White Knight

by Meghan March

  Her hands clutch my shoulders when I leave her mouth and trail my lips down her jaw, scraping my teeth along the tendons in her neck as her head falls back with a moan.

  “So fucking beautiful,” I whisper against her collarbone as I shove her club vest and shirt down her arms. Beneath is a silky tank I remove with ease, along with her bra. The skirt goes next, leaving her standing in front of me bare-faced and naked but for the tiny scrap of lace masquerading as panties. “On the bed, baby.”

  She backs up a step and bumps into the edge before sitting and moving into the middle. I slide my suit jacket over my shoulders and toss it on the chair behind me without turning to see if it made it. Memphis’s gaze locks on my fingers, and I loosen my tie to slide it free. It follows my jacket. Then button by button, I undo my shirt. With each moment that passes, she shifts on the bed, her fingers gripping the coverlet, and I love it. I want her just as eager as I am.

  I toss the shirt, then my belt, shoes, and pants. When I’m done, I stand before her naked, with my cock rising to bump against my lower abs.

  Memphis sits up straighter as I place a knee on the bed and move toward her. Her hands outstretch, reaching for me, and I know I made the right decision.

  Whatever else happens, I won’t regret making this choice. I won’t regret choosing her. Choosing us.

  “You’re mine,” I whisper against her lips as I wrap my arms around her.

  “And you’re mine,” she says. “I’m sorry—”

  I nip at her bottom lip to stop her. “You apologized. I accepted. Now we move on. No more dirty little secrets, baby. Promise me.”

  Her forehead tilts to press against mine, and a shiver travels the length of her body. “I promise. How are you real? You should—”

  Her head falls to the side as I grind into her center.

  “Fuck you so hard that you have no choice but to fall asleep in my arms and not be able to sneak away in the morning? Yeah, that’s my plan.”

  She goes quiet, reaching up to thread her fingers through my hair. “No matter what happens, I won’t ever regret this, because I got to have you.”

  I don’t like the fatalistic tone to her words, so I shut her up the best way possible—I kiss the hell out of her until she’s pinned to the bed beneath me, and my hands rove freely. I memorize every curve of her body, every mole and scar and imperfection, because I want to know everything about her. Every detail, every story, every wrong turn she’s ever made.

  If I thought I was fucked before, I was wrong. I was fucking blessed.

  With her moans in my ears and her nails digging into my shoulders, I make my way down between her legs and feast. Every tangy taste of her pussy fills me with resolve. When she screams out her orgasm, I don a condom and move into position. And for the very first time in my entire life, I don’t fuck or bang.

  It’s more.

  It’s pushing and pulling together. It’s this precious woman beginning where I end. It’s passion and desire and lust and adoration. I give without taking, but gain anyway.

  Slowly, I move inside her, savoring every quiver. Every pulse. Every moan. And for the first time in my life, I make love. It sounds cheesy as hell, but there’s a goddamned difference, and I didn’t know it until now. Until this woman.

  For better or for worse, I’m never letting her go. Whatever happens next, happens to both of us.

  And when I get closer, feeling the tension between us reaching a height I didn’t realize was possible, her name pours from my lips.

  “Memphis. Memphis. Memphis.” And I’m finally home.

  12

  Memphis

  From beside me, Cannon’s breathing evens out as he drops off to sleep. I hover on the edge as well, my body sated and mind spinning.

  How can he forgive me so easily?

  There was only one man I knew who could do so with such ease, and that was my father.

  He would have liked Cannon. I have no doubt about that. What he would have liked even more is the way Cannon treats his daughter.

  As the garage door closed tonight, I was expecting rage and accusations. Outbursts and blame. But all I got was understanding and acceptance. Trust when I hadn’t earned it. And through it all, he still wanted me, exactly as I am.

  I already knew how I felt about Cannon before, but tonight cemented everything. I love him, and there’s absolutely nothing that could make me do anything to hurt him. Ever.

