Knight

by Kristen Ashley

  And I didn’t want to now either.

  “Why are you asking about him?” I asked quietly and his arms gave me a light squeeze.

  “Nothin’. Just curious, baby. I’ll shut up about it, yeah?”

  I nodded.

  Knight asked, “Hungry?”

  For some reason I giggled then explained, “Uh… lunch was kinda big.”

  “Yeah, babe, but lunch was also six and a half hours ago.”

  I blinked up at him.

  “Is it that late?”

  “Uh… yeah.”

  Whoa.

  “Maybe I should go home,” I mumbled to his throat and I got another light squeeze.

  “No, maybe you should answer my question if you’re hungry.”

  Thinking about it and knowing the time, suddenly I was.

  “Yeah. But if you make me steaks, I’ll explode.”

  I heard his soft, deep chuckle. I also felt it. I’d never done either and I liked both immensely.

  Then he told me, “Got a quota, baby, I cook once a week. You got that thrill. I’ll take you out for something.”

  A date. In fact, that day had been the longest, weirdest, strangely most comprehensive date in history even though I’d showed at his place to tell him I never wanted to see him again. We’d shared. We’d touched. We’d had profound moments of intensity. He’d cooked for me. I’d napped in his house. And now we were going out to eat together for the first time.

  As I thought this, I got another light squeeze and a simple order. “Jacket, Anya.”

  I didn’t move but looked into his shadowed face. “Can I drive your car?”

  “No,” he denied immediately.

  “I’m a good driver.”

  “Your ass is next to me, I drive. You wanna borrow it sometime, it’s yours.”

  “Knight, I only had one experience but I think I’m actually a better driver than you.”

  “This is doubtful, babe, seein’ as I drove drags, sprints and raced streets. My Dad was a fuckin’ race freak, lived it, breathed it, put me behind the wheel of a cart when I was eight and never looked back.”

  This explained the “driving since I was twelve” comment though he’d semi-lied since I thought go-carts counted so he’d been driving since he was eight.

  I didn’t quibble this fact. Instead I pointed out, “Those race people get in wrecks all the time.”

  “When’s the last time you heard of a driver getting in one on a city street?”

  He, unfortunately, had a point.

  I decided not to tell him that and concede through silence.

  He accepted then declared, “I drive. You ride. Not a rule, that’s a law. Get me?”

  “What if you’ve had a freak accident and you’ve broken your arm and ankle?” I asked for specifics.

  “If that shit happens, I hope to God you’re smart enough to pick up a phone and call an ambulance rather than draggin’ my ass to my car, which would be agony, shoving it in, which would be more agony, and taking me to the hospital.”

  Another valid point.

  Again I conceded through silence.

  Knight’s body started shaking and his voice was too when he asked, “Are we done with this fuckin’ stupid conversation?”

  “I guess,” I muttered, still wanting to drive his car.

  I got another light squeeze and he dipped his smiling face in mine. “Whenever you want, baby, you can take my ride out. Just say the word. I’ll arrange it. I’m just not gonna be in it with you.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because I’m a man,” he answered.

  “So?”

  “I’ll clarify,” he offered. “I’m a man who does not let my woman or any woman drive when my ass is in the car.”

  “That teeters over the edge of macho crazy, Knight,” I informed him.

  “Yeah,” he was completely not offended, “Head’s up, babe, get used to that.”

  It was then it occurred to me he was pointing out the obvious.

  So I conceded not with silence but instead by sharing, “Now, I’m even more hungry.”

  I got more of his hard body shaking against mine, I liked it and he reiterated, “Then jacket, babe.”

  “Right,” I whispered, pulled away and moved into his apartment to get my jacket and purse.

  I met him where he was waiting for me at the top of the three steps in front of the mouth of the hall.

  Then he took my hand.

  Then he took me to his car.

  Then he drove like the ex-speed-racer he was and took me to dinner.

