KNUD, Her Big Bad Wolf: 50 Loving States, Kansas

by Theodora Taylor

  “Yes, please.” she answered.

  “anything else?”

  Grey dot…dot…dot…then, “Nothing else is required, just you.”

  He smiled down at his phone. Smiling was another thing he didn’t do much of—at least not until she showed up. “k be there soon as I can.”

  “Thank you.”

  He finished his surgery play-by-play, then rushed through the rest of his paperwork, his fingers flying over the touchpad only to stop again when his phone sounded. It was an innocuous ripple, though, not the twinkle he’d assigned to L-heart’s contact number.

  He didn’t recognize the number. At first, he thought it might be his younger triplet, Nago. He’d texted him a heads-up earlier that morning about an old girlfriend of Nago’s. And although he’d gone through a lot of trouble to mask his number. But if anyone could figure out how to find him, it was his brilliant brother.

  But it wasn’t Nago. It was from the phone he’d sent to Oklahoma.

  “Hello, Knud?”

  Knud. Seeing his name in text unsettled him. He’d been Dr. Rasmussen “Dr. Thug” Knight for so long, he’d almost forgotten there were still those who knew him by another name.

  “yeah uncle grady it’s me,” he typed back in the all-lowercase, no-punctuation style that never failed to send his mother on a rant about his “generation.”

  “Sorry it took me so long to write back. Put the phone in my desk and only just checking it now. But it’s good to hear from you!”

  So many emojis followed his uncle’s text that Knight was again struck by how different his huge deaf uncle appeared in writing versus in person. Grady’s wife, his Aunt Tu, frequently remarked that the person who spoke inside her head was much different from the quiet deaf-mute who could only communicate with his hands to all but his mate. Uncle Grady also spoke a rough, very informal version of ASL he’d taught himself. It was nothing like his son Qim’s sophisticated flow, or what they’d been taught when Aunt Tu insisted on making ASL a required class at summer camp.

  Knight hesitated, his thumbs hovering over the phone’s touchscreen and his heart accelerating. He’d put a lot of work into escaping his past; into reinventing himself as someone other than the professional killer he’d been only a few years ago. He’d taken lives longer than he’d saved them. And it felt way too soon to return to even a fragment of the life he used to know.

  But then the image of Jandro pushed into his head. Of the boy shaking in the bathtub as he came down from the withdrawal, then nearly losing it because a wolf had gifted him new clothes. And holy fuck, the kid was scrawny.

  A full moon had already passed, and another was due next Friday. He couldn’t just sit and wait while Olcan continued to look for a placement. And besides, a placement was nothing more than a band-aid. A reluctant foster family who may or may not know ASL wasn’t what the kid needed to survive and thrive.

  Knight took a deep breath and typed, “found deaf cub in kansas…9 years. parents dead. kansas pack can’t take him…social worker can’t find a family. need advice.”

  To his surprise, his Uncle’s answer came back immediately in all caps: “SEND HIM TO US.”

  He expelled a sigh of relief. “yeah that’s what I want to do...send him to the oklahoma pack…thanks.” Wolf Haven was not only one of the richest kingdom towns in the country, but it was also home to the sole boarding school for deaf wolves in North America. They’d be able to help Jandro there. And maybe Grady could help find Jandro a foster family who knew ASL for the summers—

  But before Knight could type another message, his uncle texted back, “No, not to the Oklahoma pack. Send him to US.”

  13

  The conversation with Grady took a long time. Longer than Knight wanted considering who was waiting for him back at home. By the time he walked through the front door, he was exhausted for reasons that had nothing to do with the two surgeries and related paperwork he’d clocked before spending an hour texting back and forth with his uncle.

  He no longer had the energy for level ten sex, or even level five. But he wasn’t going to send L-heart away. Not after the day she’d had….

  He found two trays of what looked like freshly baked chocolate chip cookies cooling on the kitchen counter. Considering his complete lack of kitchen supplies, she must have brought them over—maybe as an experiment to see if his never-used oven really worked. It must have because the apartment smelled delicious, and the cookies looked almost as beautiful as she did.

