Page 2 of Knight

My fist slows, reminding myself that her tongue says words I can’t believe.

Maybe the old man was right after all.

The question replays in my head, one I’ve been asking myself over and over.

Is she after my heart, or is this pure revenge? Putting it past her isn’t easy. This girl’s spunky with a bite that I can’t get enough of. Out of all the girls to set foot in Eden, Jo Rowland is almost as golden as the flecks in her eyes.

Even after all this, most of my thoughts are of her. That sexy body with curves in all the right places. That dip in her waist, the small of her back, the mole on her left ass cheek. An ass that fits my palms almost as perfect as the way those tits fit my mouth. I want her. Always have.

But can I trust her?

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“I said tell them to get the fuck ou—”

“Good afternoon,” a man’s voice booms through the small room and my hand flies from my throbbing crotch. Whoever this is finds the light switch, the chandelier above coming to life. It stings my eyes, my lids turning to slits as I try to see who the fuck is ballsy enough to waltz into my home. This office. “I’m sorry to disturb you—”

“Then get the fuck out!” My voice means business. Fuck, did he just say afternoon? I thought it was still three in the morning. “Do you know who I am? How dare you!”

“Everyone knows who you are.” Another voice comes from the door and by the time my vision clears, two men are in front of me. They stare down at me as I sit at my father’s desk. His throne. One wears a black suit with a white shirt and tie, thick hair gelled high like he’s ready for VIP. The other’s more dressed down, in a sweater and jeans. Narrow eyes, decent stache. “We’re very sorry to disturb you, Mister King, but we do have a few questions we need to ask. It’s about your father. I’m Detective Branson, EGPD, and this is Detective Hanson from Glendale.”

“The Grove?” They have my attention. Swiping the polaroid from the table, I’m quick to put it in my pocket before pulling on the collar of my v-neck. My jaw tenses, a row of teeth tight on top of the other. “Hold on just a minute, Branson and Hanson. Do I need my lawyer or not?”

“You’re not a suspect.” That helps the pressure in my chest. But then why are they here? “We don’t have any reason to think that. Not yet.”

They start asking me questions from that morning. What I was doing at the lakehouse. Recounts of what happened. I take a drink every single time and it’s not long before I’m reaching for a refill. Good thing they can’t see my leg shaking under this desk, my palms all sweaty.

“You say this was an accident?” Branson confirms, a finger in his grey and black strands.

I nod, keeping my hard chest out as take another breath to keep my voice from shaking. “An unfortunate one.” For him anyway.

“Was Joelle Rowland with you that morning, Mister King?” Detective Hanson lowers his notepad. If he sees how tight my grip is around this glass, I’m toast.

“Joelle Rowland,” I repeat, and fuck, even saying her name makes my heart feel like it’s about to explode. It booms against my chest, my mind filling with memories of her. Leaning back in my seat, I take my time. Only because I need to catch my breath. But not too long, they’ll get suspicious. After another second I answer, Hanson glancing at his partner, “No. She wasn’t.”

“But you two have been spending a lot of time together?” Hanson asks, pulling at his thick, dark stache.

On second thought, I’m not sure if that’s a question or a statement, but yeah, I sure as hell have. Up until the last few days anyway. Images of me buried in her sweet, tight hole are hard to ignore as these two idiots stare at me as if I’m really going to give them answers. As if I’m really going to tell them the truth. “You say I’m not a suspect but you sure as fuck are acting like it.” I rise from my seat, coming level with these nosy assholes. “So unless I can call my lawyer, or you have a warrant, this conversation is over.”

I don’t have to trust her, but this strong urge to protect what’s mine comes over me and I don’t hesitate before I’m leading them to the door. Cuffs I can get behind but she’s much more useful to me if she’s not locked in a cell again.

“If you see Joelle, tell her we’ll be in touch.” Branson nods before I slam the door behind them.

Fuck.

Swiping the glass off the desk, I pace the room, suede slippers sliding against the dark brown wood. Knocking the contents in the glass down my throat, the liquid burns my empty stomach before I reach for more, replacing the glass with the bottle.

The last couple of months go through my head.

Was I right? Was he right?

Was I the pawn in her game? Am I right where she wants me?

My father’s voice rings in my ears. Be a man, Damien. Be a King.

“Fuck!” My fist pounds into the first thing I see, a framed portrait of daddy dearest himself. Glass shatters to the ground, shards in my knuckles. The pain matches everything I’m feeling and I go for more, my fist slamming into the wall on the other side. Another in his face for good measure.

He can’t be right. He doesn’t deserve to be right.

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