Twisted knight, p.27
Twisted Knight, page 27
“Open your door or your neighbors are going to get to watch me fuck his touch right off your skin.”
FORTY-ONE
Holden
I needed a break. Away from the office. Away from the mind games. Something to remind me why I’m doing what I’m doing—as if Mason not being here isn’t enough.
So I sit in my SUV, hand on the wheel, eyes slowly taking in everything around me, my elbow resting on the rolled-down window. I let the memories come.
The good.
The bad.
The ones scarred into my memory.
The ones I wish never happened.
I haven’t been able to stay away from Fairmont since I’ve been back. It doesn’t matter how busy I am, I find myself driving these streets. To work things out in my mind. To occupy myself when I can’t sleep—which is often. To pull me back and force me to remember the why for all of this.
I’ve spent years trying to forget this fucking place, and now I’m letting it consume me.
The cemetery. The one I’ve driven to at least a dozen times only to pull into the parking lot and never get out. I tell myself I need to visit him. That it’s about time I see the elaborate headstone I had made to replace the basic marker on Mase’s grave.
But every time I think of Mason, I see my mother, lying on top of the freshly piled dirt in her finest clothes. I hear her sobbing and saying she had to sleep there with him. That she couldn’t let her baby be alone on his first night in this strange, scary place.
The diner. It makes me think of the late nights my mom worked. Her aching feet and mustered smile. The sacrifices she made so that I could be where I am today.
The apartment. The one about a hundred feet from where I’m parked with its broken wrought iron gate, its sagging sidewalk, and its faded brick exterior stained with years of graffiti and despair.
The spot. That place over near the telephone pole with its crumbling asphalt and cracked surface. The strip of street that has been driven over countless times, drivers oblivious to what happened at that corner. To my brother’s life lost and the lives irrevocably changed forever.
This street. The one that holds more memories than I can bear. More moments that I wish I could forget. And the one that’s coincidentally a block down from the Sanctuary.
My two fucking worlds colliding.
Colliding when I don’t believe in coincidence at all.
“Hey, man. You lost?”
I glance over to the young kid standing on the sidewalk looking in my passenger window. He’s about twelve or thirteen with big brown eyes and a head of shaggy dark hair. His green shirt is worn enough that I can see his shoulder through the stretched seams of the fabric.
“Not lost, no.”
His eyes roam around the inside of my car. To my hands. Stutter on the Rolex on my wrist. To my wallet visible in the cupholder. To the black gym bag on the front seat.
“Sorry, man. We don’t want any. If you go four blocks down and take a left, that’s where people go to buy whatever it is you’re selling.”
I bark out a laugh. The little shit thinks I’m slangin’ dope. That’s fucking comical. “I’m not selling shit, son.”
“Do you need directions, then?”
“Nope. I know where I am.” I stare at him for a beat before exiting the car. Those big brown eyes of his track my every movement as I walk around the hood of the SUV to lean my ass against its fender.
I take in his oversized jeans. Notice the two cans of spray paint in his back pockets. See the stain of its colors on his fingers.
He studies me too, looking me up and down, thinking his puffed-chest bravado masks his wariness. But I see it. I used to be the same way. “You don’t look like you know where you are because if you did, you wouldn’t be here.”
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Why? I don’t want nothing to do with whatever it is you’re here to do.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re thinking like that. It’ll keep you out of trouble. Your name?”
His look says he doesn’t trust me, but his answer says he does. “Leo.”
“Nice to meet you, Leo. I’m Holden.” I hold my hand out and he stares at it for a beat before shaking it reluctantly. “And how old are you?”
“Thirteen.”
“Do you live here?” I ask, lifting my chin to the apartment complex at his back.
“Close to here,” he says, and if it weren’t for the dart of his eyes to the green bike lying on its side on the porch behind him, I’d believe him. But you don’t leave bikes on porches in this neighborhood unless you want them stolen or you’re nearby to watch them. “Why all the fucking questions?”
I shrug, my eyes constantly surveying what’s going on around us. Knowing your surroundings around here is a matter of life and death in some instances. It’s amazing how that habit comes back without it being a conscious decision. “Just curious is all.”
“What-the-fuck-ever, man.”
“Just a word of advice. You might want to chill out on saying ‘fuck’ so much.” When he goes to argue, I lift a hand to stop him. “You seem like a smart kid. You keep dropping f-bombs when talking to adults, they’re going to immediately look at where you live, where you go to school, and write you off. Give you a label you don’t deserve.”
Fuck you, Rhett.
He angles his head to the side and stares at me. “Let’s be real. No one fucking cares about me. Don’t act like some three-piece-suit-wearing motherfucker like you does.”
Guess he means me.
“No one?” I ask. “Mom? Dad? Grandma?”
“Dad’s who the fuck knows where. Gotta chase the next high, you know.” He shrugs but I know that look. I still feel that look some days. “Mom’s at work. Always at work.”