  * * * * *

  I was laying in bed, feeling my new soft sheets, thinking Knight’s satin ones were probably way softer, staring at my ceiling and thinking that Knight Sebring had claimed me, no doubt about it, but he had yet to kiss me.

  Dinner wasn’t good, it was great. He took me to Wynkoop’s and suddenly, somehow, after the day, the nap, me coming to my understanding and our lighthearted, safe and amusing bickering, I was at ease. Knight always seemed at ease even when he was pissed or annoyed. He was just Knight. And I settled into that.

  He told me about his race-freak Dad. He told me about his race-widow Mom. He told me they both were still alive and lived in Hawaii. He told me I was right, Slade stayed popular because he closed it down for a month every year after he put out bids to designers to offer their visions of a shit-hot new look, he picked one and went with it. He told me his business that day had to do with a side business that also vaguely linked with the club (though he didn’t fully explain). He told me Nick had always been a pain in the ass fuck up but he’d also, obviously, always been a brother. So Knight put up with it and covered a lot so his parents wouldn’t take any hits from Nick’s asshole behavior and fuck ups but that didn’t make him any less done with it.

  I told him about Vivica and Sandrine. I shared detailed specifics of my schedule. I hesitantly and shyly told him about my goal of opening my spa which he watched me weirdly intently the whole time I talked about it rather than just with his usual deep interest. I told him next up in the buying schedule was not a sweet ride but an excellent quality table where I could do my facials. And I shared that the Wynkoop and its beer were one of my top five favorites in Denver on both the restaurant and beer counts.

  This was easy conversation with a number of smiles, a few deep chuckles (Knight), a few soft giggles (me). Since we sat on the same side of the booth, more than once, when my sweater drooped down to expose my shoulder, Knight’s finger came up to trial my skin lightly. It was at these times I congratulated myself for my heretofore unknown clairvoyance that wearing that sweater was the very right idea. I did this after he quit touching me and before I pulled the sweater back up. And I pulled it back up because I knew it would droop down again, catching Knight’s attention (because he never missed it, not once) and I’d get his touch back.

  It was a game, we both knew it but it was debatable which one of us liked it better.

  Then he’d driven me back to his place, parked beside my Corolla that was in his second parking spot and informed me the remote to operate the gate to his garage was on my visor. Then he handed me my keys that he collected from Spinolli while I was sleeping.

  Then one of his hands cupped my jaw, his face dipped close and I stopped breathing because I thought he was going to kiss me and I really, really wanted him to.

  Instead, he slid his nose along mine in that sweet way he did earlier, holding my eyes locked to the warm intensity of his the entire time. But then, to my extreme disappointment that was so extreme it was almost despair, he lifted his head up half an inch.

  Then he whispered, “Call you soon, baby, see you Saturday.”

  Then he dropped his hand and moved away.

  With no choice but to throw myself at him, which I was not going to do, I just smiled, got in my car and drove off.

  He stood with his arms crossed on his chest, the side of thigh resting against the back of his car and watched. I knew this beca
use I saw him in my rearview until I had to take the turning ramp up to the next level.

  Now I was in bed wondering why he didn’t kiss me and wishing I’d thrown myself at him.

  And also thinking that Saturday was a long, long way away.

  Chapter Seven

  Cornucopia of Feminine Delights

  Tuesday afternoon, I was in the file room at work when my kickass, space age phone rang and I saw the display said, “Knight”.

  He’d called the day before (he obviously had my number since he bought my phone). I programmed him in after he called, and he’d done it late, ten thirty. I was already in bed reading or trying to read and trying not to be disappointed he hadn’t called or, alternately, pissed he hadn’t. I answered thinking I shouldn’t since it seemed he was playing me because I figured he called that late because he was, well, playing me.

  But he wasn’t. I knew this instantly when I heard the club sounds in the background so loud I could barely hear him. And his first words were a short but succinct description of the fact he’d had “shit come up all day” and he had little time to talk right then but wanted to “connect” with me. The growly factor of his voice was at the upper levels in my limited experience so I knew this was frustrating as was the fact our current conversation had to be short, hurried and, on his part, growled very loudly.

