Kaine: A Men Of Gotham Novel (The Men Of Gotham Book 1)

by Daisy Allen

  Not that I allow myself too much time, but in the rare moment my imagination runs away with itself before I have a chance to stop it, the day dream involves him, picking me up from work, and us spending time together, doing nothing, doing everything. In those moments, it takes me a long time to remember the last time I felt as safe and at peace as I did this morning, just sitting in the limo watching him work.

  “Uhhh,” I grunt as I push myself away from the big wooden desk in the meeting room and stroll back to my office carrying an armful of books.

  “Hey, you done?” Harriet asks as she packs up her desk, throwing away yet another rotten apple from her drawer.

  “Yeah. Good group today. Found out some cool stuff.” I refer to one of the group’s discovery about her ancestors.

  “Any more Zac Efron relations?”

  “Unfortunately not. Just a hairy, pillaging Viking. Still cool though.”

  “Sure. Hey, it’s 5:56,” she points out.

  “Okay... thanks?”

  “You have two minutes to get ready to go home.”

  “What are you rambling about?” I reply, as if I don’t know exactly what time it is and exactly what it implies.

  “Well, Superman he said to be ready to go at 5:58 p.m.”

  “Er no, Myst-, er, Kaine said he’d be here at 5:58 p.m. You said I’m finished working at 6 p.m, so he can just damn well wait.”

  “Yes, I damn well can,” he says from the doorway.

  And there’s something about the way the light streams through the dusty window and hits his face, accentuating the high bridge of his nose and the clear, deep, crystal blue of his eyes that makes me lose my balance. I sink into my chair to mask my stumble but I don’t take my eyes off him. In all my neuroses, in all my worry about myself, my brother, his scars, his past, I’d never let it sink in, just how handsome he was.

  Breathtakingly so.

  “Mr. Ashley!” Harriet says, getting up to stand next to me, nudging me hard with her elbow against the side of shoulder.

  “Wha? Stop nudging me!” I scowl at her. “What do you want?”

  Her eyes bulge out at me and I deliberately ignore the signs she’s trying to give me.

  “I don’t want anything, but maybe you shouldn’t be keeping Mr. Ashley waiting, he did come to pick you up just to make sure you get home safely.” Her defence of him grates at me. Maybe because it comes off as flirting and the searing heat of possessiveness rises up my throat.

  “Maybe you’re the one I need protection from, sheesh. Put some cream on those elbows when you get home,” I taunt her, while secretly feeling guilty at the betrayal of my best friend because of a man.

  She covers her mouth as a small gasp slips from her lips. “Bitch,” she mumbles under her breath.

  I turn to Kaine and he looks confused by the exchange.

  I grab my bag and swing it, pretending to accidentally whack Harriet across the arm. She jumps out of the way and grins at me, giving me a wink that makes me bite down a laugh.

  “I’m going now. My bodyguard is waiting!” I say and walk out of the office, purposely swaying my hips dramatically and slamming the door behind me.

  Kaine catches up with me and clears his throat as we get to the front entrance.

  “That was... interesting. I thought she was your friend.”

  “She is, she’s my best friend,” I tell him, and I laugh at the confused look he gives me.

  I reach for the door and he blocks me.

  “Wait,” he says, and pushes the door half open and steps through it, looking up and down the street. After a moment he opens the door wide for me and grabs me gently by the arm.

  “Car,” he says and gestures with a tip of his head to Henry standing by the double-parked limo with the car door open. He guides me towards it and helps me slide into the seat before closing the door softly behind me. He slides in from the other side and waits for Henry to get in.

  “Where to, Mr. Ashley?” he asks Kaine, who looks at me.

  “Are you hungry, Jade?”

  A rumble of my stomach reveals the traitorous nature of my stomach.

  He tips his head back and laughs, and I want the sound to go on forever.

  “That’s a yes from your stomach,” he chuckles, and I’m a little taken aback by his good mood.

