Page 90 of Laila Manning
I should have been happy that he looked so good, but there was something in my gut, burning and raging loud enough to force me to acknowledge it. And it felt a lot like intuition. The clean-cut look made him look youthful and fresh, too. It made him look vulnerable.
Which made me angry.
“I’ve been looking for you.” I announced, catching him off guard as he walked past the bistro cafe I was sitting at, having a cup of tea. Finding him at that moment hadn’t been planned, I’d simply been taking a break from walking the streets, looking behind dumpsters and abandoned buildings, searching for him. And then there he was, walking down the street in a new name-brand hoodie and fresh sneakers like he hadn’t been missing at all.
His bright blue eyes always reminded me of Zeke’s, and when they snapped at me, filling with irritation almost instantly, I brushed it off. “You don’t quit, do you?”
“Sit.” I snapped my fingers, kicking the metal chair across from me out and lifting my cup to my lips. He scoffed and waved me off, walking away from me without a second glance as I called out, “Or I’ll tell Zeke.”
I sensed him coming to a stop behind me, right before I could feel his glare in the back of my head, followed by his groan in frustration. He stomped back to my table and threw himself down in the chair, leaning his elbows on the table to glare at me. “What the fuck is wrong with you, lady?”
“Laila.” I replied, sipping my tea again as he squinted at me in contemplation. “My name is Laila.”
“Why should I care what my stalker’s name is?”
I shrugged and smiled at an older couple who walked by, both with canes holding hands. “If I wanted to stalk you, I’d order a hit out and have you sent to the shop so I couldwatchyou there.”
I had zero clue if anything I said made sense; I didn’t even know what went on in the ominous building behind the barracks. Hell, I didn’t even know how to order a hit on anyone or if that was even how things were done in the crew, but it sounded good. And it must havesounded good enough, because his youthful features whitened a bit before he leaned back in the chair, defeated.
“What do you want?” He asked with far less malice in his voice, and I waved the server down, drawing her to the table.
“Spare me a few minutes, get yourself a drink, and let’s chat. Without all the false bravado and jabs flying.” I stared at him pointedly, “From either of us.”
He sighed but turned his attention to the waitress, “I’ll have a watermelon boba.”
“Please.” I replied pointedly, and he rolled his eyes but added it.
“Please. Thank you.”
“Good job.” I smiled as the server walked away, and an awkward silence fell between us. I hadn’t planned exactly what I’d say to him when I found him, but I knew if I didn’t start soon, he’d bolt. “Your friend asked me if I had seen you a few days ago. And it took me this long to lay eyes on you. Which is impressive, considering Jed and Zeke were helping me.”
“I’ve been busy.” He shrugged, watching the cars drive down the street. “I got a new job.”
“How old are you?” I questioned, “Before with the whole gloom and doom look, I would have guessed thirteen, maybe. But now, you look even younger.”
Kade scoffed with a snort, “Dirt ages you.”
“Tell me about it.” I droned on, sipping my tea.
His blue eyes finally found me again and squinted. “Like you know anything about being dirty. I’m sure you’ve never lifted a single manicured finger living in the East Valley.”
“Except I only just moved to Ryker’s Estate a few months ago. Before that, I lived in conditions far worse than anything you could dream up in that smart-mouthed little head of yours.”
He opened his mouth to say something but stopped himself, as if he was physically trying to be—nice. I’m sure the tough-guy act was a hard one to drop after perfecting it for years.
“I’m twelve.” He replied after a while. “But it’s just a number. When you’ve been on your own as long as I have been, it doesn’t mean anything.”
“How long have you been alone?” I sipped my tea, watching silently as he gave the young server who delivered his tea a flirty smile before he responded.
He stared back toward the traffic with a slight shrug. “Four years on my own. Three in foster care before that.”
He had been on the streets since he was eight years old.
I wasn’t even allowed to cross the street alone at eight, but now look at the both of us. We were both products of the world, chewing us up and spitting us out. “I’m guessing that somehow, the street is better than your foster care was?” I asked, and he just rolled his eyes with a shrug, telling me all I needed to know. “What new job did you get?”
He shrugged again, looking out over the street. “Taking care of some stuff.”
“Stuff?” I deadpanned, “For whom?”
