Pressing a hand on my shoulder, he ushered me inside his home, but I jerked away, still burning with fury. He pulled his hand back, nodding slightly, and led me down the corridor and into the living room.
Creamy leather furniture was set up inside, the room neat and hardly worn-in, set up like a home out of an interior design magazine. The electric fireplace was burning, and a glass with ice in it was on the coffee table, along with some papers, like he'd been sitting in this very room when he got the call and had dropped everything to come get me.
"Sit, Kandy. Please." He extended an arm, gesturing to the biggest sofa. I noticed his voice was softer, like he felt bad about his sudden outburst in the car. But Cane wouldn't apologize. Not for speaking his mind and telling the truth.
I avoided his eyes, walking past him and sitting down. I kicked off my shoes and drew my knees to my chest, resting my forehead on them.
I tried to fight the wave of emotion that shook me, but it was impossible. I couldn’t bite back the tears anymore. My body shuddered. The tears clogged and thickened in my throat. The saltiness finally ran over my lips.
The whimpers and cries I'd made that night, just thinking about my dad in pain, were foreign noises. I'd never heard myself cry like this before. So hard. So desperately.
"Damn it, Kandy." The couch dipped beside me, and a hand ran through my hair. "He'll be okay. Stop crying. You know he wouldn't want you crying."
"I don't care what he wants right now," I sobbed. "I just want to see him. I want to know he's okay."
Cane's fingers stroked the back of my neck, the pads of them feathery-light and caressing my skin. "He'll be okay."
His touch electrocuted me, awakening my soul, even through the thick layers of emotion. I picked my head up and looked over my shoulder at him, tears clinging to my lashes. "You don't know that," I whispered.
"Yes, I do." His eyes latched with mine. He sighed softly, like he wanted to say more to make me feel better. He obviously didn't have much else to say because he clamped his mouth shut instead and pulled away, standing up. "Can I get you something to drink?"
I shook my head.
"Then I'll go make one for myself. Let me know if you change your mind." He walked away, glancing back once at me. I dropped my chin on top of my knees, staring ahead into nothingness.
All I could think about was my daddy. What if he didn’t make it out of the hospital alive? What if he’d bled out on the way there?
I could picture Mom's reaction when they told her the bad news. She'd bawl and break down—fall to her knees and weep into her palms. I prayed he would pull through.
I was pissed off, but I knew they were right. They were so right. I wouldn't have been able to handle waiting at the hospital. Every ticking second would have felt like centuries. Plus, I hated hospitals. I didn't like being surrounded by pain and misery.
The sound of ice clanking in a glass a short distance away pulled me from my trance, and I heard Cane talking.
"Yeah, I picked her up already. It's fine. She can crash here for as long as you need her to." He was talking to Mom.
Cane stepped around the corner moments later. He sat beside me again with a short tumbler in hand and a half-empty decanter of amber liquid in the other. He placed the decanter down on the coffee table and then swirled the ice in his cup, causing it to rattle in the glass.
After taking a small sip, he let out a long, weary sigh. "He'll be okay," I heard him say. It seemed he was trying to convince himself as much as me.
I looked up at him, a sudden thought crossing my mind that escaped me vocally before I could stop it. "You love my dad?" I asked, but it was a juvenile question. Men like Cane didn't tell other men he loved them, even if it were true. It was just…not in his nature, I supposed.
His response took me by surprise. "He's my best friend. Love him like a brother."
"How long have you known him again?"
"Since I was twenty-one. He saved my mother's life."
"How?" I asked, intrigued.
He side-eyed me, probably debating whether to tell me or not. "From a domestic abuse dispute. He got a call about it, showed up in less than five minutes since he was nearby. I was on my way home from college and still an hour away."
"Domestic abuse?"
His lips pressed thin. "Between my mother and my father."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
His nostrils flared, head dropping, eyes focused on his lap instead. "Thanks to Derek, my mother wasn't killed that night. My father had pulled a gun on her. He was drunk and accused her of cheating, but he was the cheater. We all knew it. Derek came at the right time and took care of it, sent my sorry-ass father to jail, and I haven't seen him since. I was only twenty-one then. Derek was twenty-eight and new to the job. I haven't been able to thank Derek enough for it. He put his life on the line for hers. He considered it his duty—said he was just doing his job—but I respect that much more than he will ever be able to imagine. She could have been seriously hurt or dead if he hadn't shown up when he had. After that, I invited him to meet me about once a week, whenever he was free, so I could repay him with cheap beers and hot wings at this late-night bar a short drive from downtown. As we got older, and when I finally kick-started Tempt, we got a little busier. We still kept in touch with phone calls and texts, but didn't get to see each other as often. He was raising a child, taking care of his family, and I was building my career."