  I make the vow to myself, and I will die to keep it.

  Whatever comes next, we will handle it together.

  “I love you,” I whisper into the darkness, and I swear his arm tightens around me. For the first time in months, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t answer my calls, Memphis. I may not be your biological mother, but I’m the only one you’ve ever known.”

  Taking my mom out to dinner is pretty much the last thing I want to do right now, but I force myself to make a semi-sincere apology. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’ve been busy. I was undercover.”

  I don’t know why I’m telling her the truth—or at least so much of it. I should lie to her, but lies don’t come as easily to my lips today as they did before. And I know exactly why that is.

  Because the truth feels damn good.

  “You and your little investigations. Are you ever going to find a respectable hobby?” She lifts her third glass of wine to her lips and drains it, and we haven’t even finished the escargot she insisted on ordering as an appetizer.

  Since it’s the only thing that makes them tolerable, I squeeze lemon onto the one and only snail I’ll eat. Overdoing it on the citrus makes my lips pucker, but not more than my dinner date.

  “It’s not a hobby, Mother. It’s my job.”

  She shakes her head, and her empty glass clinks against the plate as her hand trembles when she sets the crystal on the table. Clearly, Mother hasn’t had enough to drink today to satisfy what her body has grown to need with her addiction.

  “Oh, really? Is someone paying you to be undercover? Because Sandra Reddington told me last week at tennis that you took a sabbatical from the network, and Jim has finally given up hope that you’re coming back.”

  It takes everything I have not to roll my eyes. Jim Reddington is a senior executive at Investigation Network, where I worked, and was a friend of my father’s. He knew why I left, even if I didn’t tell him, and he didn’t try to confirm. When I rose from our meeting and shook his hand, he gave me a grave smile and said, “Be safe and happy, Memphis. That’s what your father would want for you.”

  He offered to let me do the investigation as part of my role at the network, but when I declined, he didn’t push the issue. Probably because he knew that this wasn’t for public consumption, and I would never exploit what happened to my father for the sake of ratings. Besides, if I was right and my father died because he’d dug too deep into the dark recesses of the mob and paid the price with his life, nobody at the station would have been safe.

  This is for me and the justice I need. I won’t let a personal quest cost another life.

  “Jim and I had an agreement, and what’s more, it was a confidential one. Sandra shouldn’t be saying anything about it.”

  The server keeps glancing in our direction but stays away from the table, like he’d rather not interact with my stepmother either. Smart guy.

  My stepmother releases an exasperated sigh and maneuvers a snail off the serving dish and onto her plate with not-so-nimble grace. “Well, maybe I wouldn’t have to go around asking for updates from my friends if you would answer your phone and tell me what’s going on.”

  If I thought the woman across from me actually cared about anything I had to say, I might have told her more, but I’ve learned over the years that our interests don’t overlap.

  Maybe after all these years, it’s time to search for relatives of my biological mother. My father told me she loved me dearly and passed away when I was four, and out of respect for Cynthia,
he would prefer we not talk about her. While my instinct was to rebel against everything my stepmother told me, I followed my father’s instructions like they came straight from the gospel.

  I don’t know why I didn’t think more about her after . . . after what happened to my father. Probably because my sole focus in life since getting the call I never wanted to receive has been finding the truth and then gaining justice for him.

  As my stepmother blathers on about her next snail being too rubbery or too salty, and how can this possibly be a Michelin-starred restaurant with such terrible service because I finished my glass of wine three minutes ago and no one has come to refill it, I zone out.

  At least, I zone out until I overhear an unmistakable voice—Randi Brown’s voice—from just beyond my stepmother, telling her date she’s ready to get the hell out of here.

  I stare over my stepmother’s shoulder at Randi as her gaze zeroes in on me and she stops in midstep. What feels like every drop of blood drains from my face as we make eye contact.

