Page 9 of Forbidden Eyes
“Yeah, alright. You don't need to go on and…”
“Check it.”
I wander to my desk and pull out the glucose meter to satisfy him, sticking myself with it. “Close the door.”
He does, giving me the privacy I need for this. I hate anyone knowing, hate the thought of someone seeing the weakness in me. Not that it is. I barely even bother checking anymore. It’s always the same. Has been for years. Steady. Ordered. My blood sugars stay as regular as my heartbeat. Just like me. I might despise the thought of it, but it’s who I am, and for the rest of my motherfucking life, I’m bound to it. Regardless of my normal management, however, I'm not getting him off my ass until this show is done. If there's one thing I know about Quinn, it's his tenacity. He doesn't give up on a goddamned thing until he's satisfied with the result. I look at the reading and hold it up for him to see. “Good enough?”
He nods.
Then leaves.
Discussion done. Or so I thought.
“Miami?” he asks, head coming back around the door.
“Yeah. On it. You've got the run on target?”
He nods. Then leaves.
Again.
I sit and stretch my face, trying to dismiss the last of the change he saw in me. He's always seen it in me and can generally tell how my levels are doing long before I can. He noticed it first when I was young. Took me to a doc when I was barely sick and made them do every test under the sun. I smile at the thought, a small chuckle coming as I stare out the bank of glass windows. I owe him a lot, including my life. Not only that day, but when I was seventeen, too.
It was early on. I was learning the seedier side of this world I'm in. Three thugs. I thought it would be easy enough with my blade, thought I could handle it on my own, prove myself maybe. I loosen my tie and rub my chest, scoring my fingers over the ridge beneath my shirt and remembering the moment I worked out shit wasn't going my way. They dragged it all the way from jugular to chest, taunted me with how much damage a blade could do in the hands of a real man. And then they pushed it in deep, splitting me open. It still hurts now, still tightens every now and then when I'm anxious. Not that that happens much.
I learnt how to use a blade well after that, though.
When I came back from the dead, anyway.
“Carter?”
My head turns at the sound of Logan’s voice in my space, pulling in a deep breath for the long-ass day ahead. This dick could use a cut or two driven deep into his chest, help him grow the hell up and realise Cane money doesn't solve everything.
He goes straight to my refrigerator and pulls out another Coke, swigging it down without asking if it’s okay.
“Good?” I ask, feeling like ramming the thing down his throat.
“Yeah. I'm still trashed. I needed it.”
I look him over. No one would know he’s trashed. He's sharp, precise, his suit in place and stubble trimmed neatly. He looks more and more like Nate every time I see him. Heavy Cane brow. Black hair. Leaner than both of them in his eighteen-year-old frame, but he won't be one day, and he's clearly as interested in booze as his father. Coke, too, from what I know.
“You gonna grow up anytime soon?”
He comes over and sits opposite me.
“Get your head out your ass, Carter. Just ’cause you don't know how to have a good time doesn't mean we all have to follow your lead.”
Dick.
“I’m here, aren’t I? On time?”
I check my watch. Seven a.m. He certainly is.
I stand and wave my fingers at him. Trashed or not, he's got work to do today. Work he's not gonna like. I'm not gonna have much fun with it either. Today, I don't have the patience for it or him. I walk him along the corridors to accounts, smiling the entire way, and then open the door into Nate's office.
“Logan’s here for that coding you wanted,” I announce.
His face rises from over three screens, an arch to his brow as he lowers his blue glasses to look at me. “You know, for that thing you were talking about.”