There are no fairy tales here. No dreams come true.
There’s only life. Mostly cold and heartless but with a few small gifts granted along the way.
Cade is one of those gifts for me.
I’m not going to lose him by asking for more.
So I stroke his chest, fiddling with the hair there, and say, “We can still have weekends together at least.”
He sighs so deep I can feel the air leaving his body. “Yeah. We can still have our weekends.”
An hour later, as I’m sitting on the roof and drawing the stars, I keep imagining Cade’s face in my mind. Eventually I’m sketching a portrait of him instead.
14
Two months later,I’m eavesdropping on a quiet conversation three of the militiamen are having at a small table in my section.
I’ve gotten pretty good at it over the past weeks. I always heard things in passing, and now I just pay attention when I do.
They’ve got a new shipment coming. A big one.
I can’t figure out where it’s coming from, so I linger as long as I can, wiping a table near theirs in the hopes of hearing more details.
When none are forthcoming, I give up. I’m not going to risk them getting suspicious. I cheerfully greet a couple of newcomers and chat for a few minutes as I take their orders.
Cade is in the corner at his normal table, watching me as he always does. But I can sense invisible disapproving vibes from his direction.
He knows I’m eavesdropping and doesn’t like it.
He always gets grumpy when he thinks I’m taking a risk.
I don’t let it bother me. I’m going to take advantage of my position here as long as I can do it safely. I care about what happens to Cade, his parents, and his other people. And I believe in striking back against the militia in any way possible.
Why shouldn’t I do something useful instead of simply serving food and drink and fucking paying customers?
Cade’s covert bristling isn’t going to stop me.
As I wait for Pete to pour out the orders, I ask, “How are you feeling today?”
“I’m just fine.” He doesn’t stop working as he slants me a quick smile. “Almost my old self.”
I hope this is true, but he still looks a little paler than he should be. His gunshot wound got infected, and he had a fever for a few days. We were really worried about him, but he managed to shake the fever and get better. This week, he’s been back at work, and he’s acting like his old self.
I sure hope he feels that way too.
“I don’t need fussing over,” he adds, sliding the beers across the bar to me.
“I’m not fussing. I promise. But you got shot saving my life, so forgive me if I have a personal stake in your recovery.”
He chuckles at that and shakes his head. “Is your man over there unhappy about something?”
“He’s unhappy with me, I think. But he can just get over it.”
“Good.” Pete is staring at an empty glass as he says, “I used to tell my daughters not to go against their instincts for a man. Any man. Even me. I’d tell you the same thing, but I think you already know that.”
“I do.”
At two minutes after closing time, Cade has hold of my hand as he walks up the stairs in front of me. His grip is firm, and he feels urgent, but he’s not actually dragging me behind him, so I don’t try to pull away.
