18. Cane

Cold sheets that smelled like Hart. Fucking typical, Cane thought when he woke up and stretched across his bed, body aching from exertion, skin still sticky, and the burn on his chest smarting from the night before.

He groaned and threw the covers off, hoisting himself out of bed and picking up some discarded clothes. He pulled on his jeans without bothering with underwear or a shirt, exiting his bedroom and conducting a search of his apartment.

Hart was nowhere to be seen.

He looked out his window and down at the curb.

Hart's car was gone. One step forward, two steps back with that man. Constantly.

Last night had felt like the step forward. Hart opening up. Revealing the corners of himself Cane hadn't seen before. Putting meaning behind some of his actions. Like leaving Cane. Like disappearing without a trace. Like being wound so tight it felt like he'd snap at any given moment.

And then the empty bed in the morning. The two steps back in their fucked-up dance.

Gritting his teeth in agitation, he patted his pockets in search of his phone, until he remembered it had died in a wall collision after his rage-filled tantrum. He had a spare one somewhere, he was pretty sure, and he knew Hart's phone number by heart. He could call him, but he didn't know whether he wanted to open that can of worms yet. The need to know where Hart was right now was strong. The need to grab him by the shoulders and demand a clear answer about where they stood.

But he fucking knew Hart, and he didn't respond well to pushing.

After last night he probably needed space. Cane had never laid it out so clearly to him before. They'd never talked like that, ever. And putting a timeline disguised as an ultimatum on their relationship or whatever the fuck it was probably had Hart's panties in a twist.

Maybe Cane needed some time to clear his head too.

He sighed, walking to the fridge. He pulled out a beer and opened it, taking a gulp as he walked back to his bedroom and through to his bathroom. He turned the shower on, the handle squeaking and the showerhead sputtering out water before it ran into a continuous stream. Cane smoothed a hand over his hair and chugged the rest of his beer, eyeing himself in the mirror once he put it down.

He grasped the sides of the sink hard as he stared into the eyes of a fourteen-year-old with nothing. A fourteen-year-old who had gotten sick of his father's shit and set out on his own. A fourteen-year-old who had slept in the gutter for years before clawing his way out.

He saw smiling blue eyes and a hand. A pink mouth smiling, whispering, "Just you and me, Cane." They'd been in it together. He'd finally had someone. Something to call his own after years of fighting for scraps.

He'd felt invincible then, as only young kids could, the feeling electric and addicting as he faced the world with her at his side. His heart had been so tangled up he couldn't see straight.

Couldn't see it coming.

He blinked and saw himself at twenty-three. Behind bars. Betrayed. Reduced to nothing again.

It was too familiar a feeling.

Having nothing.

It was why he craved so much. Held on so tight. Fought so hard.

He looked at the scar on his stomach, round and stretched taut under the image of a skull. He could still feel the white-hot sting of the bullet making contact, lodging in his gut and making him collapse.

She'd stood over him then, the same way she had when they'd first met. Only those blue eyes had turned hard. The offered hand she'd reached out with had aimed for his neck instead. That smiling pink mouth had sneered instead of smiled. Only the whisper had been the same.

"Just you and me, Cane."

He shook the visceral image away, his heart hammering despite how hard he fought against it. He wouldn't react to her anymore. She wouldn't haunt him.

But her ghost was standing behind him, laughing as history repeated itself.

Whoever this was didn't want him to come back this time. He could feel the intent in the air. They wanted to put him back in that gutter and have him stay there. To finish what she had started. Cane could already feel himself on the brink.

He closed his eyes and hung his head, breathing hard.

Cane didn't know what it was that tipped him off in that moment. Just an instinct. A sense of something not being quite right anymore.

Something in the air had changed.

He cut his eyes to the doorway sharply.

He wasn't alone anymore.

He strained his ears to hear over the drumming of water on the shower floor, catching the snick of a gun being cocked.

Cane smiled grimly at his reflection.

He wouldn't go back to that gutter.

He pushed off the sink and took stock of himself. He kept a gun in every room—he wasn't braindead—so he reached for the one on top of the cabinet. He double-checked that the magazine was loaded before slipping the pistol into the back of his jeans.

