The Knight (Endgame #2)(2)
I get the impression of pale bristle and dark blue eyes. He’s wearing too many layers to get a clear read on his figure, but he’s tall and wide. A threat, in other words. I need to stop apologizing and start protecting myself.
“I don’t have any money,” I lie, half prepared to take off running. My door is still open, blocked by his body, but I’ll abandon my clothes and books if I have to.
He frowns at me, a merging of bushy brows. “Don’t want your fuckin’ money.”
It’s something of a relief to realize he isn’t the talkative customer from last night, but for all I know he could be one of the other men. Or he could be someone who didn’t have enough money, someone who wants to take what he can’t pay for.
I move back another step. “I don’t want any trouble.”
Though really, who wants trouble?
The man seems to grow larger without moving, a subtle shake of his large frame. I have the impression of a dog facing an encroacher, the fur on his back raised in threat. “Did I fuckin’ touch you?”
The words are both an appeasement and a threat, pointing out that he hasn’t hurt me even while growling the words. He may not have hurt me, but he’s a strong man in a scary parking lot with a lone girl. The threat doesn’t need to be spoken to be real.
“No,” I say, drawing strength from somewhere inside. “But you’re blocking the path to my room.”
He looks back through the open door, taking inventory of the unmade bed, the piled table. What does he see? Something to take? A dark place he can hurt me? His examination is too thorough to be completely harmless. And when he looks back at me, his eyes are shrewd. “How much?”
Shame rises like acid in my throat. He thinks I’m like the girl next door, the one with a new customer every hour. “More than you can afford,” I say, which would feel better if it weren’t true.
His laugh sounds rusty but authentic, as if it took him by surprise. “I bet you’re fuckin’ right.”
He takes a step sideways with an elaborate sweep of his arm, a mocking invitation to shut my door.
It feels like a trap. Isn’t this something a predator would do? As soon as I’m close to the door, he’ll push me inside. He’ll force me to do things, and after the soundtrack to last night, I know no one would help me if I scream.
But when you’re down to two pairs of jeans, losing one is a big deal. I take a step closer, eyeing him the way I’d watch a snake on a hiking trail. There’s a hard edge in his eyes, like he’s seen death. Like he expects to see it again. I’m leaning away from him as I approach my door, ready to fight if he comes at me.
Instead he watches me, arms folded over his massive chest. It’s not an attack, but he’s not leaving me in peace either. His gaze feels intent, more serious than the wandering interest of a random homeless person.
I manage to shut the door. The heavy lock clicks into place.
This time when I look at him, it’s with wry gratitude. I still don’t trust the man, but there’s an intimacy to his intrusion to my morning peace, a coded message in the way he stands and watches.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
His eyes narrow as if he’s suspicious of me. Which is funny, considering. “What’s it to you?”
It shouldn’t matter. “I’m Avery,” I offer anyway.
His silence answers me, cold and unapologetic. I have a fortress I need to storm, so I start walking away.
“Will,” he says behind me.
I pause only a moment, a hesitation in my step. A soft acknowledgment of a gift rarely given. I wouldn’t call Will a friend, but I need every ally I can get. In this city I already have too many enemies.
Chapter Three
The uneven sidewalks lead me to the bus stop. The city’s metro hisses and jolts its way through downtown until I arrive at the iron gates of a stately nursing home.
Inside, the floors are white marble with flecks of some silvery substance, glittering beneath the thrall of chandeliers. It’s a luxurious space, far greater than anything I can afford.
“He had some agitation last night,” the nurse says, voice soft with sympathy. “The doctor gave him medication to help him sleep. He’s liable to be groggy if he wakes up soon.”
“That’s okay.” I force a smile. “I’ll just sit with him.”
The truth is that he hasn’t woken up in the three days since his heart attack. Not when I’ve been visiting him. I’m ashamed that it’s been a relief. At least asleep, I know he’s resting, peaceful in the knowledge that our house still belongs to me. The knowledge that his daughter hasn’t auctioned her virginity. What will I tell him once he’s fully conscious?
How will I explain this?
The room is dimly lit by sconces, yellow light making wood-paneled walls glow. The bed is larger than a regular hospital bed, with heavy-duty plastic rails. An antique-styled cabinet hides most of the equipment that beeps and whirs, keeping my father comfortable.
“Hi, Daddy.”
He looks infinitely old against the white sheets, the skin of his hand paper-thin, inlaid with purple veins. The scars left from his attack stand out in bright relief. The sight sends a shiver through me. The enemies who attacked him are still out there. The man sneaking around the yard when we were alone in the house, too.