  Now it was an hour and half until quitting time, not even twenty-four hours since his last call which, in the Jerk Player Handbook garnered severe penalties unless you weren’t a Jerk Player.

  I took the call, put it to my ear and said softly, “Hey.”

  “Hey, baby,” he said softly back and that tingle hit my spine and spread north again. Then it stopped when he asked bizarrely, “Who’s Dick?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Dick. Who is he?”

  “Uh…” I mumbled, thrown by a question I didn’t understand and thus not knowing the answer.

  “Neighbor, babe,” he clarified.

  “Oh,” light dawned, “Dick.”

  “Yeah. Dick. Who is he?”

  Suddenly I thought our conversation was not only strange but funny.

  I didn’t share this. I just asked, “How do you know Dick?”

  “I don’t know Dick but that isn’t what we’re talkin’ about. We’re talkin’ about how you do.”

  “He’s my neighbor. He lives across the hall from me,” I explained.

  “A friend?”

  What was this about?

  “Uh… no. And now I know you don’t know Dick because if you did, you wouldn’t ask that. Now, why are you asking about Dick?”

  “Sent some shit to your house. Last time with the phone, sent Kathleen. She’s got it goin’ on but she’s got so much goin’ on, sometimes she doesn’t pay attention to outside shit. She said the call system was reactivated and she just kept hitting directory buttons until someone picked up and would accept delivery. Since she was busy, she didn’t pay a lot of attention to who accepted it. The boy I sent with the shit today did the same but he’s a guy and for certain things, guys get unbusy. He got Dick so he got unbusy seein’ as he did not like Dick. He also did not like how excited Dick got about accepting a delivery for you. Luckily, some guy called Charlie came up while my boy was gettin’ acquainted with Dick, said he was the maintenance guy, had a passkey and would put the shit in your place. He told Dick to take a hike and after Dick took off, Charlie told my boy that if he had more stuff for you that he should not, under any circumstances, hand it off to Dick. Then he gave him his contact details as well as a list of people in your building who he would trust to take deliveries. My boy reported this to me so I’d like to know about Dick.”

  God I loved Charlie.

  And I also wondered what “shit” Knight was delivering.

  I wondered too long, clearly, and I knew this when Knight’s voice came at me impatiently, “Anya. Clue me in on Dick.”

  “Dick is that burden every single girl living on her own in a slightly seedy apartment complex endures. He’s the creepy, out of work neighbor who lives across the way.”

  “He make you uncomfortable?”

  “Uh… yeah. He’s Dick.”

  “Then it’s time Dick moved.”

  My body went completely still but somehow I managed to get my mouth to force out, “What?”

  “It’s time… Dick… moved.”

  His smooth deep voice was not firm.

  It was steel.

  “Knight –” I whispered.

  Knight cut me off, “I’ll send a boy today to share with Dick his new relocation plans. I’ll also call you later. When’s your last client leave?”

  I blinked repeatedly at the tall, square counter where I did my filing and didn’t speak.

  “Anya, babe, someone needs me. When’s your last client leave?”

  “Nine, she doesn’t feel chatty,” I said breathily. “Nine thirty more regularly after she shares a glass of wine with me.”

  “I’ll call you after nine thirty. Later, baby.”

  Then he was gone.

  I dropped my hand with the phone to the counter I was still staring at.

  Dick had relocation plans because Knight didn’t like me living across the hall from someone creepy.

  “Holy crap,” I whispered.

  “What?” Beth, one of the front desk ladies asked, walking in.

  I looked to her and whispered, “Nothing.”

  She stared at me then moved to me and peered closer. “Jeez, Anya. Is everything okay?”

  And to that, in the throes of understandable temporary insanity, I blurted, “I have a new boyfriend. He’s awesome. Protective. And scary. And he regularly freaks me out by being all of those at once.”