“Isn’t that because she does care? Her working so much? Trying to give you every opportunity she can?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“You an artist?” I ask and love the startled look on his face.
“Fuck no, man.”
“But you carry paint in your pocket.”
He rolls his eyes in response. “Yeah. So?”
“I’ll tell you what. Instead of tagging whatever it is you’re planning on tagging next, why don’t you spray over the shit on those walls,” I say, lifting my chin toward the building.
“What the fuck—” He catches himself. “What would I do that for?”
“Because just like you don’t want dealers out in front of your house—you shouldn’t want that shit where you live.”
“You’re whacked, Three-Piece.”
“I guess you don’t want to get paid then.”
That got his attention. “You gonna pay me to spray over someone’s tag?” He snorts. “You’re outta your mind if you think I’m going to believe you. Why?”
And why do I care if he does believe me?
“I used to live here.”
“You tripping if you think I believe that.”
“I don’t give a fuck if you believe me or not. I did. That corner unit right there.” I look at it and can all but see Mason sitting on the front porch with me, oiling the bearings of his skateboard. His laugh—one thing I can still hear all these years later—rings in my ears.
“You’re trying to tell me you got out of here. That you’re driving that and wearing a Rolly—and you didn’t sell dope to get there?”
“I am.”
“Yeah. Right.”
“The only difference between you and me, Leo, is that luck met determination at the right time.”
“Yeah, well, in case you didn’t notice, the only luck you get around here these days is that the bullet misses you when it’s fired.”
“You get good grades?”
His eyes narrow at me. “Bs mostly.”
I nod. “Do drugs?”
“Nah, man. Not my thing.”
“Play sports?” I ask and see his face fall a fraction before he covers it back up.
“Baseball, but it’s expensive and my mom can’t always get me there because of work.”
I look at Leo and see Mase. See me. I’m not sure why the fuck I do, but I do. He seems to be a good kid in a shitty situation by no fault of his own.
I question myself before I even open my mouth. “Back to my offer.”
“To spray over tags?”
“Yeah. The deal just changed.”
“Of course it fucking did,” he says, clearly used to being let down. “Nice meeting you, man, but you’re just like—”
“Hold up. Hear me out,” I say and reach into the open passenger-side window and grab one of Audrey’s nondescript cards without a company name on it. They often come in handy. She can’t be googled. I can. “I want you to work for me.” He snorts again and I just keep talking. “To make this front building look nice. Repaint the gates. The porches. Paint over the tags.”
“Why? You own this place or something?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Because pride is a real thing. So is shame. The shame of having friends come and see the place you live when it looks like this. The having friends drop you off on a corner a few blocks down so no one knows where you live.
“Because I want to.”
“Like I said, you tripping, man.”
I hold up Audrey’s card. “Call this number tomorrow. You can give her your name and address. She’ll have supplies sent here for you to get started.” He eyes me. “But only after your homework is done.”
“So you want me to do all this work and for what?”
I open my wallet and take out a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. His eyes widen. “This is a down payment on your work.”
He glances left and right and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s afraid someone will see it or if he wants someone else to see it so he believes it. “A down payment? I’m supposed to believe you’ll be back?”
“I’ll be back to check on the progress and to pay you.” I hold out the bill, and he stares at it for a few seconds before accepting. “I’m also going to have Audrey—the woman on the card—buy you a bus pass. That way you can get to and from practice.”
“How do you know where practice is?”
“I told you, I used to live here. The bus stop is down there.” I lift my chin down toward the Sanctuary. “And it drops you off a block from the fields, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You do a good job, we’ll work on getting you some new gear too, but you have to earn my trust first.”
“How do I do that?”
“You do what you say you’re going to do. A man’s word is sometimes all he has.”
Leo stands there with his hands shoved in his pockets, one hand clearly fisted around the one-hundred-dollar bill, and continues to stare at me with a look that says he’s doubting every single thing I’ve said. Not many people make promises and keep them when you’re in his shoes.
I get it.
I used to be him.
“What if I run out of … stuff.”
“Call that number and tell her.”
“You’ll come back?”
“I gave you my word.”
“Why?” he finally asks. Eyes searching, almost as if he’s afraid to hope.
I shrug. “Fuck if I know,” I say.
The refrain repeats in my head as I pull away from the curb and drive through Fairmont again. On streets I walked as a kid. Through memories I’m trying to hold on to. To the curb by Mason’s plot. Close enough to see it but far enough that I can’t really make anything out.
To all the places I refuse to let Rhett Rothschild demolish and ruin.
And I end up right back on the same street I was on a bit ago, but this time a little farther down the block.
Right in front of the Sanctuary.
It shouldn’t surprise me. Being here. Waiting for her.
Wanting to see her again.