  I’m wearing Memphis Lockwood reporter-on-the-air persona tonight. No one should recognize me as Drew, but the hair on the back of my neck lifts at the way Randi is staring. It’s like she sees right through me.

  And right next to her . . . is GTR Rossetti.

  Oh Jesus Christ. Oh Jesus Christ. Please don’t say anything, Randi. Please don’t say anything.

  “Why the fuck are you stopping?” GTR asks her, pushing Randi along to get her moving again.

  Randi rips her gaze from mine and locks arms with GTR. “Because I’m waiting for you, bad boy. Come on.”

  Before I can duck my head and pray she didn’t just recognize me, my stepmother turns around and snaps her fingers in the air, rudely summoning the server who finally dares to come two steps closer.

  “I need a refill. Right now.” She shakes her head and turns back to me. “Next time, Memphis, you’re taking me somewhere nice.”

  My name rings in the air in my stepmother’s tone of eternal disappointment, and there’s no way Randi can miss it. She does a double take, her eyes narrowed on me in a quick glance over her shoulder as she leaves the restaurant.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I have to tell Cannon. Now.

  While my stepmother places her order for a dish that’s not even on the menu, I pull out my phone and tap out a quick text.

  * * *

  Me: I’m at L’Atelier and GTR and Randi were here together. Randi looked at me too hard as they were leaving. Like she recognized me. My mom used my real name in front of her. Help.

  * * *

  As I type the words, I realize that I’m fucked. What if Randi says something to GTR about thinking she saw someone who reminded her of me? How long could something like that possibly take to make its way back to Dom? And if it gets back to Dom . . .

  I remember the icy feeling of terror that suffocated me at the construction site when I thought he was coming to kill me because he’d found out my real identity. It’s rising in me now, and my fingers curl into my cloth napkin while I grip the phone tightly with the other hand.

  My leg bounces to dispel the nervous energy.

  My stepmother corrects the server about whatever.

  My breathing quickens as, once again, a very real threat settles into the pit of my stomach.

  I pray to God my cell buzzes with a response that tells me Cannon is coming to the rescue. He said we were in this together, and I hope he knows what to do.

  Which is when I realize that I’ve never relied on a man other than my father to come to my rescue. That’s big. Huge.

  And I hope it doesn’t cause us to end up dead.

  Mommy Dearest taps her fork against my crystal wineglass, jolting me back to the moment. “Memphis? Are you going to order? We’re waiting on you.”

  I lift the corners of my mouth into a fake smile that I’m sick of wearing. I’m tired of hiding. Being in disguise. Not being able to show how I feel.

  It’s time for a change. It’s time to just be me.

  But a feeling of unease creeps up my neck.

  “Still deciding. What do you recommend?” I ask, not bothering to look at the server. Instead, I glance over my shoulder and find GTR’s gaze drilling into me. He and Randi hover near the exit, with GTR talking on his phone.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Please be talking to your driver and not someone else. Like your father. About how you’re going to bring something big to Dom to try to repair the truce.

  My thoughts race as the server gives an effusive description of a fish I’ve never heard of nor care to eat, but I blurt out, “I’ll have that. Sounds great.”

  My phone vibrates, and I don’t even try to be polite. I lift it and stare at the message.

  * * *

  Cannon: I’m on my way. Stay strong, baby. We got this.

  * * *

  Baby. It’s such a small word, but it packs a massive punch of feeling.

  As I read the words, it’s like being wrapped in a heated blanket. Warmth and concern cocoon me. While I don’t know how Cannon plans to handle things so that we don’t end up dead, I believe that he will. I have faith in him.

  I glance at the door again to find Randi and GTR are gone. Thank God.

  “Memphis? Are you even listening to me? Of course you’re not. Why would I expect that you’d care about a word I have to say after you’ve ignored my calls for weeks?”

  Something snaps inside me as I fix my eyes on the face of the woman who wanted nothing to do with raising me.