  As he set the ice cream down, he had a very unusual thought: tonight he just wanted to eat ice cream and freshly-baked cookies, drink a commiseration beer with her, and go to bed. That was all. No sex. Just a lot of sugar, carbs, and cuddling, which he knew violated at least two rules on their list.

  “Hey, Hot Social Worker. Where you at?” he called out into the quiet space.

  No answer.

  Going completely still, his eyes scanned the empty room. He couldn’t smell much over the overpoweringly sweet scent of the cookies. But he could sense someone in the apartment.

  “L-heart?” he tried again, his eyes going to the bathroom. But no, the door was wide open and he knew she’d never leave it open if she was inside.

  He gave a quick thought to his gun, locked away in the same closet safe where he kept his pay-as-you-go-phones. The closet was on the opposite side of the room. Damnit….

  His wolf senses prickled again. And suddenly several things he’d suspected about L-heart forced their way to the front of his mind.

  That she was rich. That she was both overly trusting and overly confident. That though she worked a low paying job, she looked and talked like a High Media princess. Possibly because she was a Daddy’s Girl. The kind of rich that didn’t need to flaunt it because she’d been born with money to spare.

  The kind of rich that kidnappers loved to target.

  As he crossed what felt like a thousand football fields to get to the room where his gun was locked away, he cursed himself for not protecting her better. For being so cocky that he let her stay alone in a building that didn’t have so much as a doorman—

  The closet door suddenly slammed open, and someone jumped out at him with a big “Boo!”

  Knight’s instinct kicked in before his logic. He swung on the person without registering who it was…his training in full effect. Because in Wolf Force, if someone comes at you while you are casing an enemy position, you hit them hard and ask questions later.

  But in this case, his instinctive punch was deftly dodged and swiftly returned. Straight to the forehead. Knud swayed. The strike hadn’t had much force, but it had been precise. Aimed right between the eyes, effectively blinding him. Literally. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the blurry filter over his vision.

  Fuck, don’t wolf out…first rule of Wolf Force, he mumbled to himself, right before the red rage made the point moot. It viciously took over his mind, cutting off access to all his wolf senses, as it blindly roundhoused on his attacker.

  But the roundhouse was blocked, too. His attacker caught his leg and delivered a sharp elbow to the back of his knee. He yelled out, pain effectively clearing his vision as he fell to the floor. If not for his wolf resilience, his bone would likely have broken under the hit. Which stoked the angry fire hidden inside of him even more.

  He could see again, but the anger...it painted his world deep red as he got to his feet. Whoever the fuck this fighter was, he’d destroy him!

  “Buddy!” a familiar voice screamed in the distance. “Please don’t! Please! Thunderpuffs! Thunderpuffs! I don’t want hurt to you!”

  The voice. It was L-heart…!

  And just like that, the red anger receded. Let him breathe. Let him see…

  The woman standing in front of him. Not some faceless attacker, but Hot Social Worker.

  Her fists were raised in a martial stance, just like his. And she was panting hard, her eyes wide with horror.

  14

  My manual Tesla—which Jar
ed drove the five hours it took to get here from Texas—pulls up to an imposing metal-and-glass building that looks like it’s dying for the chance to play a part in some film as a supervillain’s lair. This is apparently where I live now.

  And as if to provide further proof I’m in the right place, Gracie is standing outside the building’s hexagon-shaped front doors. Waiting for me. If not for her unmistakable razor-sharp features, I might not have recognized her at all. The last time I recall seeing her was three years ago at my brother Aaron’s wedding in Italy. She’d been two years into an MBA program at Northwestern, and her wardrobe of choice had been a tight bun paired with a conservative suit dress.

  But now she’s a dropout who has decided to attend culinary school in Kansas. And her looks have changed dramatically. She’s wearing a tank top and baggy joggers, both of which look like they were purchased from an online retailer. Her dark hair is cut short in a severe bob that’s nearly as sharp as her cheekbones. Most surprisingly are the dark tattoos adorning both her arms. They’re almost as menacing as this apartment building.

