In Rides Trouble: Black Knights Inc.

by Julie Ann Walker

  She hugged him tightly, and he kissed her forehead before she moved on to Angel.

  “We barely know each other, and yet you risked your life to save mine. I’ll never be able to thank you enough.” She pressed one of his hands between both of hers.

  “Like I said back on the destroyer, you are my friend. Aristotle once said, ‘the antidote to a thousand enemies is one good friend.’ I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

  Blinking back sudden tears, she went with impulse and reached up to kiss his whisker-roughened cheek before she turned to Frank. Forcing herself not to flinch as she met his intense stare, she cleared her throat before whispering. “I’m sorry I caused such trouble. Thank you for coming for me.”

  A heavy muscle ticked in his jaw, but he managed a terse nod.

  “I uh, I need to talk to you after I get out of the shower,” she told him, resisting the urge to lower her head and shuffle her feet. Instead, she forced herself to hold his gaze, hoping he’d see the regret in her eyes.

  Another brusque nod was all the response she received.

  Okay. So, obviously he was biting his tongue lest he give her the verbal lashing she so richly deserved.

  She felt miserable about her part in that whole scene down in the Patton’s sick bay but…geez, the least he could do was say something so she’d know how much groveling was required. Because right now all she could come up with was, Uh, sorry I was on the verge of raping you, man. And no matter how many times she turned that sentence over in her head, it just didn’t have quite the right ring.

  Chapter Nine

  Frank stood outside the cheery red door of the restored brownstone on North Sedgwick and experienced none of the comfort he usually gained from being there.

  But God knew he couldn’t stay back at the compound…

  When Becky said she wanted to talk to him after her shower, the only word that registered was shower, and his brain had conjured a quick slideshow of erotic images. All of which had included her, gloriously naked, sweet breasts lifted as she raised her slender arms above her head to sluice the water from her long hair. The mental picture of warm, glistening droplets running over her taut belly and sleek hips was so clear that his mouth had watered like one of Pavlov’s damn dogs, and he’d known he was too exhausted to resist the temptation she embodied.

  So he’d done the cowardly thing and run here.

  He rested his forehead against the cool, wooden surface of the door—the door he painstakingly painted three springs before—and called himself one hundred kinds of prick for what he allowed to happen on the Patton and what he wanted to happen over and over again. It went against every fiber of his being, against the very nature of the man he was always convinced he was.

  And, worst of all, it was a…betrayal—there was just no other word for it—of the woman who lived behind this door.

  A cool October wind whistled in off Lake Michigan. Its icy fingers slipped under the collar of his motorcycle jacket, pulling him from his futile thoughts.

  Yeah, no matter how many times he turned it over in his mind, there was no way for him to shift the blame for what happened to somebody else.

  The fault was all his, which was just fan-fucking-tastic.

  Allowing himself one last florid string of curses, he pushed away from the door, pressed the little brass bell, and listened to the happy chime. Its tinkling peal was quickly followed by the squeal of a toddler.

  The door swung open to reveal the cherubic face of the three-year-old boy who was Frank’s most precious treasure.

  “You’s back!” little Franklin declared gleefully, clapping his dimpled hands together even as he tried to clamber up Frank’s leg.

  Frank managed to secure the wiggling little bundle of energy in his good arm, hoisting him up against his chest. The smell of peanut butter, crayons, and warm little boy filled his nose and made his heart ache.

  “Franklin,” Shell admonished as she came through the kitchen door, wiping her hands on her apron and looking so beautiful Frank’s aching heart swelled with pride, “the correct words to use are you’re back, not you’s back. And how many times have I told you not to open the door without me?”

  Franklin ignored her as he pushed back in Frank’s arm, his storm-cloud gray eyes scanning Frank’s scarred face.

  “He’s back,” he told his mother seriously, “and he’s got boo-boos.”

  Franklin tried to pull the bandage away from Frank’s forehead to get a peek underneath and must’ve been somewhat successful because he quickly followed that up with, “Ooooh, he’s got bwud.”

  Franklin placed a sticky hand on each of Frank’s cheeks and regarded him intently. “Does it hurt?” he asked, his eyes wide with worry.

  “It did when it happened, but not now,” Frank assured him.

  Franklin nodded sagely before wriggling to be let down. Since the initial excitement of his arrival wore off and the mystery of his injuries had been thoroughly examined, the little boy was anxious to get back to whatever he was doing, which, by the looks of the colorful balls of clay on the coffee table, was the construction of a Play-Doh menagerie.

  Frank lowered him to the floor and swallowed the sudden lump in his throat as he watched the little guy run back to his play on short, sturdy, denim-clad legs.

  “How’s it possible he’s grown an inch since I saw him a week ago?” he asked.

  “Because he takes after you,” Shell said as she walked over and placed a cool hand on each of his cheeks—like mother, like son. She quickly scanned his face, the worry in her own obvious.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re home in mostly one piece,” she observed, and he suddenly wanted to cry. She started pulling him toward the warm, delicious-smelling kitchen. “As it happens, I’m making your favorite.”

