Suit (44 Chapters #4)

by B. B. Easton

  The roar of a motorcycle outside vibrated my chest just before the beep of an incoming call interrupted my thoughts.

  “Shit.” I reached over and switched off my lamp. “I gotta go.”

  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.

  “Just fuckin’ tell me, Punk.”

  I looked down at my first love—bitter, broken, beyond repair—and tried to think of all the ways I would fix him if I could. All the ways Ken had already fixed himself.

  “He doesn’t drink,” I blurted.

  Knight coughed out a laugh, and for a split second, I swear I saw him smile. It was the first time I’d seen him smile since I could remember. And not a sneer, not a smirk, a real smile.

  The kind he only did for me.

  “That’s good,” he said, slurring slightly where the T met the S. “He’s way fuckin’ better than me then. What else?”

  “Knight, we don’t have to do this.”

  “Tell me, Punk. Please. I need to know—” Knight took a deep breath, followed by a sharp, pained one. “I need to know I did something right.”

  “Okay,” I whispered, unable to talk around the tightness in my throat. “He’s calm. And quiet. And gentle. He doesn’t ever yell at me or try to scare me.” Knight became blurry as a wall of tears filled my eyes. “And he likes to help. It’s really sweet.” My voice broke as the wall came tumbling down my cheeks. “He just wants to help me with everything.”

  I reached up and wiped the tears from my face as Knight tipped his head back and looked up at my window. I couldn’t make out his features in the shadow of the tree, but when he spoke, I could almost taste his tears.

  “Then, it was worth it,” he rasped, pushing himself to stand.

  As I watched Knight drag himself away from me, like he’d been doing ever since he left for the Marines the first time, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was wrong.

  It had all been for nothing.

  Because that guy I’d told him about, he was just a lie.

  “This report is impressive, Ms. Bradley,” Dr. Raines said over his bifocals as he closed the case study I’d prepared on one Mr. Kenneth Easton. “Very thorough. It appears as though you administered every assessment in our vault.”

  I let out a jittery laugh and picked at my chipped black nail polish. “Yeah…I wasn’t finding anything, so I kinda just kept digging.”

  “Ms. Bradley, we call that a fishing expedition. It’s when you go into an evaluation, looking for something, and you keep testing until you find it. Did you want to find something?”

  A guilty blush crept up my neck. “Not really. I just…wanted answers. Ken—my client—expressed concerns about his inability to connect with people emotionally. He has difficulties with expressing himself, dislikes being touched, shuts down in emotional situations, and…prefers physical pain over tenderness…sexually.” My eyes landed on a stain on the carpet in front of Dr. Raines’s desk.

  “And your conclusion was that he is a mathematical genius whose emotional limitations stem from his family history. Is that correct?”

  I nodded. “Basically.”

  “Ms. Bradley, I think that is an accurate assessment of his current functioning. However…”

  My heart sank into my gnawing, empty stomach.

  Fuck. I missed something. I knew it.

  “There was one glaring area of deficit that I think might help answer your question. Do you remember one particular area in which your client performed significantly below average?”

  “Yes, sir. He bombed the phonological processing test I gave him. In all areas.”

  “I must say, Ms. Bradley, I was surprised that you chose to administer a phonics test, given that the primary concern was emotional, but after seeing your client’s performance, I believe it holds the key to his primary concern.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand,” I sighed and shook my head. “People who score poorly in phonics typically exhibit a learning disability, but Ken—my client—scored in the average range in reading and writing. Based on his scores, there doesn’t seem to be an impact on his learning.”

  “Not now,” Dr. Raines said, his eyes lighting up. “But how do you think a five- or six-year-old with those phonics scores would perform?”

  “I would expect him to exhibit classic dyslexia with related deficits in reading, writing, spelling, and probably school interest.” As soon as the words left my mouth, my eyes lit up, too. “He said he always hated school, but I couldn’t figure out why.”

  “Ms. Bradley, for students wit
h dyslexia, how do they typically compensate for their weak phonological processing abilities?”

  “Um…visual processing, memorization…”

  “And what are your client’s strongest cognitive areas?”

  My mouth opened to match my eyes. “Visual-spatial processing, visual memory, quantitative reasoning…Dr. Raines, are you saying that my client has undiagnosed dyslexia?”

