| Excerpt from Soul Haven, by Sonja Baines * * * * * * * * * * Utter exhaustion drove Kale to the bed the volunteers at Soul Haven so graciously reserved in his name, where he stayed for most of the morning. When he finally felt able to stand without collapsing, it was nearing lunchtime. Nothing solid had entered his system in almost three days. He would have to force himself to eat. He made his way to the cafeteria, drifting with the general exodus toward the line that already stretched to the back of the room. The smell of canned tomato soup filled the air, mingling with the bouquet of urine, unwashed bodies and industrial cleaner that comprised the impermeable atmosphere of homeless shelters everywhere. Taking his place behind a short, pudgy woman who muttered to herself, he shuffled along and kept his head down, reluctant to make eye contact with anyone. When he reached the rigid stack of brown plastic trays and took one, he heard one of the volunteers behind the counter doling out, along with the portions, pleasantries like they were candy—and receiving little response. He shook his head with a slight smirk: she must be new. The novelty of community service would wear out soon enough. He toyed with the idea of speaking with her before she found out who he was, but he decided that it wouldn’t be worth the effort. Without looking up, he slid his tray along the counter and took one of the spongy half-sandwiches masquerading as grilled cheese, and moved on toward the soup. “Hello, Tyrell.” The familiar voice sounded just as he grabbed a bowl, and he nearly spilled the contents all over himself. With reluctance, he raised his eyes to meet those of Bowers—the lady cop who apparently insisted upon killing him with kindness. “What the hell are you doing here?” he said in a low voice. Incredibly, she smiled at him. “What does it look like? I’m volunteering.” “Look, lady,” he said, a touch louder this time. “I’ll bet they told you to stay away from me. I know I told you to. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I’m telling you—” “Mr. Tyrell!” The aide to Bowers’ left joined the conversation with cold indignation. “There’s no need to yell. You just move on, now. There are other people waiting for their lunches.” Pressing his lips together, Kale fixed the lady cop with a final glare and continued down the line without taking anything else. What little he had of an appetite had vanished. He walked to the drink counter and poured a cup of water. He found a seat at one of the few empty tables and stared numbly at the food in front of him. Why? He wanted to scream the question—damn respect for the staff. What could this woman possibly gain by haunting him, other than a temporary soothing of her no doubt scalded social conscience? There were plenty of other homeless around to lavish affected concern upon, ones without nasty reputations and a penchant for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bowers could damn well go and rescue someone who deserved it. Holding back a sigh, he drank some of the water and forced himself to eat. His strength was flagging, and he needed to stay alert if he planned to carry out Hyatt’s directives. With no idea what awaited him, he had to be prepared for anything. Before he managed to convince his arm to reach for the congealed bread and cheese, a shadow darkened his table and Bowers said, “Is this seat taken?” Kale didn’t look up. Jaw clenched, he offered a slow shake of his head, and cringed inwardly when she sat down across from him. She drew a reluctant breath, and a moment later blurted, “I’m sorry.” That grabbed his attention. Meeting her eyes with a sarcastic huff, he said, “Everyone here is going to hate you for talking to me. You don’t have to apologize. Just leave me alone.” “I don’t care what everyone thinks.” She reddened and looked away fast. “Why are you acting like you’re guilty?” “Maybe I am.” “I don’t believe that.” “Well, you’re the only one, damn it!” He closed his eyes and drew in a calming breath. Shouting at her would give the Soul Haven staff the perfect opportunity to kick him out for good, and there went any chance of finding this mystery group of Hyatt’s. When he focused on her again, it was with a bit more self-control. “Lady—” “I have a name,” she interrupted. “It’s Renata. You can call me Ren, if you want to.” Kale sighed. “Okay, Bowers.” She appeared surprised. “How did you know that?” “Same way you know my name. I listen.” Frowning, he glanced around hoping no one was paying attention to them. A few of the volunteers stared in their direction from behind the counter, but they were too far away to hear anything. “Really, Bowers, you have to stay away from me. Don’t you understand? Your buddies would kill me in a minute if they thought they could get away with it, and what’s to stop them from saying I was a threat to you?” “What? Brady and Desmond?” She stared at his shirt as though she could see through it. “You really think they’d kill you? How bad is it?” she whispered. “You tell me.” Keeping his expression neutral, Kale spread his jacket to the sides and lifted his shirt to reveal a glimpse of the unbroken mass of bruises and welts covering his torso. Her hand flew to her mouth. Kale released the material and pulled his coat back around torso, then shook his head at her disbelief. “I was pretty sure you were there for at least part of that,” he said. “Did you think they were pulling the punches?” “Jesus.” She swallowed nervously and lowered her arm. “Shouldn’t you see a doctor or something?” “Oh, yeah. Great idea,” he muttered. “Hell, why don’t I report them for police brutality while I’m at it? That way, next time they drag me in, they can break both my arms, too.” A wounded look almost wrung an apology out of him. Hating the twinge of compunction, he added, “It’s just a few busted ribs. They heal on their own. Doctor couldn’t do anything for me anyway.” He looked around again. The lieutenant director of the shelter had joined the aides behind the counter, one of whom was whispering and pointing in their direction. Clearing his throat, he faced Bowers and said, “You have to go. They don’t like me talking to you.” “But I don’t care what—” Anger eclipsed his momentary forbearance. “If you want to keep volunteering here, go. Now. There will be another day.” She seemed about to protest again, but at last she nodded and stood without a word. Kale watched her walk away, regretting his last statement more with every step she took. Christ, he’d practically invited her back. |