Knight (Unfinished Hero #1)(22)

We would see.

Now I was wearing my best pair of jeans. And also my best pair of high-heeled, brown boots (yes, crazy, but I wanted height and the toe was pointed so if I had to kick him in the shin, that would sting). I paired this with my best sweater, cashmere, a pale pink, another secondhand store purchase. It had a super-low dip in the back. But I covered up the expanse of skin it would show with a creamy, pointelle racerback tank. Sure, you could see my pink bra straps and often the sweater drooped off a shoulder but I also had on my smart, blazer-style brown leather jacket (bought two seasons out at a discount designer warehouse at the outlet stores in Castle Rock). I didn’t intend to take off the blazer so the sweater didn’t matter anyway.

Smoothed out hair. Enough makeup to hide I had no sleep but subtle. A spritz of perfume mostly out of habit. Silver hoops in my ears also mostly out of habit. And the rest, just me.

Unfortunately, the only parking spot I could find was around the corner and half a block up from his place. This meant, after I fed the meter enough to give me fifteen minutes wondering why in this ‘hood they didn’t give Sundays free, when I hit the lobby of his place to see the doorman worked Sundays, I was seven minutes late.

If Knight was livid, screw him.

This was going to stop, now. Both him and his brother. And I was going to make that point. Personally.

If it didn’t, the next stop, the police.

“Miss Gage,” the doorman greeted, smiling at me, freaking me out that he knew my last name and picking up the phone, “Mr. Sebring said you’d be arriving. I’ll ring up.”

Then before I could say word one, he had the phone to his ear.

I took in a breath, smiled back because he wasn’t a jerk, just one – no, two – of his tenants were and I settled in to wait, mentally girding for battle.

Then he put the phone in the receiver, smiled again and invited, “Mr. Sebring says to go right up.”

Apparently, after he exposes the full psychopath, he forgets how to be a gentleman.

Whatever.

I tossed another smile at the doorman then stomped to the elevators trying not to look like I was stomping. Though, I did stub my finger with the strength I used to jab the elevator button.

Doors to one of the two sets opened, I walked in and they closed on me.

And as they did, where I was, the confrontation imminent, belatedly, I considered this might not be the best idea.

Before I could rethink, the doors opened and I was nearly bowled over by two men wearing navy pants, matching navy shirts and carrying boxes.

“God! Sorry!” one of them exclaimed.

Movers. On a Sunday. Weird.

“No problems,” I muttered, skirted them, sucked in breath and headed to Knight’s door.

Right, go in, say what I had to say and get out.

When I got there, the door was wedged open with a triangle of wood.

There was music coming from inside, it was soft, it was also classical, it was all piano and I didn’t even have a guess as to what it was.

I reached in, knocked on the door and called, “Knight?”

“Kitchen,” I heard his deep voice call back.

Yep, psychopath out, gentleman gone.

I walked down the hall and nearly bumped into two more men in navy pants and matching shirts who were carrying a mattress.

Was it Knight who was moving?

“Sorry, sorry,” I muttered, squeezing back against the wall to the kitchen and sucking in my stomach (like this would help, still, I did it) as they lumbered by me.

They passed. I righted myself, saw the living room in all its grandeur without bodies, empties and ashtrays and decided it sucked he wasn’t awesome and into me but psychotic and into me and turned the corner to the kitchen.

Then I stopped and stared.

No suit. Black tee, worn, fitting him way, way, way too well across the muscles of his back with, from what I could see with just his torso partially twisted to me, a faded out Metallica insignia. Faded jeans that also fit him way, way, way too well and since I had his back I could see his ass in them so I knew this for certain. Bare feet. Thick, black hair now definitely needing a cut, tousled and messy. Hands engaged in unwrapping something in white butcher paper. Face expressionless but no less gorgeous. Vibrant blue eyes on me.

Holy crap.

Metallica?

“Babe, come here.”

An order.

I instantly jolted out of my Knight’s a hot guy reverie.

Jerk!

I didn’t go there.

Instead, I asked, “Are you moving?”

“Fuck no,” he answered. “Kickin’ Nick out. You’re late. Come here.”

I crossed my arms on my chest. “Actually, no. I don’t have time to go there. I’ve only got fifteen minutes on the meter but it won’t take that long to say what I have to say to you.”

His eyes never left me as I spoke and they stayed on me when I was done. They did this a while. Then they stayed on me as he moved to the phone, pulled it out of its charger, hit a button and put it to his ear.

“Spin? Yeah, Knight. Listen, there’s a blue Corolla parked somewhere on the street, rosary beads and St. Christopher medallion hanging from the rearview. Meter’s gonna run out. Feed it. I’ll get the keys to you to move it into the garage in ten, maybe fifteen. Yeah?” Pause then, “Great. Later.”

Then he put the phone down and went back to his butcher wrapped meat.