Next, Cane opened the drawer to the left of the sink and fished out his brass knuckles, slipping them onto his fingers and clenching his fist. His name was engraved into the top, raised and sharp over each ring. They had been a present to himself.

One he enjoyed sharing with other people.

Armed, he slipped quietly out of the bathroom and to his bedroom doorway, pressing his ear to the wood to listen for any other indicator about where the intruder was.

A creak to the right told him they'd stepped on the loose board in the guest room.

Hart's room.

Hart had only stayed there a single night, but his stuff was still in there, and the mere idea of whoever it was creeping into a room Hart could have potentially been in if circumstances were different set him the fuck off.

He took the opportunity to open the door and slip from the room and down the hall. The door to the guest room was open where it hadn't been before, but he could hear muffled whispers coming from farther down toward the living room.

More than one then.

Whoever wanted him dead really didn't want to take any chances.

He clenched his jaw and poked his head around the doorframe. He saw a single figure by the bed. He was wide in the shoulders and dressed all in black, a bandanna tied around the bottom half of his face. He was also going through Hart's bag like it belonged to him.

Looting before the job was done.

Incompetent.

But it worked in Cane's favor. He took one last glance down the hall before slipping inside behind the guy. He skipped over the loose floorboard and crept closer, sure he could just get a grip around the idiot's neck and squeeze.

The guy turned at the last minute and his eyes widened.

He managed to get out a muffled shout of "He's here!" before Cane's fist plowed into his face, leaving an imprint of his name in the middle of his forehead. He dropped to the floor like a sack of shit, unconscious.

"Motherfucker," Cane spat at him.

More footsteps sounded, stealth out the window, and then bullets started flying.

Cane hit the floor as the lead broke through the walls and flew over his head. Shit started getting ripped, plaster from the walls filling the air with white and parts of the furniture splintering off. But even through the chaos, the shots themselves were muffled by what had to be a suppressor, to try and avoid unwanted attention.

Not that anyone in this building gave a shit or would call it in. It was why he'd chosen it in the first place.

He stashed his knuckles and pulled out his gun, crawling toward the door so he could get eyes on where those fuckers were. The moment he poked his head around, a bullet whizzed past his ear, nicking the ridge of his cheekbone with a slice of pain before he could pull back. Blood poured and he swiped it away carelessly.

"Right there. Okay," he muttered.

He braced himself, then fired a few shots of his own down the hallway. The guys yelled and the bullets echoed. Cane didn't muffle shit.

He pressed his advantage while he could, darting out of the bedroom in a sudden move, sending shots flying. He caught one of the guys in the leg and he went down yelling, stumbling into his friend. Cane got that one in the arm, then put another bullet in his leg for good measure while he was distracted and trying to fix his aim.

He walked over to them, pistol-whipping one unconscious and kicking both their weapons down the hallway. He turned to the one he'd shot twice, who was sweating and cursing and bleeding out as he tried to apply pressure.

He was about to ask who the fuck they were working for when a metal baseball bat came swinging around the corner for his head.

He barely ducked, and the metal tore a chunk out of his wall.

He didn't duck the second swing though. That smashed into his arm and sent his gun flying down the hallway after the other two, completely out of reach.

Cane hissed as pain radiated right through the bone. He wouldn't be surprised if it was fractured. He didn't even get a chance to compose himself as a hand pulled at him, making him stumble into the living room before he could break free, to see just who he was fighting properly.

The guy was a beast, and that was saying something considering Cane's occupation. His arms were the size of tree trunks, and his chest was massive. He could barely fit through a doorframe, and he looked like he talked only in monosyllables. His beady eyes were glaring right at Cane, arms pulled back for an overhead swing.

Cane dodged toward the kitchenette and his coffee table shattered to pieces behind him.

Fucking hell.

No wonder they hadn't given him a gun. He could do much more damage with just brute strength.

The guy grunted and lumbered after him.

Cane grabbed his toaster and launched it at the guy's head to buy time. It got hit like Cane was pitching him a baseball, bits of metal and electronics exploding into the air.

The gun he kept in this room was in the dead plant in the corner, the other lying uselessly down the hallway. The beast was standing between Cane and both of them, he just needed to get around his Earth-sized circumference.