  Her face spread in a huge grin. “You have a new boyfriend?”

  “A new boyfriend who’s awesome, protective and scary. A lot of the time mostly the last.”

  “Cool,” she said like she didn’t hear me, or, I should say, she selectively heard me.

  “Beth, I said he’s scary,” I reminded her.

  “Girlfriend,” she said, flipping her hand in the air, “count your blessings. Any dude hooked to you has got to have more than his fair share of scary. He doesn’t, new scary, awesome, protective guy will steal you right out from under his nose. So, my advice, ride the awesome and protective and ignore the scary.” Her eyes narrowed. “Unless… does he do scary shit to you?”

  I decided to quit sharing and start lying. “No.”

  Her smile came back. “Right on. Tell him he needs to come and take you to lunch. Give me a head’s up. That way, I can amass all the girls up front to give him a once-over and when you get back, we’ll deliver our verdict.”

  Unfortunately, my mouth decided to start sharing again so it said, “He’s sheer, raw, aggressive masculine beauty from head-to-toe.”

  She blinked. Then she smiled big again.

  Then she announced, “I am not surprised. And now, knowing that, his behind better be here soon so you better get on that since I’m walking out, passing this juicy morsel around therefore peer pressure is about to go extreme.”

  Me and my big mouth.

  Beth dumped some papers in my in tray with a farewell of, “Later, gorgeous.”

  Then she hurried out to share the juicy morsel I volunteered very, very stupidly.

  I stared at the papers thinking that filing was getting old. It was boring. It was mindless. And it was never ending.

  Then I thought about how nice it would be to live without the constant possible disquiet of running into Dick somewhere in the building and then having to find a way politely to get the heck out of his presence.

  Then I wondered how Knight’s “boy” would convince Dick to go.

  Then I decided not to think about it.

  After I did that, I wondered about myself that I wouldn’t think about it when I knew I should. And not only that, I should wonder about a man who could and would do the stuff Knight clearly had no problem doing.
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br />   Then someone else came in and dumped a bunch of stuff in my in tray so I quit thinking about all of that since I had to get to work.

  * * * * *

  After work, I successfully made it to my apartment without a run-in with Dick. This didn’t happen often. Not even regularly since Dick was dedicated to whatever creepy shit he did in his apartment and less dedicated to creeping out his neighbors by lurking in the halls or creeping out the general population of Denver by joining their numbers. But still, I counted myself lucky and again buried the urge to turn over in my head the fact that my new boyfriend was going to remove him from my life. How he was going to do that. How that was morally probably not okay. And the fact my new boyfriend was clearly my new boyfriend and he hadn’t even kissed me.

  All these thoughts flew from my head after I locked all three (two new) locks on my door and wandered into my apartment looking for the “shit” Charlie put in there that Knight’s boy delivered.

  Then I froze as I got abreast to my couch and saw the plethora of glossy bags on it.

  Incidentally, my couch was awesome. It was flower print, girlie but it was a cool print and since it was the only thing in the room that was flowery, it worked (even though the rest was pretty girlie). As usual, I bought it on sale and since it had a small rip in one of the cushions, the price was seriously reduced. But I just flipped it over and, voila! Perfect couch.

  And right then, it was even more perfect when I saw the names on the bags that were on my couch.

  My shoulder slumped, so deep, my bag fell right to the floor. Then I hustled to the couch, dropped my keys on my vintage, oval, white, awesomely chipped, quirky coffee table (that yes, was totally girlie) I bought for three dollars at a yard sale and reached into the first bag.

  I pulled out an expertly tissue wrapped parcel, carefully tore the tissue away and shook out a black dress, it’s fabric so far away from polyester or any synthetic fiber it was… not… funny.

  It felt like what I thought heaven would feel like.

  When I held it up I saw it looked like what an angel would wear too, if she had her own personal Italian designer, showed serious skin, wore black and not white and had whopping, mega style.