  “But I don’t want to cook. And I don’t want to do dishes,” I whine, laying my head back on the leather headrest.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered,” he says, winking at me with his right eye, and a little tiny firecracker explodes in the pit of my stomach. This is ridiculous. I need to get this crush-like behavior under control.

  “What do you mean?” I say, pushing down the urge to giggle like I’m 15 and he’s the star quarterback.

  “You’ll see,” is all he gives me. And I know by now not to bother pressing him for more. “To my spot, please, Henry,” he leans forward and says to his driver.

  “Right away, sir,” the driver says and I catch a little something in his voice. Amusement? Surprise?

  The momentum of the car speeding into traffic pushes my whole body back and there’s a gentle vibration on the seat that starts to massage me.

  “Ohhh,” I moan, feeling the tension ease from my shoulders and close my eyes, my hands loosening on my handbag strap as I feel it thump to the floor.

  “Long day?” Kaine asks, a little dent in his forehead.

  “Um, long,” I shrug, closing my eyes to enjoy the massage. “But good.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, I found a long-lost relative of a pillaging Viking.”

  “Does she know where any of her ancestor’s gold is hidden?”

  “Probably in your closet,” I tease him, and open one eye.

  He’s grinning and he sits back, one hand hanging onto the grab-handle, the other picking at a piece of lint on his knee. I try to ignore the way his bicep bulges under his shirt.

  “What about you?” I ask, realizing I know nothing about what he does for work. He’s mentioned going to work, but he obviously doesn’t need to.

  “It was a great day,” he answers and there’s a happy tone in his voice I haven’t heard before.

  “Oh, why?”

  “Because I had something to look forward to, Jade,” he catches my eye as he says it, and the single firecracker in the pit of my stomach becomes the sky on the Fourth of July. I don’t know what’s happening, but I don’t think it’s happening to just me.

  “Oh.”

  We say nothing for the rest of the car ride.

  ***

  I wasn’t born in New York state. I was born in Harrisonburg, Virginia. My childhood was filled with views of college buildings, woodland trails and forested mountains nearby. Not skyscrapers and engineering feats built to link one side of the Hudson with the other.

  But when I got my current job, there was no question I was going to move to Manhattan. Permanently. It was the home I never knew I missed.

  Nature is wonderful for hikes and picnics.

  But it’s the cityscapes that make my blood run hot and fast.

  Henry drives over the bridge and twists and turn along the narrow streets of Brooklyn for some time before we come to stop outside what looks like a small abandoned factory, down near the docks, right on the river. It’s already starting to darken out, and I can’t say it looks all that safe.

  “Where are we?” I ask, not sure whether or not to get out of the car. Kaine doesn’t say anything and just gets out of the car.

  I look out the window again and it still looks a bit ominous, so I reach down to grab my handbag and hug it to my chest. The car’s rocking, and I realize Kaine’s taking something out of the trunk. I crane my next to see out the rearview window, but the open trunk lid is blocking my view.

  Curiosity gets the better of me and I move to open the limo door.

  Kaine is suddenly there, though, and takes my hand to help me out.

  In my excitement, I take a step, rolling my ankle on a s
tray pebble, and I fall against his chest.

  “Careful,” he whispers. And the vibration of his voice spreads through my entire body. He helps me steady myself and smiles before asking, “You ready?”

  And in that moment, I know would follow him anywhere.

  “Let’s go, Miss Sinclair!”

  He pulls on my hand and leads me up a rattly, rusted fire escape staircase up the side of the red brick factory building.

  It’s four or five stories high, and I’m out of breath by the time we reach the top.

  Breath is forgotten, though, when I see the view lying out in front of me.

  The sun is feeling heavy and tired in the sky, and the horizon is threatening rain. The bright blue sky of the day is blending and swirling into the sweetest pinks and somberest purples I’ve ever seen. A kaleidoscope of pastels, juxtaposed against the dramatic highs and falling dips of the Manhattan skyline.

  “Wowwwwwwwww,” I sigh. “It’s just...”

  “Absolute perfection,” he finishes for me.