  Of course, she was…“How’d you know I was coming?”

  “I saw the news coverage. The interview of that cute motorcycle designer you have working for you.”

  Dear, sweet kee-rist, talk about a dagger through the heart.

  “So I figured it wouldn’t be long before you’d come looking for a little peace and quiet. Such as it is.” She made a face and glanced back at Franklin who was in the middle of facilitating a war between a lion and monkey, if the sounds he was making were anything to go by. “I also figured a nice, home-cooked meal wouldn’t go unappreciated.”

  He squeezed her with his good arm. “You know me too well.”

  “After all these years?” She threw her head back and laughed. “I guess I’d better, huh?”

  ***

  “Where’s Frank?” Becky asked anxiously, standing behind the overstuffed sofa in the media room.

  Angel turned down the volume on the big-screen plasma television and twisted off the cap on an extra bottle of Honker’s Ale as he patted the cushion beside him.

  Oh gosh. That didn’t bode well. A sick feeling settled in the bottom of her stomach as she rounded the sofa to stand in front of him, hands on hips.

  “Rock and your brother have gone to bed,” he said, his dark eyes soft on her face. The fire crackling in the corner grate filled the air with the smoky sweetness of burning pine logs and cast dancing shadows around the room. Still, there was enough light to make out his expression, and was that…?

  Yep, that was pity plastered all over his handsome face.

  Okay, and now she really felt ill. “That’s not what I asked.”

  “I know.” He patted the seat next to him again.

  Swallowing down the sudden urge to yank out her hair and scream, she blew out a frustrated breath and plopped down beside him, absently accepting the beer he handed her.

  “He’s gone,” he murmured quietly.

  “Where’d he go?” She tried to make her tone sound casual but realized she missed the mark when Angel wrapped
a comforting arm around her shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze.

  “Where do you think?”

  “Well…crap.” She heaved a weary sigh, her shoulders sagging. “I guess that’s about perfect, huh?”

  Angel didn’t answer. He just pulled her closer, laying his cheek on the top of her head.

  Peanut strolled into the room. And after two failed attempts, he managed to jump onto the sofa, curling up next to her and purring loud enough to drown out the crackle and hiss of the logs burning in the fireplace.

  Oh great. Everyone felt the need to comfort poor, foolish Becky.

  Inexplicably, tears clogged her throat. She took a hasty sip of beer to try to wash them down.

  “It’s kinda funny when you think about it,” she mused after a while, although the last thing she felt like doing was laughing.

  “What is?”

  “Well, here I was, determined to apologize for what happened, and Frank’s probably up in Lincoln Park doing the same. No doubt trying his best to explain the whole sordid affair to his girlfriend without making me look like a…like a…frickin’ predator.” She tilted the bottle back and took another healthy swig.

  Maybe the best thing to do would be to get drunk. Just get good and wasted…

  Of course, her troubles would be waiting for her in the morning. And they’d be compounded by a hangover.

  “I don’t understand.” Angel pulled back to look at her. “What have you got to apologize for?”

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and slanted him what Ozzie liked to refer to as her patented well, duh expression. “Uh, for forcing myself on a nearly unconscious man? Does that ring any bells?”

  “Yes, the scene is still very fresh in my mind’s eye.” She felt her cheeks heat. “But believe me when I tell you he knew exactly what he was doing. All those painkillers did was lessen his inhibitions.”

  “Uh-huh,” she curled her upper lip, “that’s what all the college boys claim when the girl wakes up in the fraternity house the next morning and starts yelling rape. She wanted it at the time, your honor. I swear it.”

  He shook his head. “What happened between you and Boss was not like that.”

  “Just how do you figure?” she demanded. “You were there. One minute he’s sticking his tongue down my throat, the very next he’s sawing logs like a dadgummed lumberjack. I think that pretty much establishes me as the culprit. After all, I was still in my right mind.”

  Angel took a slow sip of beer, regarding her through narrowed eyes. “Let me ask you this. Who instigated the kiss?”

  “Um…”

  “Was it you?”

  She screwed up her mouth, replaying the scene in her mind for what had to be the thousandth time. Frank, looking at her so sweetly, rubbing his face against her hand, reaching up to pull her down…

  “No.” She shook her head. “I wasn’t the instigator. I specifically remember him pulling me down, but—”

  “So there you go.”

  “What?” she sputtered. “That doesn’t change anything. He. Was. Out. Of. His. Head. I should’ve stopped him.”

  “That we can agree on.”

  She made a face and sank back against the cushions.

  “What I’m saying is you shouldn’t take on the blame for this. I can assure you, Boss has wanted to kiss you for a long time, and he used the excuse of his inebriated state to do just that.”

  “He’s wanted to kiss me? How do you know that? Did he tell you?”

  Okay. And that didn’t sound desperate or anything. Geez…

  “I know it the same way I know every time you look at him you see him stomping on a wineglass while you stand under the chuppah.”

  Huh?

  “Um, Angel? I don’t know what a chuppah is, but I get the wineglass reference, and I don’t see him doing that…mainly because we’re not Jewish.” She mumbled the last bit.

