Page 65 of Knox Unleashed
For a moment, we both stand in front of the dairy cooler like the strangers we really are.
“You sure I can’t follow you home?”
This time, it’s me shaking my head. “I’m sure.”
Finally, Knox clears his throat. “I should go and check out, then.” But there’s a hint of a dare. Like he’s willing me to give him a reason to stay and talk some more.
“Good idea.”
He studies me for a second. Even reaches out his knuckle to touch my cheek but drops it before it makes contact. Then, he heads to the register.
And I am left with feelings of loss that I have nowhere to put.
Emotions are a complicated and often volatile thing. They make no sense. I want to run after him and tell him it’s okay. That what happened today was miscommunication. But the pain of standing in a lot, shaking, while a group of men who don’t know me, look at me like I’m dirt and say that they should have just left me to that man, is sharp.
I screw any thoughts of a useful list. Instead, I grab some of my favorite chocolate and a pack of fresh brownies. As I pass the freezer, I grab vanilla ice cream. It might be predictable to comfort eat, but I think I deserve it.
By the time I reach the checkout, Knox is long gone, which is probably for the best. I pay, gather my bags, and walk to the truck, hyperaware of my surroundings.
But there, on the hood of my truck, is a massive bundle of colorful roses.
I hurry to the truck bed and put the groceries inside before I walk to them and hold them to my face. There has to be at least two dozen of them. Maybe more.
The ridiculousness of it makes a smile sneak up on me before I can stop it.
“Idiot,” I mutter when I see the card. There, in Knox’s scrawl, is a message.
You make me want to be a better man. Call me. K.
Underneath it is his number.
Part of me is desperate to call it, but another part knows we’re playing with fire, and I’m the one whose house is most likely to burn down.
23
KNOX
“What do you mean, they never came back?” I ask the following morning as I sit in church.
A half-asleep Reaper is nursing his coffee like it’s life support. “What I said, Prez,” he says. “They never came back. Been there all night. The woman who runs the motel let herself in there this morning and emptied it. Said they didn’t pay the previous night’s bill, so they don’t get to keep their room.”
“Wonder if we spooked them,” Sunny says.
Havoc nods. “It’s possible they had micro-cameras in the place to keep an eye on things. If they know we’re there waiting for them, they aren’t going to hurry back anytime soon.”
“Keep a couple of prospects on the place anyway,” I say. “But let’s mix it up. Send them in a car, no cuts, nothing identifiable. Tell ‘em to ask the woman running the place to give them the room closest to her office. That way, she can alert them if they come back. Stay for at least three days. My guess is they give it enough time for the heat to cool off, then they’ll be back to pick up their shit.”
“I’ll make that happen,” Vandal says.
I reach for my packet of cigarettes and knock out the last one in the box. I light it and savor the drag. “We got a request from New Jersey. King asked if we could meet a boat tonight. The cargo is weapons. Three crates. We need to meet our Austin brothers for hand over. Given what’s going on here, I’m reluctant to send a full ride out. Those two men come back, we need to be on our game to go round ‘em up. So, North, I want you, Ridge, and Havoc to do the run. I want Vandal, Lock, and Sunny with me. Reaper, you stay here, get some fucking sleep, and be on hand for injuries.”
Reaper nods. “I’m prescribing myself some food, pussy, and a solid eight hours.”
Vandal looks to Havoc. “If Havoc was prescribing himself, it would be fifteen minutes for food, eleven seconds for fucking, and eight hours for sleep.”
I can’t help but laugh.
Havoc throws his empty coffee cup at Vandal’s head. Of course, he dodges it. “Fuck. You. All.”
