Page 42 of Twisted Knight

“One of these days you’re going to accept my marriage proposal,” I repeat our typical banter. Simon is a burly man with an undying devotion to his wife and a penchant for baking magnificent pastries that he spoils me with often.

“Maybe.” He draws the word out and winks. “Maybe.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“And I’ll be watching you head out to your car to make sure you’re safe and sound.”

“Thanks.” I lug my cello case with me down the sidewalk but try to make it look effortless or else Simon will most definitely jog after me to help.

Graffiti mars or decorates—depending on who is looking at it—the brick walls as I head to the parking lot at the end of the block. This Fairmont neighborhood is sketchy at best with the inner city and its crime having reached its long, tentacled fingers into what used to be a lower-income neighborhood. Apartment buildings blanket one side of the street with front stoops lined with drying clothes while empty industrial buildings and abandoned lots pepper the opposite side of the street.

I’m lost in thought. In thinking about the generational wealth my family has and wondering how I could use it and the Rothschild reputation to benefit the Sanctuary.

The family trust has to approve all expenses and donations. I highly doubt they’d approve spending it on something like this since it would have to be done without fanfare or the society of Westmore knowing. The Rothschilds don’t donate to anyone unless it helps to further cement their status or notoriety. These women don’t deserve to get caught up in the dog and pony show my family would ensure.

“What in the hell are you doing here?”

I jolt at the familiar voice, surprised to be so oblivious in a place where I’m usually aware of my surroundings. Holden strides across the empty street toward me without looking, as if there’s no such thing as traffic or cars.

It takes my brain a few seconds to shake loose my initial thought—what a striking image he paints.

He’s a juxtaposition against the destitution surrounding him. His tailored pants and crisp white shirt with a blazer, no doubt custom-made. His jaw is flexed, his hair perfectly in place—he’s casually confident in a place that’s nothing more than a calamity.

I dislike him. Intensely. Unfortunately, almost as much as my body seems to want him.

“Last I checked, I don’t have to run where I go or what I do by you.”

“Then maybe where you go or what you do shouldn’t be here of all places.” He lifts his chin toward my Range Rover, parked a few feet behind me. “You’re lucky you still have rims and tires.”

“Because you—the man who’s so new to this town—are the expert on this neighborhood, right?”

He purses his lips and nods. “I know a thing or two about Fairmont, yes.”

The comment throws me. What the heck would he know about Fairmont when he’s from California? “Where’s your car?”

“I can take care of myself.” It’s all he says as he moves toward me with a quick glance of our surroundings before trying to take my cello case out of my hand without asking. “You shouldn’t be here.”

I pull back on my case. “Thanks, but I can handle it myself.”

“Of course you can. Until you can’t. I’m the nicest person you’re going to meet in these parts and that’s saying a lot.” He tries to take the case again.

I may find a slight bit of joy when I let go of the case the same time that he tugs, and he stumbles backward. Oopsie.

Holden glares at me, impatience emanating off of him like the clean scent of his cologne. “Bass? Cello? Dead body?”

I stare after him, not sure if I enjoy him being chivalrous or despise him more for it. “If it’s not yours, does it really matter?”

“Will you just get in your car and do as you’re told?” he demands.

“Do as I’m told?” I laugh. “Don’t look now but Westmore’s rubbing off on you. For the record, Knight, I don’t take orders from anybody.”

“Except from Rhett, right? Or from Chad? Let’s not forget your dad too. I mean…” He shrugs, his smirk taunting me to refute him.

I want to throttle him. But I stand there like an indecisive pansy and that pisses me off even more.

“Suit yourself then. No skin off my back.” He sets the cello case down on the oil-stained asphalt and starts to walk off just as a loud noise—a firecracker? A backfire? A gunshot? Something I don’t want to find the source of goes off farther down the block and reverberates its way toward us.

I jolt in fear.