"Okay, Beast. Is it okay if I call you Beast?" Cane said, glancing around himself for anything he could use. "I feel like your mother secretly named you that at birth. She must have had a hell of a time."

Beast narrowed his eyes, coming straight for him. He swung, and Cane used the fridge door as a shield. It dented in and Cane grabbed a bottle of beer from inside to smash over the idiot's head. Glass and amber liquid went everywhere, and Cane used the distraction to dart across the room to the planter. It was closer.

He made the mistake of thinking that just because Beast was big, he was going to be slow too. The bat made contact with the small of his back and sent him to his knees with a shout.

"You motherfucker," Cane yelled, trying to scramble away.

He just needed to get to the gun, and then he could blow this fucker's brains all over the wall.

Beast stomped over faster than he could crawl away though, and Cane decided to cut his losses before he got his head caved in and got back to his feet instead. Just in time to intercept another swing from the bat. He caught the body of it with a grunt of pain and used the momentum to spin with it, ripping it out of Beast's hands and around to slam it into Beast's ribs.

Beast let out a shout of pain as something finally penetrated his rhinoceros skin, and Cane pulled back for another go and got tackled to the floor. The bat went skittering away.

It was like having a mountain fall on top of him.

Cane somehow managed to roll them so he wasn't pinned, straddling the guy instead. He tried for a punch to Beast's jaw and it felt like punching concrete. Beast barely reacted, backhanding him hard enough to send him flying sideways into the TV cabinet.

It broke, and shit went flying. While he was recovering from his daze, a meaty hand grabbed his neck and squeezed, actually lifting Cane off the floor. Cane grasped the wrist, choking as he was lifted.

Shit, shit, shit…

He reached into his pocket with his other hand, slipping his fingers through the brass knuckles, then hammering his fist into the Beast's temple.

Beast grunted, and blood ran from the C A that disappeared into his hairline. Cane let another blow fly and got two vicious punches to the stomach as payback. Cane felt his ribs bend under the pressure, but landed another punch in the same spot on Beast's head until he felt the grip on his neck loosen just a touch.

He pulled both his legs up and kicked at the center of Beast's mass, launching himself backward into his couch with such force that the back snapped off and sent him tumbling farther.

Cane rolled to a stop gasping for breath.

He watched as the Beast shook his bloodied head as if to clear it, stepping forward after him before swaying. He seesawed for a second, grasping the mess of his bloodied temple before his eyes rolled and he dropped to the ground like a felled tree. The ensuing crash echoed.

Cane dropped his head to the floor in relief, clutching his bruised and bloody body as he turned over on his back and panted.

"Fuckers. Those fuckers," he breathed, staring up at the ceiling.

When he felt like he wasn't going to pass out anymore, he looked around at the absolute mess of his apartment.

He got back to his feet, cradling his ribs. He grabbed his gun from the planter and walked back over to the two he'd shot. The one he'd left bleeding and awake had tried to pull himself down the hallway toward the guns, leaving a bloody trail. He'd given up halfway though, and was now propped up against the wall, blood pooling around him.

Cane walked over to him and grabbed the hit man's bloody face, pressing the gun between his eyes. "Who sent you?"

The guy clenched his jaw and Cane bared his teeth.

"You've got three seconds. Your gorilla kind of pissed me off, and I'm no longer feeling charitable."

"There isn't one name," the guy choked out, pain making his voice weak.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"The head gangs got together and decided. They want you gone."

Cane swallowed, not letting it show on his face. "Is that so? How lovely for them to get together and agree on something for once."

"You're a liability to them. The police. The curse. They don't want it coming back on them," he gritted out.

Cane pressed the gun harder into the hit man's head. "Well you can tell them I don't feel like going anywhere."

He knocked the guy out with the butt of the gun and leaned against the wall with a grunt. Now his bruises had bruises, and he was pretty sure some shit was fractured, not to mention the bullet graze on his face, which was still dripping blood.

And now he had four unconscious assholes strewn around his apartment to deal with.

"Cane?" Hart's voice rang out. "People are gathered in the hallway and you left your door unlock—OH MY GOD!"

"Tell those fuckers out there to mind their own business," Cane called, finding it hard to shout.

Hart ran around the corner, dressed in one of Cane's shirts with his hair messed up and looking distinctly unlike Cane had ever seen him. Even undressed and fucked to within an inch of his life he'd never looked this…disheveled.

