Page 13 of Knox

“I know. I’ve seen it enough at the gym.” He laughs lightly. It’s melodic, and I like it. I want to make him keep laughing. “I don’t know where you live; is it far?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I open the door for him to get in, then move around to the driver’s side. I start the engine and look at him. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

I love my little house, but I get lonely, which is why I end up staying late at work, or going to see my dads. They all laugh at me, saying it’s because of Pops’ cooking skills and that I’m always hungry—because of my obsession with having enough food, of hoarding crisps and biscuits in my room; I’d spent too long being hungry as a kid and on the streets—but I just like the company.

We drive for a few minutes, and it’s my turn to smile when Roman’s hand slides onto my thigh. He doesn’t move it. It’s just a touch, but a very welcome one. Like my brothers, I bought my place. I earn good money, but I hoard my money as much as food, so it’s not extravagant. I hate the thought of being dirt poor again, with nowhere to live, nothing to eat, and the dark men just waiting for me to give in again. It’s been a recurring nightmare of mine for years. I wake up covered in sweat and ready to scream.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Roman whispers, almost to himself.

“Nothing has to happen; I’m not looking for a scene tonight. I just want to spend time together. But just to let you know… I won’t turn you down.” I quickly glance at him and see him smiling. My mouth reacts, and in seconds, we’re grinning like fools and laughing. I didn’t know dating could be so much fun. Dare I tell him it’s my first time doing this. I’m thirty-one and have never dated.

We reach my house, a semi-detached house with two bedrooms—with small gardens at the front and rear of the house. There’s a driveway that can just about fit two cars on. Any more and they can park on the street. “Shall we go in?”

There’s so much noise around me that I can’t work out what’s happening. It’s all shouting and jostling. I do know that I’m on the ground, and it stinks of piss. Someone knocks into me, and I scream out in pain.

“Hey, sorry. We’re getting you out of here. The police are just clearing up the mess and loading everyone in the vans. You did good, Dean.”

“I’m fucking bleeding out here, you twat. Give me my gold star later,” I tell him though gritted teeth. A rattling metal sound gets closer to me. When it stops, I assume it’s my transportation out of the cess pit. I’m moved onto the gurney, and a paramedic leans over me to strap me in.

“I’m going to give you something to knock you out.”

“Thank fuck for that.”

Where the hell am I? What the hell has happened?

Christ, my mouth is like the fucking Sahara Desert. I try to swallow but haven’t any saliva to make it easy. My eyes feel like they’re glued shut and gritty, probably with the same sand as my mouth. “Fuck,” I mumble. It feels like I’ve been run over by a truck.

A scrape over the floor makes me turn my head and try again to open my eyes. “Stay still. I’ll go and fetch someone.”

I feel like I should know the voice, but with the cotton wool that seems to fill my head, I can’t work out who it is. Instead of thinking, I drift back to sleep.

The soft voice wakes me up. “Dean, can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” I croak, my throat burning when I try to swallow again. “I can’t open my fucking eyes.” I flinch when a damp cloth wipes over each eye, once, twice and stops.

“Try again now,” the female voice says, and I try blinking.

“Did you glue them shut? It fucking hurts.” I’m not going to admit this to anyone else, but I’m scared. Nothing seems normal.

I try opening them again, and this time my eyelashes separate, and a very foggy face is looking down at me. “I’m thirsty,” I tell them, then a straw is placed on my bottom lip. I take a sip, and the cool fresh taste of water slides over my tongue and down my throat, making me swallow. The sandy aridness dissipates as I draw more into my mouth.

“Slowly,” she says and pulls the straw out. “The doctor wants to talk to you, and there’s another man here for you too.”

I look to my left, and even through blurry vision, I can see it’s Pilkinton. Fuck, it’s coming back to me now. Tyrone, the drugs, the underpass, the knife, the pain. “I was fucking sold out.”

“I know, but you got us the break we needed, and the team took control. Both DeVon’s crew and the Saints have been compromised significantly. We have Tyrone Mathers in police custody.”

Before anything more can be said, a doctor walks up to me. I listen to how close I was to bleeding out and dying. I look over at Pilkington, who has the decency to look chagrined, and he fucking should.

“We had to graft a vein from your right leg to the damaged artery. You’ve been in ICU for three days, and we have kept you sedated to minimise your movement. It’s going to be a slow recovery, Dean, which will certainly include physiotherapy, but you can cross that bridge when you’re ready. Other than that, the wound in your arm has been cleaned and sutured. The one in your neck was only a graze, thankfully. If that had gone deeper, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Look, all I want to know is when can I leave?” I ask, cutting through any more of his lists of injuries.

He looks at Pilkinton again, making wonder who’s in charge here. I take a moment to look around the room; it sure is posh. Too posh to be an NHS hospital. “We’ll keep you here for another week,” he says, and I’m shaking my head.

“No way. I need to get out and away from here.” I don’t care if the police have one or one hundred gang members in custody, I’m not safe. I look at the man who told me I’d be looked after. “What are you going to do about this?”

“Steady,” the doctor tells me, his hand on my shoulder as I try to move. “You can’t move about like that.”