  “Had. I believe he had dyslexia, but because of his superior intellect, he was able to teach himself to read and write through memorization and context clues.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “So, you were correct in your surface-level diagnosis. Because he can read and write, he no longer meets criteria for a learning disability, but those language-based deficits are still there.”

  “Could that explain why he has difficulties expressing himself verbally as well?”

  Dr. Raines winked at me. “Bingo. Reasoning with pictures and numbers is significantly easier for your client than reasoning with language or emotions. Therefore, I would expect him to find nonverbal ways to express himself whenever possible.”

  “Like what? He doesn’t draw or write music. He’s not even affectionate.”

  “Ms. Bradley, haven’t you ever heard the expression, Actions speak louder than words?”

  I leaned back in my seat, stunned silent by my advisor’s revelation.

  Actions.

  It made perfect sense. Ken did have a hard time expressing himself with words and an even harder time accepting physical touch, so that whole time he’d been showing me he cared instead.

  “Based on your client’s profile, he appears to be a highly left-brained individual—a man of action and reason.”

  “He is.” I nodded, fighting back tears. “Very much, sir.”

  “Then, my recommendation would be for Mr. Easton to select a life partner who is free-spirited and highly verbal, someone right-brained to help balance him out. Like a poet or a painter or perhaps”—he offered me a small, sympathetic smile—“a psychology student with purple hair.”

  “How’d your case study thingy go?” Juliet asked.

  I held the phone up to my ear with my shoulder as I downshifted and pulled into my parents’ neighborhood. “Good, I guess. How was Philosophy class?”

  Juliet snorted. “Bubby asked about you.”

  I rolled my eyes, driving past a dozen houses in disrepair before turning onto my parents’ street. “Did you tell Bubby to eat a dick?”

  Juliet’s dry laugh made me smile. “I told him you were dating Zach now.”

  My smile flipped upside down at the mention of his name. “Uh, I think you have to go on a date to be dating someone. Or at least fucking talk to them on the phone.” My tone was so bitter; I could almost taste the salt in my voice.

  “BB, it’s only been—”

  “Four days! I know; I know. Cool guys wait six days now. I get it.”

  “Then why are you pouting? He’s totally into you, girl. He even said he tried to kiss you Wednesday night! What’s wrong with you?”

  “I don’t know!” My shout filled the car. “Maybe I don’t want a cool guy anymore! Maybe I want a guy who will fucking call me just because he wants to fucking call me! Maybe I want a guy who’s more concerned with finding out how my day was than protecting his stupid fucking ego!”

  I drove down a long, skinny driveway into the woods where our little square house sat, visualizing the smug smile on Juliet’s pretty face.

  “Just say it,” I spat.

  “Say what?” Juliet’s voice was unnaturally high-pitched.

  “That I’m hung up on Ken and doomed to die alone.” I pulled into my parking space in the driveway and yanked up on the handle brake.

  Juliet snorted. “You’re definitely hung up on Ken, but you are not doomed to die alone. There’s this guy in my Marketing class—”

  A laugh sputtered out of me, followed by a stream of unexpected tears.

  “Hey,” Juliet prodded, hearing my quiet sobs, “you okay? I’m sorry. I’ll lay off—”

  “No, I’m fine.” I sniffled and wiped my nose on the back of my arm. “I just…I just love you.”

  “Dawww. I just love you, too, bitch.”

  As I tucked my phone back into my purse and slammed my dented driver’s side door, I realized that something felt off about my parents’ house. Everything looked exactly the same. My mom’s car was parked in front of the garage. The blinds were open, and the front door was shut. Birds sang, and ribbons of afternoon light streamed through the hundred-foot-tall pines. Yet my senses were on high-alert.

  I shook off my paranoia, dismissing it as just a side effect of my overly emotional state, and let myself into the house.

  My mom was leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping a celebratory it’s finally fucking Friday beer. She still had on her Peach State Elementary T-shirt, covered in paint spatter and dried bits of clay, and her long red hair was pulled back in a messy bun with a pencil shoved through it.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, the corner of her mouth pulling up on one side.

  “Uh, I live here.” I plopped my bags down on the rickety kitchen island and plopped my bony ass down on a matching barstool.

