Page 82 of Twisted Knight

What are you trying to prove? That she’s not like the rest of them?

It doesn’t fucking matter.

She’s still one of them.

Oblivious to the internal war I’m waging, I see her nod in my periphery. “Why are we here? Why do you want me to see it, then?”

“Good question,” I say, wondering the same thing as I look up at the diner’s blue neon letters, bright against the dark night sky. The same letters I looked up at as a teen as I waited for my mom to get off work.

How many nights did she have to stay into the early morning to clean up after the country club kids who looked at her as the hired help?

She wouldn’t tell me who they were, but I knew. It was the Rothschild duo, the prick Porter, and the asshole Williams.

How many nights did she have to hitch a ride home with a coworker because she didn’t want me up that late picking her up because I’d be tired for school the next morning?

And how many nights did she swallow her pride and pick up after those spoiled little shits while trying to hide it all from me so I wouldn’t react and lose my own job?

Too many to count.

But I never forgot.

I still haven’t.

“I come here when I can’t sleep,” I finally respond as I shake the memory loose. How many times did I sit here in Mrs. Moses’s car and watch her clean the counters and mop the floors after closing?

“Does that happen often?” she asks.

“More often than not.”

I can feel her staring at me. The questions she wants to ask but don’t voice hang in the air. Why can’t you sleep? What busies your mind so that it can’t shut down? What haunts you so that you fear your dreams? To avoid them, I open my car door and get out.

When did you make the decision to let her in? To show her a peek of who you were even though she can’t correlate it to now?

Tighten that shit up.

Button it down.

Rowan pushes her door open before I can open it for her.

“This isn’t a date, Holden.”

I hold my hands up. “No one said it was,” I say.

We’re seated at a table by the window within minutes, our orders placed, and my head still at war with why I brought her here.

Rowan sits across from me, her arms crossed over her chest, a scowl on her face, and her glare focused on me.

At least one of us is staying true to who we are.

“Do you want to tell me why you’re mad at me for wanting to kiss me? I mean, I’m not complaining, hate kisses are like hate fucks—perfection in every way—but you can at least tell me why you’re blaming me for your wants.”

She fights a smile as she tries to keep her expression stern. “Do you have hate fucks often enough to have opinions on their perfection?”

I purse my lips and tilt my head from side to side, taking my time giving a response. Fighting a smile but relenting. “From time to time.”

“So it’s not just me you piss off then.”

I chuckle. “No. It’s not just you.”