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“Stop calling me that,” I groan.
16
LINCOLN
This is what I’ve been trained for, keeping my cool, showing no emotions, getting the information I need without them knowing they are giving it. I only use it when I need to, otherwise, I’m pretty much well-known for being an asshole. I can read people by their body language: the way they carry themselves, how they talk, their eye contact. I know what they’re thinking. I know what they’re feeling. I know within a few minutes in an interrogation how to handle my witness—do I need to be good cop, bad cop, act sympathetic, become their friend. Whatever it takes, I'll play the part and I always get what I want. But Kitten has me scrambling. I can't keep my emotions out of it. I want to kill whoever hurt her. I just want to pull out my gun and blow their fucking head off. She won't tell me, making it sound like it's for my protection. It makes me want to shake her, spank the shit out of her, fuck her, hold her, and kiss her senseless all at the same time. She nibbles at her sandwich before putting her head down and saying, “I'm sorry. It's really good, I'm just not hungry.”
“That's okay, Kitten, let’s go to the living room,” I suggest, standing up.
Walking to the living room I'm contemplating my next move. “I should go back out and wait on the locksmith,” she states, stopping behind me.
“No, I don't want you sitting out in the stairwell. What company did you call?”
“First State Lock and Key.”
“Good,” I reply, pulling out my phone and scrolling to their number and tap on it.
“First State Lock and Key, Bob speaking.”
“Hey, it's Lincoln, you got an order to come fix a lock at Unit Two in my building?”
“Yes, we do. Sorry, I only got one guy working today, so it's going to be awhile.”
“That's okay. Have them buzz Unit Three when they get here, the girl is staying up here till he arrives.”
“No problem, Lincoln.”
“Thanks.”
“There, done.” I tap end call. “Now, come sit down.”
“Do you know them?” she asks as we both sit down on the couch.
“Yes, I do.” Before she can ask anything further, I put my hand over hers. “Kitten, do you trust me?”
She looks down at our hands and mutters “I don't know, I mean, I just met you.”
“Did I hurt you last night?”
“No.”
“But I could have. Right?”
“Yes, I guess.” She shrugs
“Okay then, trust me now and tell me what happened.”
She sighs, “Linc, I can't...” I squeeze her hand, stopping her before she can finish the sentence.
“Just tell me what you’re comfortable with. You don't need to give me names or details,” I explain.
She sighs again, but then nods her head and tells me how a nephew of one of the cancer patients is taking the weed she supplied. She tracked him down and went to talk to him, and how they worked out a deal she would deliver him an ounce of weed once a month for free, if he left his aunt alone. “Why did he slap you?”
“’'Cause I told him his new tattoo was ugly, and he should have forgone it and spent the money on his own marijuana.”
“Oh, Kitten,” I laugh. “People take their tattoos seriously, that was a mistake. How did you know it was new?”
“It had a clear bandage on it and the skin around it was red.”