  “Shimmer, please wait here while Santiago secures the inside and perim—” Jared starts to say.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Jared, but I’m going to ignore you,” I answer before he can finish his instructions.

  I jump out of the car and run to my same-aged “little cousin,” scooping her into a hug.

  “Hey, cuz,” she says, hugging me back just as fiercely despite her new badass look. “It’s good to finally see you again!”

  “Hello, Gracie,” I answer. Sad because she obviously remembers a recent version of me, but I don’t remember this version of her at all.

  “I adore your tattoos,” I say to fill in the awkward moment.

  “Thanks…you okay?” she asks. Most likely because I’m clinging to her rather desperately.

  “No, I’m not,” I admit.

  She pulls back from the hug to smile at me. Now this smile I remember. It’s quiet and composed like her. And it’s a twin to the smile of her introverted father, Uncle Suro.

  “Let’s go home,” she says, taking me by the hand to lead me into the apartment filled fortress.

  The interior of the apartment building, unlike Gracie, is exactly what I expect. Shiny biometric lock on the outside door and another inside the elevator we take to get to our penthouse. Security bots are stationed like titanium tiki statues on either side of our sliding hexagon-shaped doorway. I don’t bother to check their defense settings. Knowing my dad and Uncle Suro, they’re programmed to kill.

  Our apartment looks more like a hotel room than a place where a social worker and college student live. The ceiling is made mostly of tinted glass, giving us a view of the colorful orange and rose-hued sunset happening above our heads. The living room sits like an island on a raised platform covered in plush maroon carpeting and creamy white couches. Just in case that isn’t decadent enough, there’s also an indoor swimming pool next to the island living room. It’s filled with rose-colored saltwater, the temperature of which I’m sure can be adjusted to whatever we deem most comfortable at any given moment. There are also four completely real palm trees hanging out in a green patch of transplanted moss and soil on the other side of the pool.

  “Wow. I see we decided to really slum it when we moved here,” I say to Gracie.

  She laughs and says, “Blame your dad, not mine. I think he was trying to make it up to you without actually saying ‘I’m sorry.’”

  Of course, he was. And this place is a modern dream come true but…something doesn’t feel right. Or…doesn’t smell right. Just like the Texas compound didn’t feel or smell right to me.

  While Jared and Santiago perform the usual perimeter check, I stand in front of one of the apartment’s hexagon-shaped interior walls. The wall is made of the same tinted glass as the ceiling and features a group photo of both our families glowing within its interior. It was originally taken at Aaron’s wedding. My parents stand on either side of my brother; Mom hugging her only son tight. I stand next to Mom, slaying in my bridesmaid dress and smile set to full paparazzi, while my younger sister, Alma, throws the camera a stone-cold look from beneath Dad’s arm. Alma’s No Nonsense All Business brand aside…we look like a happy family. We were a happy family.

  Funny how much the picture hurts to look at now.

  I shift my gaze to Gracie’s family on the other side of Alma. Her tall Asian father, her plump black mother. Her autistic older stepbrother and half-sister, Kenji and Sparkle—known as the Twins even though they’re technically stepsiblings. And as if Gracie’s family isn’t complicated enough, there’s her adopted brother, Spidey. He’s a budding hickhop rapper and wears his tufted afro in a super on-trend anime style. He somehow seems to be simultaneously grinning and rolling his eyes at the camera. I remember how Gracie chastised him for being “bitchy” because he insisted on referring to their still-single opera composer siblings as “Grey Gardens” behind their backs.

  The memory is crystal clear…unlike the huge blank space from before the accident.

  “Spidey sends his love,” Gracie says, coming to stand beside me. “I had to talk him out of driving down from Chicago when he heard you were coming back here. He can’t believe you lost your memory. Especially because you don’t remember that time when he visited us back in February. We had so much fun that weekend!”

  I shake my head unable to believe it myself. That I quit my job and moved here to work.