  “Fine, then you see white doves and orange blossoms. My point is you have happily-ever-after written all over your face.”

  She swallowed, sinking farther into the sofa, wanting to just…disappear. “Do you think he knows?” she asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

  “He’d be a blind man not to.”

  “Aw, geez.” She threw a hand over her eyes, the beer she’d swallowed threatening to reverse directions. “This is a disaster.”

  “Only if you let it become one.” He grabbed her hand, forcing her to face him. “You want my advice?”

  Advice?

  Hell, yeah. She needed all the advice she could get.

  “Forget about it,” he told her. When she frowned, he added. “Forget about the kiss, forget about your girlish dreams, forget about him.”

  “Yeah, well,” she blew out a breath of frustration, “that’s a little hard to do considering I work with the guy.”

  “Okay, so use that.”

  She lifted a brow.

  “He’s your coworker, yes? It’s always bad luck to get involved with a coworker. Believe me, I know. And if that’s not enough to dissuade you, then simply remember he’s already in a relationship. Are you prepared to be the other woman? Because I wouldn’t have thought you were the type.”

  “Of course I’m not. But it can’t be that serious, can it? This thing he’s got going with this woman up in Lincoln Park? I mean, he’s been seeing her for as long as I’ve known him. If it was something serious, he’d have proposed marriage by now, don’t you think?”

  “Are you really that naive?”

  She groaned and closed her eyes.

  “I know how hard it is,” he squeezed her against his side, “to want someone you can’t have.”

  She stared at the stark emotion on his face. “Who was she?” she asked quietly.

  In answer, he simply shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Like hell. But Becky knew that was guy-speak for, “I don’t want to talk about it.” And she decided it was best not to press him on the issue.

  Laying her head on his shoulder, they sat and drank in companionable silence for a long while before she finally snorted. “We’re a pair, aren’t we? A couple of lovesick fools…”

  ***

  “So what’s up with the shoulder this time?” Shell asked him as they sat on the sofa in the living room, enjoying a second glass of Chardonnay and the little fire he’d lit in the fireplace—the fireplace he’d personally restored tile by tile.

  Franklin had been bathed and put to bed, his little belly full of Frank’s favorite beef stroganoff.

  It was all so very familiar, so very homey, his earlier tension began to dissolve. And with the anxiety of the past week melting away, the pain in his shoulder took center stage.

  “Two words,” he told her, adjusting himself to try and relieve some of the ache, “it’s fucked.”

  “Surgery?” she asked, oblivious to his potty mouth after all these years.

  “Uh-huh. No way around it if I want to keep doing my job.”

  “It’ll be different this time,” she told him, patting his arm. “Now that you know you have an adverse reaction to general anesthesia, your anesthesiologist can keep a sharp eye on your levels.”

  He grunted in reply. The thought of being put under after what’d happened last time scared the holy hell out of him. Give him RPG-toting terrorists or tweaked-out drug lords any day of the week over a masked man with a shiny needle.

  “You will be okay,” she assured him, leaning over to smack a kiss on his cheek. “You haven’t survived everything you’ve been through just to have your lights blink out during a miniscule shoulder surgery.”

  Lord, let her be right.

  The last time he felt this scared was when he’d woken up after the surgery to have his tonsils removed to find
out One: that he’d died on the table only to be revived, and Two: that the strain of almost losing a son had been too much for his father, who’d subsequently decided he wasn’t cut out to be a family man.

  Robert Knight had left, bags in hand, that very afternoon.

  “So who are you seeing?” she asked and, for a moment, he froze. Then he realized she was asking about his surgeon. Shell was in pharmaceutical sales and knew most of the doctors in the city.

  “I have an appointment with Dr. Keller in the morning.”

  “Good.” She nodded. “He’s the best. He’ll have you back in fighting form in no time.”

  “Shit,” he laughed, “I wish that was true. I think my fighting form days are long gone. I’m getting old, Shell. Too old for this line of work.”

  “You shut your mouth,” she harrumphed. “If you say you’re getting old, that means I’m getting old, and I absolutely refuse to believe it.”

  He grinned and wrapped his good arm around her shoulders, planting a kiss in her hair—mmm, vanilla. The smell would always remind him of home, and she always knew just what to say to make him feel better.

  “I love you, you know,” he told her.

  “Yeah,” she sighed, leaning into him, “I know.”

  ***

  Bill paced back and forth in his loft bedroom on the third floor of the shop, his worn copy of Moby Dick open on his bed, his cellular phone gripped tightly in his hand.

  Should he call her or shouldn’t he?

  He’d seen the news coverage and the interview she and his sister had given. To anyone who didn’t really know her, Eve’d looked poised and unflappable.

  To him? Man, she’d been a wreck.

  She hated the press, hated the spotlight, hated having her life flayed open for public perusal, and then there’d no doubt been the cross-examination by her father…

  Why do you even care?

  Yes, that was the question of the day, wasn’t it? Why did he care? “Goddamnit!” he cursed and rubbed at his complaining stomach before jerking open the door and sticking his head into the hall.