  “When’s the last time you called me to find out how I was doing? You know, instead of just because you needed something. When was the last time you cared how my job was going? Or my life?” I toss my napkin atop my uneaten snail. “Or how I’ve been dealing with my grief? As a matter of fact, when was the last time you cared about something other than yourself?”

  Apparently once the truth gates are open, anyone can get sucked into the undertow. At that moment, it’s my mother, but sometimes the truth hurts.

  I’ll give credit to the Botox and fillers she’s gotten, because her eyebrows don’t move, although there’s still a semblance of shock on her face.

  “How dare you speak to me like that?” The outraged tone punches through every self-righteous word she speaks. “I am the closest thing you have to a mother, and you should be happy you have at least one parent left.” Like she has to illustrate what a cliché she is, her jittery hand clutches her pearls.

  The closest thing I have to a mother.

  The words stick in my brain as a few patrons stare at the small scene we’re making in this acclaimed restaurant, but I don’t care if they watch. It’s safer if people see me. Safer with more eyes on us, especially until Cannon gets here.

  “You’re right. But sometimes close isn’t enough. You’ve never wanted me in your life. You’ve resented me since I was old enough to know what resentment is. Why are you even here? Why did you even want to see me?”

  A single tear tips over her lid, and a stab of sympathy pierces my chest.

  “Because I don’t have any family left either, Memphis. Did you think about that?” She shoves away from the table, the Hermes bracelets encircling both her wrists clinking against one another. Snatching up her vintage Louis Vuitton speedy bag, she stalks away to the restroom.

  Instead of feeling vindicated and proud of myself for finally expressing my feelings, I feel like an asshole.

  I guess it’s no surprise why I’ve avoided having personal relationships for most of my life. The truth doesn’t discriminate; it can hurt anyone.

  The entrées are served and still my mother doesn’t return. I stare down at the fish covered in a pungent truffle sauce and wait, thinking about one of the few times we actually got along. When I was eleven, she took me to Neiman’s to go shopping for my first bra, and we ended up on a shopping spree. It was before the drinking got bad. Maybe I should try harder to convince her to go to rehab.

  As I consider the idea, I realize how much time has pass
ed when Cannon walks in the door of the restaurant. He waves off the maître d’ and strides toward the linen-covered table.

  Leaning down to press a kiss to my cheek, he whispers, “Where’s the lioness?”

  “I pissed her off and she ran to the bathroom.” I glance down at my phone to check the time. “Twenty minutes ago.”

  Cannon’s eyebrows go up and he stands to his full height to help me out of my seat. “Why don’t you go check on her. I’ll take care of the bill.”

  “I can pay—” I reach for my bag.

  “Memphis.” He slips out a billfold from behind the lapel of his silk-lined jacket. “Go find your mother.”

  I follow his orders, but she’s not in the restroom. I check every stall. When I come out, Cannon is standing near the door.

  I wrap my arms around my waist and shrug. “She’s gone.”

  “Fuck,” he whispers.

  “Ma’am?” an older gentleman says. “Are you looking for the blonde in blue Chanel who stalked out a little bit ago?”

  Relief floods me. “Yes. Did you see her?”

  “She said she was going for a smoke,” the man says, then corrects himself. “A fucking smoke, actually.”

  I jerk my head back in shock. “A smoke? Thanks.” Turning to Cannon, I add, “That’s weird, because she doesn’t smoke. Or at least I didn’t know she smoked.”

  He threads his fingers through mine. “Come on, let’s find her.”

  But when we make it to the sidewalk, there’s no sign of her, and my apprehension grows with every minute that passes.

  I ask the first thing that comes to mind. Although, I’m uncertain if I want the answer. “If Randi figured things out and she told GTR . . . he wouldn’t tell Dom, would he?”

  “No, I don’t think he would.”

  Cannon leads me to a town car double-parked in front of the restaurant, and I pause as a driver I don’t recognize opens the back door so I can climb in.