  My reasons for interning made sense, but I still can’t understand why I accepted a full-time job with some podunk children’s service office when I could have moved anywhere after the internship was done. Our Wichita apartment is…better than nice. But that still doesn’t explain why I decided to double down here after my parents announced their divorce.

  Did it have something to do with the father of this baby? I wonder, rubbing a hand over my only slightly pooched out three-months pregnant belly.

  Their initial safety check completed, Gracie shows Jared and Santiago to their rooms. The apartment has four guestrooms…which sounds outrageous until you realize the place takes up an entire floor of the building.

  “No wonder you missed me so much,” I say when Jared and Santiago leave the sleek glass kitchen to unpack their things. “I can’t imagine staying in a place this big on my own.”

  I’m seated at the glass island counter while Gracie throws together a big pot of gluten-free pasta for dinner.

  “This over-the-top apartment wasn’t anywhere near the list of reasons I missed you,” Gracie answers, her voice taking on what my High Media coaches would call an “urban pitch.”

  “Gracie…” I start.

  “Grace.”

  I look at her in surprise.

  “I go by Grace now,” she explains, her voice gentle. “I almost said something earlier but I didn’t want to upset you.”

  Oh…

  “Grace…” I test out the name on my tongue and to my surprise, it’s a better fit than I expected.

  “I like it! Almost as much as I like your tattoos,” I tell her.

  “Thanks,” she answers with a quiet lift of her lips. “My father hates the tats. I guess we Nakamuras were supposed to stop getting them after my grandfather died.”

  Which makes me wonder, “Did you have a falling out with your dad, too?”

  Another smile whispers across Gracie’s—Grace’s—lips. “Not all of us need a reason to rebel. I just decided to drop out and do my own thing. But back when you asked to move in with me, I was the most rebellious person you knew.”

  “Is that what I said when I called to tell you Dad curated my boyfriend and I wanted to move to Kansas?” I guessed, lips twisting into the wry version of my resting smile.

  “Yup. But at least you were honest about why you picked me. And I can’t say I wasn’t happy to move in with you. Kansas isn’t exactly a hotspot, and it was good to have someone I knew here…”

  “I’m happy I had someone to turn t
o even if I don’t remember it,” I reply with a truly grateful smile.

  For a few moments we stare at each other over the island counter. Remembered and non-remembered fondness intermingling.

  “Do you want to open a bottle of wine for dinner?” Grace asks, turning away from the pot of boiling pasta and walking to a hexagon-shaped wine rack embedded in the wall. “I should have aerated a bottle as soon as we came in, but maybe a Chianti will—”

  “Grace…” I say, cutting her off. “I’m pregnant!”

  She stops and gives me a stunned look. For nearly a full minute the only sound in the room is that of the percolating pasta.

  “They didn’t tell you?” I deduce.

  They being our fathers who I’m fairly sure tell each other everything.

  She shakes her head mutely.

  “Oh…” Then even though her lack of awareness about my pregnancy makes for a rather awkward transition, I have to ask, “I don’t suppose you have any idea who the father might be?”

  15

  One week before Kukunniwi…

  The attacker was L-heart. Not some faceless enemy, but the woman he’d been rushing to get home to tonight.

  He lowered his fists.

  As did she…

  “What the heck, Buddy?” she asked as if they’d just run into each other on the street. “Why did you attack me?”

  He had the exact same question for her. “Why did you attack me?”

  “I didn’t!” she shot back. “I jumped out and said, ‘boo!’”

  “Why the hell would you do that?” he demanded. All the possibilities of what might have happened roared through his head. He could have hurt her, damaged her. If she hadn’t been so quick with her counter attack, if her voice hadn’t broken through his red rage, he could have killed her.

  The possibilities iced over his heart as he asked her again, “Why the hell would you jump out at me like that?”

  “Because I’m trying to be more spontaneous, and it seemed like the kind of thing a spontaneous person would do!” she answered, like it was her God-given inalienable right to scare the shit out of people in their own homes.