  My mom shook her head, trying to suppress a grin. “Not anymore you don’t.”

  “Oh, really?” I smirked, flicking my eyes to her almost-full Corona. “How many of those have you had?”

  “I’m serious,” she said, not looking the slightest bit serious. She pulled her lips between her teeth, ineffectively trying to squelch her giddiness about something. “Go see for yourself.” My mom cast her eyes up, in the direction of my bedroom.

  “Okaaaay…” I left my bags on the table and walked backward out of the kitchen, not taking my eyes off my mom, who looked like she was about to erupt into hysterics at any moment.

  She was the worst secret-keeper ever. She told me what she’d gotten me for Christmas every year, the end to every movie she’d ever seen, and what surprise she had planned for my birthday without fail. So, whatever was going on, the fact that she hadn’t blurted it out yet let me know that it was pretty fucking serious.

  Once I got to the stairs, I turned and took them two at a time, rounded the bend at the top, and flew down the hall to my open bedroom door.

  Then, I lurched to a stop.

  My dresser was gone.

  My desk was gone.

  My computer, my printer, all the clothes on the floor, my basket full of makeup, my books, my bed…

  My whole life was just…gone.

  I ran to the closet and threw open the door.

  Empty.

  I ran across the hall to my bathroom and pulled open the drawers.

  Empty. Empty. Empty.

  “Mom!”

  I could hear her giggling downstairs, but she didn’t reply.

  “Mom! Where the fuck is my stuff? What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything!” she yelled in a guilty singsong tone.

  Sprinting down the stairs, I slid into the kitchen, fuming. “Are you gonna tell me what the fuck is going on?”

  My mom’s fists were pulled up to her mouth, and her usually tired green eyes sparkled like emeralds. “It’s just so romantic,” she whispered, bouncing on her toes.

  “What is, goddamn it?”

  “Ken came and got your stuff this morning.”

  I spun on one heel to find my dad standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. His expression wasn’t nearly as excited as my mother’s.

  “He what?” I spat.

  “He came by with a truck while you were at school. Said he’d borrowed it from his pop. We had a nice, long chat. Can’t believe that boy moved your whole dresser by himself. That thing’s solid cherry.”

  He said he was helping someone move today!

  “Oh my God!” I swung my head from my dad to my mom and back again. “He just…he just took all my stuff without asking me? Who does that? Why would
you let him do that?”

  My mom bit her lip and grinned. My dad lifted one shoulder in a sad, resigned shrug.

  “Go on.” My mom shooed me with her hands toward the front door. “Get outta my house. You gotta call first if you want to come over now.”

  “This is bullshit!” I cried, slinging my backpack and purse over one shoulder. “You guys are all crazy!”

  My parents sandwiched me in a hug before releasing me to my fate.

  “I love you, baby!” my mom called out as I opened the front door.

  “Love you, Scooter,” my dad grumbled.

  I huffed and glanced back at them from the doorway. My parents stood in the foyer, arm in arm, waving at me with glistening eyes. I didn’t understand why they were so emotional when I was the one being kicked out.

  “Love you, too,” I sighed. Then, I slammed the door behind me like the pouty little brat that I was.

  I sped over to Ken’s house with my heart pounding, hands shaking, and thoughts racing.

  He took my stuff.

  That motherfucker took my fucking stuff!

  I feel like I’m being sold into sexual slavery or something. How could my parents just sell me out like that? I finally date a guy with more mortgages than tattoos, and they’re ready to pony up a dowry. What a couple of assholes!

  And Ken. If he thinks he can just make me move in with him, then he doesn’t know who the fuck he’s dealing with.

  I won’t do it!

  This is so not like him.

  God, I miss him.

  It’s only been four days, but it feels like four months.

  No, wait. Fuck him!

  He can’t just make me take him back. That’s not how this works. I make the rules, goddamn it. And my rule is that you have to tell me you fucking love me before you force me to be your concubine.

  When I pulled into the driveway of my favorite place on earth, I noticed that the garage door had been left up. Ken’s little Eclipse convertible was parked on the left, and on the right was a big, open space where Chelsea used to park before she moved in with Bobby. I’d never parked in Ken’s garage before—or any garage for that matter—but I figured, if that asshole could take my stuff, I could take a spot in his garage.