Page 62 of Knight

“Where are you going?” I ask.

He doesn’t even head inside to grab his jacket before he’s out the door, shirt still open, exposing his chest and abs. With a glance at Christian, I follow him to the garage. “Damien, what the fuck? What are you doing?”

“Damage control.” He doesn’t look back when he answers, going through the side door of another building that looks like a house. Hell, the garage is bigger than our old home.

Christian calls my name from the front door, “Jo, let him go!”

I wish it was that easy.

“I’m coming with you,” I say, marching into the garage with him. The door to his car is unlocked when I get to it. When I settle in, he zooms down the driveway and if the gate wasn’t already open, he’d drive through it too. He’s speedy, but he’s not reckless, his eyes focused on the road ahead.

“What do you mean by damage control?” I ask, half-nervous about the response.

His eyes on the road, a smirk comes across that perfect face. “We’re gonna have a little talk.”

We’re in front of Isaac’s house in what seems like a few minutes.

Well, kind of.

Damien parks around the corner when he sees his limo in the driveway.

“My aunt’s fucking my best friend,” Damien mutters, hands still gripping the wheel. His knuckles turn white and I’m afraid he’ll break his car. “You weren’t lying.”

“What’re you going to do?” Scanning his face, I can’t get a read on him. He sounds calm but his jaw’s still tight, face muscles still making those cheeks pop.

“For now, we wait.” He keeps his eyes straight ahead.

“And then what?” He doesn’t say anything and that shakes me. He never tells me the plan. Hardly tells me what he’s thinking but here I am, always by his side. It shakes me more when I realize he didn’t believe me. “Wait, you thought I was lying?”

He shrugs and I know he’s trying to play this off. “I didn’t believe a woman like that would want action from someone like … Isaac.”

I don’t care what his reasoning is. “You don’t trust me, do you?” How are we supposed to be anything if he doesn’t trust me? How are we even supposed to be friends? He’s already blaming everything on me. The coin, his father’s death. What’s next?

The limo comes through the gate. I guess it didn’t take them that long this time, we’ve only been sitting here for about twenty minutes. When the limo goes the other way, he pulls into the driveway. He still doesn’t answer me when he gets out of the car and storms to the door, over the pond and bangs his fist against the glass.

Sitting in his car, I’m trying to digest this feeling. My stomach aches. So does my head and I’m wondering why I even keep trusting him if he doesn’t trust me? I should know better. The only person I can trust is Willow but since she’s been on her own path, hanging with the cool kids, is that still even true?

I’m shaken out of my thoughts when the front door opens. Isaac’s in a robe like he’s fucking Hugh Hefner but my eyes widen when I see Damien’s fist connect with his face.

“Damien!” I call, getting out of the car and running towards them. He’s already on top of him. Isaac doesn’t even defend himself as Damien wails on him. “Stop!” I know the damage Damien can do. Isaac doesn’t deserve that, even if he did cross a line. “Quit it!”

“I’m sorry!” Isaac finally croaks. He already knows why he’s getting a royal beating. “I’m fucking sorry, man!”

Damien stops, his fist in the air when he gets off Isaac and walks into his house. I already suspect his dad isn’t home. Like Nate and Bella’s, Lionel Johnson is never around.

Grabbing Isaac by the arm, I help him up, but he tries his best to stand on his own. He opens the front door wider on its swivel, still being a gentleman even with blood coming down his nose. Walking through the foyer, I head straight to where I remember the kitchen is, grabbing a pack of ice from the built-in fridge.

Isaac’s kitchen is a mix of grey concrete, green cupboards and white walls. It’s eccentric but it works and I assume he and his dad have similar styles. Unconventionally snobby.

Damien’s already sitting on the concrete counter as if he knew this is where we’d go. “Stop fucking my aunt,” he says, tossing me a cloth from the oven’s stainless steel handle.

Wrapping the ice-pack in the cloth, I lean Isaac against the counter. On the other side from Damien that is. Taking his hand, I press it to the pack I have against his head. “Thanks,” he says. “Sorry you had to see that.”

“That’s your fault, isn’t it?” Damien scoffs. Then he repeats, “Stop fucking my aunt.”

There’s tension in the air when Isaac doesn’t answer. So I try to ease it. “That sounds like a great idea! Right, Isaac?” The kitchen smells cleaner than a hotel and it wouldn’t surprise me if Isaac didn’t do any cooking either.

Isaac drops the ice-pack, head falling against the cupboard. His head reaches the top shelf, even when he’s slouching. “I can’t.”

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