“We’ll figure something. I’ll do it, I’ll tell her I accidently hit it with my bike. You don’t have to be there.”

“Why would they do something like that? I don’t understand. I-I just—”

“Shush…don’t think about it, they’re sick. They wanted to scare you and they have. But don’t worry, Robyn, I won’t let them anywhere near you. I promise I’ll sort this.”

“Cal, you can’t. I owe them ten grand in two weeks, and I don’t have it. God, what am I going to do?”

Her tears are back and she doesn’t bother to wipe them away. Instead, she lets them rain down her face as she turns and moves over to sit on the sofa again.

“I’ll pay them. I don’t want you to worry about this. I’ll settle the—”

“No! You can’t.”

I sit beside her and press my finger to her lips to quiet her. It works.

“I can, and I’m going to, whether you want me to or not. I need to do this, Robyn. I can’t stand back and watch someone do this to you. It would kill me. There’s no room for discussion—it’s happening, okay?”

She doesn’t say anything else, just draws her knees up to her chest and nods as she lets herself fall into my side.

Where she belongs.

We sit in silence for so long my mind is one giant time bomb, waiting to detonate from the anger and hatred bubbling inside. I’m reeling, and my blood boils at the thought of every way I can conceivably inflict as much pain on these motherfuckers as humanly possible. Zane has some pretty sketchy contacts, and I’m way past the point of being level-headed enough not to ask for their help. I roll my neck to ease the tension and decide I should ask Tweet if she’s ready to leave, but when I look down, she’s fallen asleep. I move off the sofa and kneel quietly beside her, pulling her down so that she’s lying comfortably. She stirs as I place a cushion beneath her head, and her eyes flutter open, peering up into mine.

Fuck, this girl is so beautiful.

Being around her is an intense anguish of emotions. It’s agony and ecstasy rolled together forming a savage catalyst of neediness that I’m too stubborn to act on, and too weak to remove. I tried distancing myself but living with her made it an impossible feat, so instead I’ve morphed into the good guy, the confidant, the friend…because torturing myself with her presence is infinitely more appealing than cutting her out altogether.

“Go back to sleep, Tweet. I’ll be right here,” I whisper as I move to place a soft comforting kiss against her the iridescent remains of her tears painted over the smooth skin of her cheek. There’s no ulterior motive behind my actions, no desire to push for more; my intentions are sincere. I want to comfort her above anything else, but her face turns and her lips brush against mine, and it’s a deliberate movement on her part. My eyes snap to hers in question as my mouth hovers in suspended animation, waiting for a cue.

She moves her head closer, strengthening the pressure of her lips pushed securely against mine and begins to kiss me, moving slowly, but with measured assurance. My eyes fall closed, and a floodgate opens, emptying my mind of everything but the taste of her warm wet tongue moving in perfect synchronicity against my own. She pulls away with a sleepy sated grin, and I watch as her eyes close, her dark lashes fanning against her soft tanned face. I sit back onto my heels, dazed and in a sate of aroused confusion, wondering if I just imagined that last thirty seconds and hoping like hell I didn’t.

I don’t know what to do with myself; she’s knocked me completely off balance so I do the only thing I can think of. I lean back against the sofa and rest my head where I can feel Tweet’s soft breath blow gently across my face as I close my eyes and relive that kiss.

Today Robyn has released a new brand of torment on me. We returned to the apartment in the small hours of this morning and I’m not sure if she was ignoring what happened between us, or if the events of the day had taken their toll and she wasn’t in a place where she wanted to talk. Either way, we returned home to our separate beds in our separate rooms and when we woke and stumbled into each other in the kitchen, we went about our separate lives like it was any other normal day, and not the real-life aftermath of some twisted take on a scene that could have been pulled straight from a psychotic thriller.

Zane is in the office when I finally decide to return to work after visiting Dad. I took him his medication, checked that he was good to go with his fridge stocked full of food—not just beer—and then spent the morning watching re-runs of the Giants’ game with him. All the while he complained about the neighbor’s dog barking at all hours, keeping him awake throughout the night. It’s our usual routine, but today instead of worrying about Dad, his Alzheimer’s and the alarming rate of his mental deterioration, I had other worries to add to the ever-growing pile. The doctors told us at first that his condition would be progressive. I feel cheated now; progressive is a word used to trick you into thinking you’ll have a little time. If they’d said rapid, it would have prepared me more. I always thought Alzheimer’s was a disease for the old but my dad’s not old. Christ, he’s barely middle aged.

I had to tell him that his next-door neighbor doesn’t have a dog—that was at our old house. The real killer came when I had to explain that Mom divorced him and didn’t live with him anymore after he’d asked where she was. He called me by my brother’s name for the whole visit, and after I’d corrected him for the third time I gave in and just answered anyway. I think it’s time that we organize him some home help. His confusion scares the crap out of me, and I don’t like the thought of him living here on his own.

“Hey, how’s it going, bossman?” Zane asks in his cheery British accent.

“Fucking marvelous,” I reply in a defeated tone I have no interest in trying to mask.

He drops his legs from where they’re crossed and resting on my desk and places the laptop down, giving me a concerned once over.

“Are you okay, Cal? You look like you’re ready to punch something.”

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Listen, I need you to call one of your friends.” I air quote the last word. “I need to find out some information.”

This has his attention.

“What’s going on? Are you in trouble?” has asks, leaning forward, listening intently now.

“Not me, Tweet.”

“Robyn?”

“Yeah, she owes some assholes ten grand. The debt’s not hers, it’s her asshole ex-boyfriend’s, but he’s not around to pay, so they’re coming after her. You should have seen her last night; they’ve scared the shit out of her. I kicked some guy’s ass a few weeks back when I walked in on him throwing her around. She called me yesterday in a flood of tears; someone had been around and hung her neighbor’s cat in her bedroom then threatened she’d be next if she didn’t pay up.”

Zane looks like he’s about to throw up, and I don’t blame him; saying it out loud flips my stomach too.

“Shit,” he breathes out. “So what do you want from me?”

“I need you to find out from that shady little fuck you used to hang with who this Mr. Carter is, who he works for and how I can get a hold of him.”

“Consider it done, man.”

“Thanks. Oh and Zane?”

“Yeah?”

“I need you to take a look at the books, put that MBA to some use. I can’t make them balance, and I have no fucking clue where the anomaly lies. See if you can figure it please? Or arrange for the accountant to come in and take a look.”

“No need for the accountant, sunshine…I’m a numbers wizard, you know that.” He grins.