)
When Sloane appears from the corridor with her skin flushed from the heat of the shower and her hair damp, I’m still at the table, a second cup of coffee nearly finished.
“Four o’clock at the restaurant, yeah?” I ask as I rise from my chair.
She nods, her smile bright, but the tightness she can’t hide from me remains. “I’ll be there.”
And though she kisses me goodbye, and tells me she loves me, and casts a smile over her shoulder as she goes, that thin mask still remains to follow her out the door.
“Feckin’ eejit,” I say to myself as I drag a hand through my hair and flop down on the couch.
I made up this fucking game on a whim just to keep her around, and now I give her the impression that I think the whole thing is just a giant pain in my ass. And even worse, I make out like having her in my life is a fucking burden.
It’s not. It’s the farthest thing from it. I just can’t bear the thought of losing her, which is exactly what’s going to happen if I don’t get my shit together and we talk this stuff through.
So that’s what I resolve to do.
I haul my ass up and go to the gym down the street, then come back for a shower. I spend some time looking up some ideas for the New Year’s Eve menu which is still a few months away, but I know will creep up fast. Winston keeps watch as I do some chores and make lunch and give him a slice of bacon that he hasn’t earned, because he’s kind of a dick. Then I’m headed to 3 In Coach, giving myself just enough time to make it there after the staff have all gone so I can see if this fan is something I can fix myself before Sloane arrives.
I enter through the back door and disarm the alarm, then head down the dark, windowless corridor to the kitchen.
Everything is sparkling clean, all the utensils and pots and pans where they should be for Tuesday lunch when the restaurant will be open again. As I scan the prep area, my gaze snags on the framed sketch hanging on the wall, the one that Sloane left for me that first day she came in. A faint smile passes over my lips as I remember the blush in her skin and the panic in her pretty eyes. It was the first time I really let myself believe she might want something more than friendship, but she didn’t know how to make it happen.
A sudden noise from a darkened corner startles me and I whip round to see David sitting in the steel chair we set out for him next to the dishwasher.
“Jesus Feckin’ Christ,” I hiss as I bend at the waist and slap a hand against my heart as its chambers flood with adrenaline. “What the hell are you still doing here?”
David doesn’t answer me, of course. He’s not spoken a single word since we found him in Thorsten’s mansion. His vacant gaze is caught on the floor as he rocks a slow rhythm in his chair, something he seems to do on the rare occasions when he’s agitated.
I walk over to him and lean down enough to scrutinize his expressionless face. He seems to calm a little when I lay a hand on his slumped shoulder. Nothing else appears amiss about him.
“Thank fuck I came, mate. Hate the thought of you spending the night in here.”
I leave him to look at the schedule of shifts on the whiteboard. There’s a note for the line cook Jake to drive David home after brunch. Jake is our newest staff member here, having relocated from Seattle six months ago, and he’s been nothing but reliable so far, so this is level of fuck-up is unusual and definitely something I’ll give him shit for on Tuesday.
When I’ve got David settled with a glass of water, I focus on the task at hand, flipping the switch for the fans. One of them doesn’t turn on. There’s not much I can see with the filter shielding the mechanism from view, so I gather my tools from the office and head to the electrical panel to kill the power for that section of the kitchen. Once I’ve dismantled the casing, it doesn’t take long to find the source of the problem—a disconnected wire. It takes a little fiddling to get everything put back together, but it’s a pretty straightforward job and I get it all finished just a few minutes before four o’clock.
“I’ll be right back, David,” I say, my brow furrowing as his gentle, metronomic rocking resumes. “I’m just going to turn the breaker on, then as soon as Sloane arrives, we’ll get you home, okay?”
I don’t know how much he comprehends. Nothing changes in his demeanor.
Shaking my head, I turn away and gather my tools to store them in the office. With a flip of the kitchen switch in the breaker box, I turn the power to the fans back on.
When I return to the kitchen and round the stove, I stop dead.
The cold muzzle of a gun presses to the center of my forehead.
A deep chuckle and the smooth, unfamiliar voice of the man holding the Glock clash with the panic that floods my veins. “Well, well,” he says. “The Butcher of Boston.”
I raise my hands as the muzzle presses harder to my face in warning.
“And your little Orb Weaver will be here any minute, too. As tempting as that party of three sounds, I’d really like to spend some quality time together, just you and me. So, you’re going to make her leave.”
A key slides into the lock of the back door as the click of the safety releases on the gun pointed at my face.
“If you don’t, I’ll kill her,” he whispers, taking a step backward toward the shadows that envelop the corner of the room. He shifts the weapon, pointing it toward the door for the corridor, the one Sloane will walk through any moment. “And I’ll enjoy every second of making you watch.”