Page 66 of Knight

The lobby looks as I remember, sparkling clean and glamorous. The girls at the front desk greet Damien and this time, they smile at me too. Damien takes me down a long marble hallway before he leads me into a lavish gold and red dining room.

Everyone’s dressed as if they’re in a movie, laughing and chatting with one another. It’s easy to feel out of place as the host leads us between round tables with white tablecloths, my boots thudding against the carpet. This place isn’t my style. Tufted chairs, rose walls and a cherub fountain might be the idea of romance to these rich asses. But it makes me feel awkward and on display.

“Damien,” I lean into him. “I don’t know about this.” My eyes widen as we pass a table with the detectives. They seem to be on some sort of double date with their wives, two ladies their age sitting on either side. Branson looks up and when I look towards Damien he nods their way.

“Detectives,” Damien greets. “I’ll have a bottle of their finest sent your way.”

The fuck? Damien is awfully chummy with these two. Too chummy. What happened to that hostility? My eyes narrow but Branson doesn’t even look at me when he smiles, tilting his head towards Damien like they’re friendly colleagues.

“What the fuck was that?” I whisper. It’s hard not to look back when we pass them but their attention is already back on their plates. “Are you working with them?”

“So you don’t trust me,” he replies, a hand on the small of my back.

“I—”

“Right through here, Mr. King.” The host opens the swinging metal door to the kitchen, clinks and clatters welcoming us. People in white and chef hats move around us as we’re escorted to a table at the side. It has a simple setup, a small square table, a couple of plates, a bottle of whiskey.

Glancing at Damien, he smirks. “Didn’t think you’d want to eat in a place like this, but these guys have the best Portobello burgers.” He pulls out a chair, something not even Zane used to do. “So I got us the chef’s table.”

God damn him.

“King, hey!” A blonde man in a chef’s jacket comes over, wiping his hands on a white cloth he throws over his shoulder. He has a British accent when it dawns on me. It’s the fucking guy from that reality show. “It’s good to see you again, and please, accept my condolences.”

“Thanks, Keith,” Damien nods, reaching out to shake the man’s hand. “Two of the usual, but make it a veggie for her.”

“You got it, kid,” he says, walking away and yelling the order to his crew of workers.

The kitchen is bigger and more glamorous than the ones at the fast-food joints back in The Grove. But I’m happy we’re not sitting in that stuffy dining room. At this small table, it’s like we’re in our own little world. One with a bunch of rowdy kitchen workers. He’s trying to make an effort to mend things, and of course, I’m falling for it.

Damien drags his chair beside me and when he sits down, even the touch of his shoulder on mine is enough to make my heart melt. “You know,” I say, shrugging my jacket off my shoulders. He watches me as I do, eyes wandering from my face to my neckline. “It would make things a lot easier if you just told me your plans,” I say.

“Thought you liked it hard.” He leans closer, a hand on my thigh, his fingers cold on my skin as he reaches for the bottle with his free hand. Damien gives me a wink that tells me he’s playing nice. “Don’t you like it hard, Medusa?”

“Yeah, as hard as your head,” I say, grabbing the bottle from his hand and uncorking it. Tipping it to my lips, I’m hoping it gives me my extra spunk. I won’t admit Damien King makes me nervous and I won’t let him see it.

He chuckles, lip curling under his teeth when he tips the bottle higher with that long finger. “Nervous?” He doesn’t keep it there long, moving that finger to my cheek, a spark bursting into warmth.

Fuck.

The scotch is as smooth as always, warming my insides while Damien’s hand rises higher on my leg. I do what he does to me, dodge his question with one of my own. “Did you find your coin?”

His hand tightens on my thigh for a second, finger falling from my skin before he reaches for the bottle. After taking a swig, the bottle between his fingers, he shakes his head. “It’s my—was my mom’s.”

Is Damien King giving me honesty? He takes another swig and when I look at him he’s looking at the bottle in his hand with an empty gaze. If anybody understands holding onto things from their dead parents, it’s me. I’m still wearing my dad’s watch and jacket. My mom’s rings. Sure, they look alright, but it feels like a piece of my parents is with me when I wear them.

I wait for him to tell me more, the air a comfortable silence between us. His hand continues up my thigh. “Did you fuck Perez?”

“What?”

His hand moves higher and my insides clench, the feeling of his touch impossible to ignore. There’s a tingle between my legs the higher he climbs and I’m trying my hardest to keep them closed. “I answered your question. Now it’s your turn. Keep up, Medusa.”

“No.”

“Did you kiss him?” His face is inches from mine in a flash, his eyes narrow like he’s trying to read my insides.

“You’re jealous,” I match his stare, meeting his challenge.

“I’m not,” he’s quick to fire back.

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