Page 3 of Mob Knight

I glance over at the man just as he rolls his eyes. I look back at the two teenagers and barely stifle my laugh.

“Ronaldo, you talk shit, my friend. I don’t think you can get him to do anything he doesn’t want to do.”

“But you can.” Ronaldo darts his gaze to my left as though he can see the guy through the sidewalk. “You’re the one who should go inside instead of letting him hide behind you like a little bitch.”

“He’s listening to you, and he hasn’t come out. You really think this is about him fearing you? He knows you’re too damn trigger-happy and that if he moves your aim’s going to be crap, and you’re more likely to hit me than him.”

“No, he’s a much bigger target than you. And with that red hair, it’ll be easy to hit.”

I hear the guy next to me mutter in disgust. “If that were the case, one of those three shots would have hit me.”

I keep my voice down, so it’s barely more than a whisper. “Do you really think you should test that?”

I think I get more of a grunt than an answer, but I’ll take it.

“Ronaldo, Jesus, this is your last opportunity before I reach in my purse and pull out my phone. Do you want me to make that call? Or would you rather explain this on your own later, when you’re not likely to die before you get to?”

He definitely doesn’t want me to call Enrique Diaz, the Colombian Carteljefeandel padrino—Godfather—in this neighborhood.

I watch Jesus holster his gun first. He grabs Ronaldo’s left forearm and yanks. He tilts his head back toward the bodega.

“I’m going to follow you inside, so I’m sure you don’t come back out the moment you think you can hit him. You don’t solve whatever problems you have on the streets. You know the rules.”

“He started it!” Jesus calls out, and he sounds like the middle schooler I once knew.

“Yeah well, I’m ending it.”

“Why do you have to sound like a mom?”

“If you stopped acting like you needed one, then I’d stop sounding like one. I’m crossing the street.”

“Oh, no you’re not.”

Those are the first intelligible words the stranger’s said since I walked up the steps. I ignore him and step away from the railing and move around to cross the street. I sense him walking up behind me. The moment Jesus and Ronaldo disappear through the door, he wraps his arm back around my waist like he did earlier and hauls me down the steps.

I have my back to his chest, and it’s a solid wall of muscle. I could fight, but I’m more likely to wind up with us both falling down the stairs again. As much as my shoulder hurt when I landed, now it’s my elbow. It’s burning and throbbing at the same time. I’m happy to have my hands back down at my sides. It was near agony holding them out so the guys could see me.

They know I’m fully able to defend myself in a neighborhood like this. I didn’t want them thinking I was taking anything out of my purse other than maybe my phone.

“What the hell did you think you were doing? You make it sound like you know what those guys are capable of. So, if you know, and you know they’re shite shots, then why would you put yourself in danger like that?

“Because whether you get shot isn’t my problem. My problem is if somebody in this neighborhood does. You saw the kids on the street playing. I’m certain of it. I’m certain you know every single person who was around. You could tell me a detailed description of each of them. You’re more situationally aware than either of thoseidiotasare. I’m not interested in having to explain to parents or grandparents or aunts and uncles why their kid isn’t coming home simply because he was playing outside in his neighborhood. I’m not letting you or them put me in that position. I’m not in the mood, and I don’t have time. I’m already running late for my next appointment.”

“Who are you?”

The question isn’t a surprise to me, but I’m still unsure how I want to answer it. Should I stick out my hand to shake it? It’s my right elbow that hurts like a motherfucker, so it wouldn’t be that hand. How ridiculous would that be?

Hola, señor hottie. Nice to meet you.

I look him up and down, and I can admit what I thought in the seconds before we were tumbling down the stairs. He is the hottest man I have ever seen in my entire life, whether it’s a living man or somebody in a picture or in a movie or on TV. He’s breathtaking and huge. I’m surprised he didn’t squash me like a bug by the time we made it to the bottom of the steps.

“I’m Jocelyn.”

He waits to see if I give a last name. He cocks an eyebrow, but I say nothing else. He shakes his head and just grins.

“You know I can find out, so why not just tell me?”

“I’m Jocelyn Bracero.”

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