  I turn to him and the view is just as magnificent.

  He’s pulled his hoodie back and the sunset is reflected in his eyes.

  “Welcome to my spot,” he says, then reaches a hand around my waist, pulling me against him, and presses his lips against mine.

  Perfection.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  HIM

  I hadn’t planned on kissing her.

  I hadn’t planned on ever kissing her.

  Fantasizing about it and actually doing it, I’ve long ago learned are two very different things.

  As are wanting to stop yourself and actually stopping yourself.

  And in this moment, I just couldn’t.

  The way she looked at me when she turned around and saw me, all of me, without my mask, without my armor, stripped me of any control.

  She didn’t cringe, she didn’t wince, she didn’t recoil with repulsion or fear or pity.

  It’s like she didn’t even see the scar.

  And I wanted to kiss her to thank her for it. For giving me something I haven’t felt in a long time. The feeling of being seen.

  “Jade,” I moan against her lips as our kiss deepens. She responds by running her fingers through my hair and pressing her mouth harder against mine. It’s even better than the sleepy kiss from yesterday, because this time she’s awake, she knows what’s happening, and she’s responding. This time her chest is purposely pressing against mine, and this time her moans are from feeling how amazing our kiss is.

  Her hand comes up between us and pushes against my chest. She pushes me away, panting for breath.

  “Kaine,” she whispers between breaths.

  “Sweet Jade,” I whisper back, running the back of my hand down her soft cheek.

  Then the simultaneous growls of our empty stomachs break the moment.

  She immediately bends over, laughing, tugging on my hand as she does, and I pull on her hand, twirling her into the circle of my arms, catching her giggling body in mine. Her laughter dies down slowly as I enjoy the feeling of finally holding her without having to worry about her well-being.

  “I think our bodies are trying to tell us something,” she finally says. I raise an eyebrow in question even though she can’t see me. “It’s trying to tell us that whatever’s in the picnic basket you took out of the trunk, needs to be eaten and needs to be eaten now.”

  I can’t help but let out a loud guffaw that makes her jump and she pulls away, gazing at me. I turn my face, so my right side is hidden to her. She shakes her head and lifts her finger to press gently on my chin.

  “Don’t,” she whispers, “don’t ever do that again.”

  I don’t know how or why, but in the course of today, something has shifted between us. An agreement, an understanding, a mutual acknowledgement that something is happening between us.

  We stare at each other for a moment. And then I say, “let’s eat.”

  Which is met with a round of applause.

  I reluctantly let go of her hand and open the picnic basket with a flourish, pull a thick woollen blanket from its depths, and shake it out onto the ground. She kneels on the blanket, smoothing it out with her hands as I start unpacking the basket, pulling out the gourmet feasts I’d picked up at the Chelsea Market before coming to pick her up.

  “Oh yes,” she moans as she watches me pull out the endless array of food, picking up each item and examining it.

  “Roasted stuffed peppers, yum! Arancini. God yes, bring on the deep-fried stuff. Is this... goat stewed with sago and sweet potato? Be still my digestive system.”

  I can’t help but smile at her excitement about the food. It mirrors how I feel every time I wander the aisles at the market—my secret, guilty pleasure, one of the only rare reasons I ever linger in public.

  I hand her a plate and fork without looking, preoccupied with searching the basket for some champagne glasses. She laughs and taps on my hand and I look up. She’s already dug into the container of melon wrapped in prosciutto, completely without the help of utensils.

  She gestures for me to open my mouth and slips a slice of melon into my tongue when I do. I catch the tip of her finger with my lips and suck gently on the tip. It tastes sweet and salty, just like the antipasto she’s fed me. And I want more.

  I lean over and open my mouth again. This time she picks a stuffed olive from the small jar and pops it onto my tongue, her finger lingering this time, waiting. I roll my tongue over it, without closing my mouth, and she closes her eyes for just a brief second.

  It’s like we’re two different people. Any barriers between us are completely gone.

  But I have no doubt that by night’s end, I’m going to need to taste more of her than her finger.

