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I tiptoed over to the window and peeked out of a gap between the slats. Knight’s laser-scope eyes found mine the second he climbed off his bike. Without breaking eye contact, Knight abandoned his chopper on the street and began walking toward me. He had the same imposing posture he always had. The same muscle-bound body. The same focused scowl.
But his limp was very, very new.
I’d never seen Knight hurt before. Ever. Knight was fucking indestructible. He was the goddamn Terminator. He’d done two tours in Iraq and come back without so much as a scratch on him. If Ronald McKnight was limping, that meant his whole damn leg was probably about to fall off right there in my parents’ driveway.
Still clutching my cell, I dialed his number for the first time in years and watched as he lifted his phone to the side of his head. His movements were slow, and so was his breathing when he answered on the second ring. He didn’t speak. He simply breathed into the receiver as he slumped against a tree in front of my window.
“Knight…what happened?” I pried the blinds open a little wider to get a better look at him, but it was so dark.
I watched as he dug a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his jeans with his free hand, wincing as a hiss of pain sliced through the phone.
“Knight, talk to me.”
A tiny flame illuminated his sharp features and deep frown lines. Knight shook his head slightly as he exhaled, causing his smoke to trail away in a zigzag pattern. “Laid my bike down on Moreland.”
“Oh my God!” My eyes darted over to his motorcycle, which looked intact despite a crooked kickstand.
“Fucker came down on my leg. Dragged me a good fifty ’fore it came to a stop.”
“Jesus Christ, Knight,” I whispered, touching the glass with my fingertips through the blinds. “Are you okay?”
“You know that coat of arms I had on my back?”
“Yeah.” I nodded, remembering the giant back piece Knight had gotten when he first started apprenticing at the tattoo shop.
“It’s gone.”
I gasped. My fingers flew from the glass to my lips.
Knight’s cold, hard eyes lifted to mine. He was wearing a black Terminus City Tattoo T-shirt that fit looser than what he usually wore. It must have been a double XL. I tried to imagine what his back must look like under there.
“Does it hurt to wear a shirt?”
“It hurts to fuckin’ breathe.”
“You need to go to a hospital, honey.”
“Fuck that.” Knight shook his head, causing him to sway on his feet. “Just come the fuck down here.”
There it was. The real reason he’d come.
Just come down. Just let me fuck you and hurt you and belittle you until I feel better.
My sympathy, the emotion he preyed on, morphed into anger.
“Knight, have you ever called or come over just to see how my day was? To see how I’m doing?”
“Probably not. I’m a fuckin’ dick.” Knight spat in the grass. “Why? Does your little suit do that?”
My suit.
Knight had never mentioned Ken before—not that I’d listened to the majority of his voicemails. It pissed me off even more.
“Yeah, he does.”
“Good. He’s better than me.” Knight’s body seemed to relax into the tree. His words hurt almost as much as seeing him in pain. He took another drag from his cigarette. “Tell me how else he’s better than me.”
“Knight…” I felt my chin quiver.
