Mouser would smarten him up. He could always count on Mouser to make him see things clearly, whether he wanted to or not. And Mouser would always go to a meeting with him. He’d walk over to his place and talk him into driving him to St. Anne’s. It was getting cold. He’d run over to his place before he froze his balls off.
But Mouser’s place was dark. He lived on the first floor of a decrepit apartment building, and he slept with a light on. He was afraid of the dark—a weakness he admitted to few, but Dillon knew it. Yet his apartment was pitch black.
He knew where Mouser kept the spare key, and he heard the cats before he even opened the door. It had always been a source of amusement to him, Mouser’s fondness for cats. He was a sucker for any stray that wandered by—it was no wonder he was so protective of Jamie. He currently had three cats who were now weaving their way around Dillon’s ankles, making plaintive, hungry noises.
He’d always told Mouser he didn’t like animals, and of course Mouser didn’t believe him. He leaned down and picked up one scraggly bundle of fur, rubbing the head of another, and headed into Mouser’s tiny kitchen.
The cat food dish was empty. Which was crazy—Mouser doted on his felines. He never would have left them without food.
He poured some food into the bowls, and was immediately rewarded with a couple of loud purrs, another body weaving around his ankle, while a third decided to sharpen his claws on his shin before settling in to eat.
He flicked on the light in the kitchen. Supposedly cats could see in the dark, but Mouser wouldn’t want them left in an unlit apartment.
He should leave him a note before heading out to the meeting. But he had a cold, certain feeling that Mouser wasn’t coming back.
Mouser’s upstairs neighbor, a plump widow with a similar fondness for strays, promised to look after the cats until Mouser returned. At least they wouldn’t starve to death in the apartment. Mouser would never have forgiven him if he let that happen.
He walked down the snowy street, heading toward St. Anne’s. It was a long walk, he didn’t have a coat, and he didn’t give a shit. Too much had happened in the last twenty-four hours. He was usually the most cynical, pragmatic, grounded person he knew. Now he was having morbid fantasies and was on the verge of falling in…
Hell, no. He just needed a meeting to help clear his head. He’d swing by Mouser’s apartment on the way home, where he’d find his old friend with a perfectly reasonable excuse for why he’d disappeared. And when he went back to the garage, if Jamie wasn’t gone, he’d pick her up, drop her in her car and lock the doors behind her.
Or maybe he wouldn’t pick her up. Touching her tended to get him into trouble. If she hadn’t left he could drive her out with words easily enough.
But he was counting on her to leave.
He lit a last cigarette before heading into his meeting. Sunday night at St. Anne’s was a crowded one, and the coffee was awful, but it would be hot. And maybe things would start to make a little sense.
Jamie sank down into one of the kitchen chairs, staring at the door in disbelief. He’d simply walked out on her. Brought her to that point, so that her nerve endings screamed, her skin prickled, and she could barely breathe, and then walked away.
He must have gotten over his obsession awfully fast. It hadn’t taken much to get him past twelve years of wanting, she thought bitterly. Whereas in her case, she was just starting.
Fuck him. Fuck them all. She was tired of feeling vulnerable, needy, helpless. He’d let the air out of her tires? She’d seen the compressor, and she was equipped with a brain and determination. She could figure out how to fill the tires with air and then get the hell out of there before he returned. That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? That was what they both wanted.