Page 102 of 1 Last Shot

The landlord looks at his phone, then out into the hallway. "Normally, I would wait and escort you out of the tenant's apartment, but I know you and him are friends, and I really have to get home to the family. Can I trust you to lock up behind you when you're done?"

Another nod. "Yes, of course. I'm just here for Oscar."

He nods. And then he's gone, leaving me alone with Oscar and more confusion and pain than ever before.

I busy myself with taking care of him. I refill his water bowl, give him some dog food, and then snap a leash onto his collar when I realize he hasn't stopped following me around.

"Come on, buddy," I murmur, double checking that the door is unlocked for our five-minute pee break outside. Oscar just whines and glues himself to my leg.

When we're back inside, there's nothing left to distract myself with. I'm stone cold sober, with no appetite, and nothing to do except get trampled in my head by my own worries. I don't know what to do with myself.

I sit down on the couch when my legs finally give out, and Oscar immediately climbs up beside me.

"Oh, buddy," I say on a sob, wrapping my arms around his furry body.

He lets out a whine and licks my cheek.

"I don't know what to do," I whisper. "I don't know how to help him."

I feel it then: the urge to let myself crack down the middle and sulk in my own pain. The pain caused by the unfairness of Kane's life, and the pain of dealing with the way Kane chooses to lash out. None of it is fair. And all of it hurts.

But it occurs to me then that this is no different than what it was like in the very beginning with Kane. When he was just as hurt and just as defensive, and his pain made him hurt people. This might be a more intense version of that, but it's the same thing.

And yet, I chose to stick that out. Ichoseto see past Kane's walls, and prove to him that despite his worst thoughts, his worst fears, I see him for who he really is. And I'm staying right here.

Because this isn’t a schoolgirl crush anymore—I’ve fallen head over heels in love with Kane Whitaker. In my heart, I always knew I would, and I knew that if he gave me even the smallest opening, that I would happily make the jump. A small part of me was worried he wouldn’t feel the same way, but now I realize the real risk is that hedoesfeel the same way, but is scared to fight for it.

Curled up around Oscar, I flash back to the look on Kane's face right before the cops hauled him away.

Pain. Regret. Doubt.

I could see the thoughts on his face as clear as day. Even after everything we've been through, everything we've talked about and shared, Kane still obviously believes he's better off pushing me away. Whether that's because he's scared of trying or because he thinks he doesn't deserve me, I don't know. But both options are bullshit.

So, just like I did when I first showed up on his doorstep. I'm not going to let him push me away. I'm going to stay and show him that Iseehim, and I want him. I'm going to show him what it's really like to be cared for.

And if he wants out, thenhe'sgoing to have to say it. Because I'll be damned if I'm the one that gives up on us.

32

KANE

I wake from my blackout inside a jail cell.

I wish I could say this is the first time it's happened, but that would be a lie. Though, this is the first time it's happened in Philly.

Groaning, I drag my hands down my face before forcing myself into a sitting position. It looks like I passed out on the bench in the cell, with two other guys snoring on the other side of the room. There's light filtering through the windows, signaling that I either slept through the night, or was blacked out long enough to not remember it. Either way, I'm sobering up and can feel the hangover from hell coming soon. Which means I need to get the fuck out of here before it hits.

I shakily push to my feet and near the bars. "Hey, can I make a phone call?" I call out.

For a few minutes, I hear nothing. Then, the sound of a lumbering night cop meets my ears, seconds before he appears at the end of the hallway.

"Well, look who's sobering up," he says, the disgust evident in his voice.

I don't bother responding to that. But he must see my confusion because he clarifies, "You already made your phone call. Clearly, you don't remember."

Fuck.No, I don't remember that. Who did I call? Isabella?

Dear God, I hope not.

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