Page 1 of Saved By a Knight

1

KNIGHT

There’s a unique thrill that comes from hearing my bike purr while riding down the streets of Boulder. And the smell of burning gas as she warms up and starts to let loose. Whoever said do what you love as a career and you’ll never work a day in your life couldn’t be more right.

It’s a quiet night. Not unusual with how hard the Knight Riders and I have been pushing to keep this town out of trouble. That doesn’t mean it’s time for a night off. In fact, the opposite. My motorcycle roaring through the night is a warning to anyone who thinks they can fuck around.

I make my usual route through the neighborhood, keeping my ever-vigilant eyes on the sidewalks as I go. A few folks make their way home from work, most walking along the sidewalk with only a few in cars driving at a snail’s pace. The pleasure of living in a small town is how easy it is to get around. Most of these people are a few blocks away from their houses at best, and don’t need to litter my streets with their cars.

I get a few waves as I pass by some, others hail me as if they want me to stop and have a chat. But early evening is when the devil’s idle-handed fools look for their victims, so I keep riding.

After an hour, give or take, with the streets cleared up and no sign of trouble, I pull my bike into a gas station. I stop in front of a pump and jump off my motorcycle to head inside and grab a drink, a snack, and whatever else might catch my eye.

With a basket stacked with goodies for the rest of my night on the road, I start making my way to the front of the store.

“James?” Only one person calls me by that name, and hearing her voice brings a smile to my face.

“Mrs. Winthrop.” I greet with the charming smile I tend to put on display when caught off guard and trapped in a conversation. “How’s Bertrum doing? Recovering well after his surgery, I hope.”

A beaming smile stretches over her wrinkled cheeks.

“Thanks to you, he’s on the mend, if not a tad grumpier than usual.” She sets her basket on the floor and opens her arms up for a hug. I awkwardly lean forward and give her three pats on the back with my free hand. “I think his tumble finally made him realize he isn’t as invincible as he once believed.”

She chuckles. Following her cue, I do the same, even if I don’t get it.

“I’m happy to hear it.” And I truly am. We have to protect our elders. They are the weakest members of society, and without a helping hand, they’re prone to the worst injustices of this life.

My blood boils at the thought alone. None of us would be here if it weren’t for them, and so many are too keen on preying on the weak.

“Let me get that for you.” I grab Mrs. Winthrop’s basket off the floor and carry it to the counter.

“You really don’t hav?—”

“I insist.” Her pleasantries will fall on deaf ears, so I might as well stop them early.

We head over to the checkout, and I start packing Mrs. Winthrop’s things onto the counter.

“Two bags,” I say to Jerry, and he scans the items.

Mrs. Winthrop starts scratching through her handbag for her purse, while I pack my things. Jerry, who understands how I operate, adds her things to mine without so much as a smile.

It’s a small gesture, but it brings a warm smile to Mrs. Winthrop’s face. Not like a loaf of bread, carton of eggs, and some milk will dent my wallet, but to her, it’s money better spent on her husband’s recovery.

“Will that be all?” Jerry asks, looking over his shoulder at a box of Lucky Strikes.

“That’s all.” I release a heavy sigh. Quitting cigarettes has been the hardest thing I’ve ever put myself through, but I have to stay strong. Can’t be coughing up a lung every time I get off my bike. It doesn’t send the right kind of message.

I pay for the goods, grab both bags, and we leave.

“Thank you, James.” Mrs. Winthrop rests a wrinkled hand on my shoulder.

“You're most welcome.” The thing is, my kindness doesn’t come from a place of wanting applause. I do it because it’s the least I can do for those who need it. Once we’re at her car and I’m packing her goods away, I continue, “Besides, you can take Bertrum out for a steak dinner on me.”

She chuckles. “With his cholesterol, a steak dinner might be the reason for another call to you.”

But it’s while she’s talking, I see something from the corner of my eye that puts me on high alert—a young woman talking to an older guy. Could be nothing, but body language is important in my line of work, and even from a side eye glance, I can see how she’s recoiling away from him.

“Sorry, Mrs. Winthrop, I hate to be rude, but?—”

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