Cane couldn't concentrate on that though, because Hart's eyes were widening to the size of dinner plates, slowly taking in all the blood and the people on the floor.

"Cane…what the fuck?"

The swearing caught Cane off guard, so much so that he started to laugh. He didn't know why it was so damn funny, but it was. Until his ribs protested and made it hard to breathe. He clutched them tighter and thunked his head back against the wall. "Shit."

Hart rushed over, carelessly knocking into one of the hit men and not stopping. It was like he didn't even see them anymore. His hands hovered over Cane but didn't touch, eyes frantically moving over every inch of him like he was the only thing in the room. It was almost manic. "Are you okay? Do you need an ambulance?"

"Fuck no. Who do you think they'll call? I don't need the police breathing down my neck again," Cane said, sucking in a pained breath. "I've had worse, anyway."

"Worse than this?" Hart said, face growing darker. "Who were they?"

Cane frowned at the abrupt question. "Why does it matter? You gonna do something about it?"

"Who are these people?" Hart asked instead, switching conversational tracks like he couldn't stay on one. "Are they dead?"

"I told you I'm a black mark now," Cane said. "This is what that means. They don't just let people who know their secrets ride off into the sunset, or get taken in by the police where they could cut a deal. And no, they're not dead."

"They're trying to kill you!" Hart hissed.

"Trying, yes. Bless their hearts."

"How are you so calm about this?"

Cane grinned weakly. "It's not my first rodeo, sweetheart."

"That is not something to brag about!"

Cane shrugged and pushed off the wall. "Help me bandage this guy so he doesn't bleed out. He has a message he needs to deliver."

"What?! You want to save the hit man?" Hart asked, and Cane paused finally.

Was Hart suggesting…? He couldn't be suggesting that they just, what, let the guy bleed out all over the floor? It was so out of left field Cane could barely comprehend that it had come out of Hart's mouth.

"I thought you'd be the one wanting to make sure they were okay."

"They just tried to kill you," Hart said stubbornly, and there was still something about the response, something so un-Hart-like in the bright gleam of his eyes. Everything since he'd walked in just seemed…off.

It was probably the shock of the moment. Adrenaline and shock could make people do and say the craziest things. Cane couldn't imagine Hart had walked in on many scenes like this, even as a cursebreaker. The deranged little blond one was the one who dealt with the dead bodies, right?

"We just need to make sure they don't bleed out. When their friends wake up, they can deal with them," Cane said, eager to get it done so he could get Hart out of there and back to relative normalcy.

He shuffled to his first aid kit, thankful it hadn't been destroyed. He pulled out some bandages and had them snatched away by Hart.

"I'm doing this, and then we're leaving," Hart said, leaning over the wounded man.

"We're leaving? I just said—"

"Grab whatever you need." Hart cut him off, wrapping the man up like he was a puppet, seemingly not caring if he hurt him further or even if he was doing it right. "You'll stay with me."

Cane's words got trapped in his mouth. "The fuck?"

"You're staying with me," Hart said, daring him to argue, eyes blazing as he stared up at Cane.

"That's a terrible idea," Cane argued anyway, watching Hart throw the rest of the bandages back into the box, slamming it shut with the end still trailing out.

"And staying here is better?" Hart fired back. That wild glint in his eye blossomed as he threw the box away, standing up and marching toward Cane's bedroom.

"Your brothers hate me." Cane followed the tornado that was Hart, watching him open his closet and pile stacks of shirts and jeans into his arms.

"Not all of them." He thrust the clothes into Cane's chest, smearing blood and grit all over them. "Move it."

"This is my apartment. I'm not running scared," Cane said, trying to hold the clothes away from his body as much as he could. "And I own a fucking duffle bag."

Hart froze in his steps, turning to glare at him with a look that chilled Cane to the bone. There was fire there, an intensity he didn't think he'd seen before. What had looked like worry and panic before now looked downright unhinged.

"Then grab it, because this isn't up for negotiation," Hart said, voice hard and unyielding. "Pack what you need and flush whatever is incriminating. We're leaving."

He didn't allow further argument as he slammed out of the door, leaving Cane to rush after him as best as he could.