I have so much work to do. So much planning to complete. So much fucking over other people’s lives to accomplish.
But I know she is here.
And when she walks out in her white linen pants and light blue shirt looking like the personification of spring, I breathe a little easier.
She startles when she sees me, shifting her cello case in her hand as I jog across the street to her.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
Because I needed someone.
Because I wanted to see you.
Because … it’s you.
FORTY-TWO
Rowan
Because I wanted to be.
Five words in response to me asking, Why are you here? Five words that hit me right in the heart and muddied waters I need to stay clear.
But then I added my own mud to the water when he asked if I wanted to take a drive with him and I said yes.
I study his profile as he drives. The defined lines and strong features. The styled hair and thick lashes.
“You’re staring at me,” he says with a quick glance my way.
“I am.”
“And what do you see?”
A man I can’t quite figure out but want to. A person who knows way too much about me but not the other way around. A lover who is incredible in bed but an enigma outside of it.
“I was just thinking that I bet you don’t play hooky from work very often.”
He gives a crooked smile with his glance this time. “I can’t remember the last time I did.”
“I figured as much.”
“And you? When was the last time you did?” he asks as he makes a turn toward the coast.
“I just did when I went to the Sanctuary.”
“That’s not playing hooky. That’s volunteering. Hooky is when you do something for yourself.”
“That is doing something for myself,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“Have you ever heard of Clayton Seaburn?” I ask.
“No, but if you tell me it’s the name of a Kentucky Derby horse, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
I burst out laughing. “You have a valid point there. But no, he’s not a horse. He’s one of the most acclaimed cello players in the world. He was knighted by the Queen of England and has won every award under the sun. That kind of thing.”
“Okay. What does he have to do with you being at the Sanctuary?”
“He doesn’t. He has to do with me.” I shift in my seat so I can face him some. “The boarding school I went to had a phenomenal music program. I’d always played, but it was there that I fell in love with the sounds it could make and the feelings those sounds could evoke. Then Cass died, and I came back home to try and figure life out without her.”
“It’s a horrible feeling.”
“It is. Days and nights ran together. Time felt like it crawled, but I remember one night in particular when I was at a super low point. I was sick of everyone telling me it would get better. Sick of being told how I should feel. I put my headphones in and on a random shuffle, heard a piece by Clayton Seaburn for the first time. His notes, the way he strung them together, sounded how I felt. His work became my therapy. It helped me get through one of the hardest times in my life.”
“And now you offer that same light in the darkness to others.”
I study him as emotion wells in my throat at the poignancy of his comment. “Something like that,” I murmur.
“What did you play for them today? One of his?” he asks as the ocean comes into view off to the left of us.
“I wouldn’t even attempt to play one of his pieces,” I say.
“You’ve been playing for longer than half your life. You can’t be that bad,” he teases.
“If I told you what I played, would you even know what I was talking about?”
“Not unless it’s classic rock, no.”
“It’s doable on a cello, but doesn’t sound quite the same. You really don’t like classical music of any kind?”
The look he gives me says it all.
“Is that look more along the lines of you tolerate it but it’s not your jam, or you’d rather stab your own eyes out with a fork than be forced to listen to it?”
“Fork is a bit harsh. Maybe something more along the lines of a spoon.”
“A spoon?” I laugh. “Is it that bad?”
“Is this where I reserve the right not to answer in the interest of self-preservation?” A text alerts from his phone sitting in the console and he laughs. “Saved by the text.”
“Lucky you.”
“Don’t I know it,” he says as he glances down at the text. “That’s Audrey. Your car is back at the office.”
“That was kind of you to arrange for it to get back there.”
“Of course. If we left it there, who knows what we’d come back to. No car. No wheels. A new paint job done by spray paint.”
“I’m sure it would have been fine, but I appreciate you taking care of it for me. You sound like you know firsthand about it,” I joke.
“I do.”
That’s all he says. He doesn’t elaborate, and the way those two words are spoken tells me the conversation is over.
An awkward silence falls over the car. It’s something that hasn’t really happened before between us. Other than the one night at the diner, we’ve never really spent any time together outside of work or sleeping together. Sure, we talk after a round of toe-curling sex, but not about anything meaningful. Not our pasts. Not our present. Not what this even is between us besides the joking reminder that this is “just sex” every so often.
And at the office, some of our late-night “work” sessions have ended up with the elevators locked again, takeout food cold and forgotten as the two of us somehow end up losing a few items of clothing.
To say this fling between us has been fun is an understatement. I’ve never done something like this. There’s a thrill in its secrecy. A high in doing something others wouldn’t approve of. An adrenaline rush in looking across the room at a man who everyone else thinks is calculating the risks of major decisions while I know he’s actually cursing me for wearing one of his favorite sweaters and texting me exactly what he wants to do to me while I’m wearing nothing but it later.
“What about you, Holden Knight?” I ask.
