Page 23 of Knotted

A wicked little smile tugs at my lips as I hit send, feeling a thrill I didn’t expect.

Eat your heart out, Wyld. Hot and cocky, at your service.

CHAPTER 8

Brian

I keep a brisk pace as I weave through the bustling city streets, my heart pounding in sync with the first half of my eight-mile run. Breaking in this new prosthetic hasn’t just kept me moving; it’s lit a fire under me, driving me to push harder, to see just how far I can go.

With every stride, I’m not just running—I’m charging forward, testing the limits, daring the fucker to keep up.

I smile and wave to a few folks on the bench who’ve stopped feeding squirrels to watch as I whip past. I’m no stranger to curious looks when I charge through—my left leg, a sleek blade of metal, flashing in the sunlight.

It used to eat away at me, exposing that missing piece of myself for the world to see. I’d bury it under breathable sweats, trying to dodge the inevitable pity in people’s eyes. But over time, I learned to own it. Every scar became a piece of armor I wore with pride.

Now, it’s my go-to conversation starter. It breaks the ice with battle-hardened vets who’ve faced the unimaginable andkids in wheelchairs who refuse to let life pin them down. Strength that lies in all of us. Sometimes, you just have to wade through the bullshit to force it to the surface.

So, when a few more pedestrians stare, their gazes feel...different. They’re watching me with wide smiles and something like awe, as if I’m the quarterback who just scored the winning touchdown at the Super Bowl.

Women seem extra friendly this morning. Unnervingly so. My spidey sense is all sorts of confused, like predators who’ve caught the scent of prey.

And I am not imagining it. They’re whispering, giggling, some blatantly staring. And maybe it’s my imagination, but I’m pretty sure some are sneaking photos.

I slow my pace, threading my way through a cluster of ladies waiting for the bookshop to open. Out of nowhere, a chorus erupts. “It’s him!” and “Are you Brian Bishop?” and, “Oh. My. God!! You!”

I blink, momentarily stunned. And before I can think or curse or say anything remotely meme-worthy, suddenly, too many camera phones are thrust in my face to count.

I hustle out of there and pick up the pace, heart pounding as I try to escape the frenzy. And, I’m not even kidding when I say that some of them actually chase me. And they are both determined and freaking fast. In heels.

I speed up and eventually manage to put some distance between us. Two more miles uphill, and my lungs are on absolute fire.

I round the corner and nearly crash into a small coffee shop, my legs threatening to give out. The line isn’t long—thank God—so I slip inside, craving a moment of peace.

As soon as I step into the queue, the whispers start, sharp and cutting. Glances follow, eyes dissecting me with every passing second.

But the line moves quickly, and running isn’t an option. Seriously, I’m one deep breath away from puking up a lung. So, I do what any battle-hardened soldier would do: jam my EarPods in, lower my head, and avoid eye contact like it’s a game of dodgeball.

The barista gasps the second her eyes land on me, then instantly vanishes into the back.

When she returns, her smile is wide, and she has two others in tow. “Good morning, Mr. Bishop,” she chirps, sliding a perfectly crafted drink across the counter. The other two hover nearby, their eyes wide with awe and barely contained excitement.

I pull out an AirPod, my smile tightening in confusion. “What’s this?”

She hands me the cup with a knowing grin. “Your favorite, right? Dark roast with a shot of espresso, two pumps of vanilla, and just a dash of cinnamon.”

My gut clenches. How the hell does she know that?

I chuckle, but it’s forced. “Thanks.” I move to pay, but before I can pull out my card, a woman behind me chimes in. “I’ve got his drink.”

“No, I do,” another one snaps, practically elbowing her way forward.

I take the cup, but before I can get out of there, they’re going at it—right there in the coffee shop over who gets to pay for my damn drink. It’s as if I’ve been yanked into the spotlight of a reality show...in the freaking Twilight Zone.

I snatch the cup and back away, watching in disbelief as they girl-fight over who gets to pay for it. It’s ridiculous, but before I can even process what the fuck’s going on, another woman steps up, asking for my autograph.

“Huh?”

And then—what the hell—someone’s hand lands on my abs. Which is my cue to get the hell out of there.

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