  “My turn,” she whispers huskily and she scoots over to me, her bottom lip dropping open.

  “What would you like?” I ask her, because it’s safer than telling her what I’d like to do to her right now.

  “Surprise me,” she says, closing her eyes.

  I reach into the basket for the box I was meaning to save for dessert. It’s a small handful of maple glazed chestnuts, a French delicacy, rarely sold except during the Christmas. I’d hoarded a box at the office after a trip to Paris but now it seems the perfect time to break it open. I unwrap the sticky chestnut from the cellophane and lower it to her mouth, slowly tracing the line of her lips, letting the crystallizing glaze cling to her. Her tongue darts out, unable to contain her curiosity and she licks the almost sickly-sweet nectar from her lips. Once they’re clean, I wait for her tongue to disappear back into her mouth before I gently press the chestnut past her lips. She devours it immediately; soft moans vibrating from her throat as she savors the musky, nutty, unctuous morsel.

  “Oh my god, what was that?” she finally says, her eyes lazily opening, her voice thick with satisfaction.

  “That was a marron glacé, a glazed chestnut,” I tell her, secretly thrilled that she enjoyed it so much.

  “It was divine,” she sighs.

  “Yes, it was,” I say, giving her a wink.

  She giggles and reaches for some of the marinated eggplant and pops it into her mouth, licking up an errant drop of olive oil from the corner of her mouth with her tongue. Watching her makes me realize I am famished and we take turns feeding ourselves and each other until almost all the food is gone.

  Hardly a word is spoken as we watch the sun set while we suck on the last of the plump raspberries, washing them down with the champagne. During the meal she’d moved closer and closer to me, and now her back is resting against my chest as we both face the river.

  “Kaine?” she says, soft against the night breeze.

  “Hm?”

  “You don’t have to answer but...” And I already know what she’s going to ask. But I wish she wouldn’t. “What- what happened?”

  I don’t answer.

  I don’t answer for a very, very long time.

  She doesn’t push it but she doesn
’t say anything else either. I, on the other hand, can’t get Xavier’s “just ask her” comment out of my head.

  “How about this,” I finally speak up. “How about we get three questions each? We get to veto the question but then we lose one of our questions. If we don’t have any left, we have to answer.”

  “Deal,” she says instantly, nodding her head in agreement.

  I laugh, “you don’t want to think about it?”

  “No, because, I’m ready to answer anything.”

  “I wish I could be as confident,” I tell her, honestly.

  “You should be. You can tell me anything, Kaine,” she says, squeezing my hand. “Okay, who gets to go first?”

  “Well, you already asked your question!” I tease her.

  “No! That was before the game. I take it back now!” she sits up, protesting.

  “Okay, okay. But you can still go first.”

  “Okay,” she takes a sip of her drink as she mulls over a question. I’m surprised she doesn’t immediately repeat her last one. “Ok, how did you know about this place?” she asked as she waves her hand in front of us, gesturing towards the building.

  “Well, um, I used to work in this building,” I tell her. “It’s one of the last ever printing presses in New York City. I worked here, illegally, when I was 13 and sleeping every night right over there.” I turn to point to the stack of discarded wood on the ground about 50 feet away.

  “You’re kidding. You lived on the streets?”

  “No. I mean, no, I’m not kidding. And no, I wasn’t exactly living on the streets. I was... er, I was living in a foster home at the time and well, sleeping behind the pile of crossties was a better alternative than going home.”

  “Oh. Kaine.” She touches the side of my face and the look is so tender, I have to look away.

  “It’s okay. I own this building now,” I shrug and she laughs. “Okay, my turn. Why did you try so hard to find me?” I have to know.

  She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, and I like that she’s taking my question seriously. “Kaine, I value my life. I love my life. I love my job, I love my friends. I love living in New York City. I love food. And champagne. I love all of it. And I would’ve been really, really sad if I had had to stop living so soon. So, it was really important to me that I got to thank the person, you, who let me keep living, even if just for another day.”