Unworthy Of Love (BXB)

32. The Talk

The warehouse is long and dark and empty, and every sound we make is accompanied by an echo. The light of the dawn streams in through the holes in the roof and the glassless windows. Raven takes a few steps, looks around, then turns to me, sticking his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans.

"You sleep here?" He points around with his chin. "A bit trampish, if you don't mind me saying."

"Not right here. There's a couple of rooms in the basement where the truck drivers used to rest when this place was still in use. There's a toilet and a little kitchen and a couple of mattresses left."

"Five stars, sounds like." He nods. "So? We're here. What do you want?"

I take a step in his direction. He flinches but remains in place, watching my approach. He looks pale and tired in the light of the morning. He's almost a head shorter than me now. The difference wasn't so great three years ago. I wonder if it's the genetics to blame, or his unhealthy lifestyle.

I stop and meet his cool, impenetrable gaze.

"Why did you take my money?" I say.

His eyebrows go up; then, surprisingly, he laughs.

"Oh, so that's the issue? I'll pay you back, if that will save me a few broken bones."

"The money is not the issue, and you know it," I say. "It's the fact that you took it."

The smile slips gradually off his face.

"Just see it as a payment for getting rid of me." He crosses his hands on his chest. "Eight hundred bucks and I'm out of your life. With all the trouble that having me around causes, I'd say you got off cheaply."

My anger flares at that, which is probably what he's trying to achieve—to piss me off, to make me lash out, to get it done with. I won't let him play me like that.

"If I wanted to get rid of you, I could have done it for free," I say. "Catherine wanted to send you away."

"And you didn't?"

I shake my head.

"That only shows that she's smarter than you." He pauses. "How is she, by the way?"

"As if you cared."

"You're right." He shrugs. "I don't. So, if it's not about the money, what do you want?"

"Answers!" My voice is suddenly loud in the large empty space, and he steps back, surprised. I clench my fists, trying to get my breathing under control.

"I want to understand. It was going well. You were doing fine. Why did you have to turn tricks, to steal, it's not like you needed anything --"

"Yeah, right!" He glares at me. "I didn't need anything as long as you allowed me to stay with you. Once you decided to kick me out --"

"Why would we do that?"

"Everyone before you did!" He clenches his fists. "She wanted to, eventually! And then I would have nothing again! I needed some security!"

"Well, little security it gave you!"

"I didn't know it would turn out like that, all right? Stop yelling at me!" He turns away, runs his fingers through his hair. "Do you think I'm not sorry? Because I am, James. I'm so very sorry. I know how I screwed everything up for you. I should have called the police, not you, but you were number one on my speed dial, and I just thought about you right away." He sighs, still looking away. "I know you're mad at me. You have every reason to be."

I stare at him. There's no need to deny the obvious. "You're damn right."

"You wanted to hurt me, right? All these years? Like I hurt you?"

That's true as well. When he left and I remained with my pain and my disappointment, I wanted it so badly. To be back there on that bathroom floor with the knife at his throat and him begging for his life. Only I wouldn't have listened this time. I would have gone farther. I would have gone all the way.

But it's been three years, and with all that I thought and felt and what I've learned about him in that time, my feelings have begun to change.

"Go ahead then." He turns to me, opening his hands, his face frozen, his eyes full of tears. "Hit me! Hurt me! Use your fists!"

I shake my head. "No."

"Do it, I'm telling you!" It's him yelling at me now, advancing until we're almost face to face. "I want you to!"

I watch him, the silence hanging heavy between us.

"Even if I did that," I say, "I couldn't hurt you as much as you're hurting yourself."

That deflates him somewhat. He steps back and shakes his head.

"There's no point in this," he says. "I should go. You wanted to talk; we've talked. I must go now."

"In a hurry to get another fix?" I nod at his right arm, where the torn off sleeve exposes numerous track marks. "Is it heroin this time?"

"None of your business." He turns away.

"You're so intent on destroying yourself."

"None of your business, either."

"All right," I say. "How about a coffee?"

He stops, then glances at me over his shoulder. "What?"

"There's a coffee machine downstairs, still in service." I spread my hands. "Have a cup with me, and then you can go. I won't prevent you from leaving."