Broken Knight (All Saints High Book 2)
Broken Knight: Chapter 11

“Are you going to let it ring for eternity?” Mom looked up from watching Fried Green Tomatoes.

The shit I endured in the name of my love for her was on another level. I was ninety-nine percent sure if she hadn’t been so sick, I’d have bathed in hot lava before I’d watch an angsty chick flick.

“That’s the plan.” I sent the phone call to voicemail for the fifth time.

Mom frowned. “Texas area code? Who do you know in Texas?”

“Probably a college thingy.” I kissed her forehead, motioning to the screen. “Look, you’re missing your favorite part, where he tells her he’s not really there for the barbecue, but because he thinks she’s a shithead.”

“You want to go to an out-of-state college?” she persisted, eyeing me carefully. “Because you know you can, right?”

“Mom, drop it.”

“Knight,” she warned.

I rolled my eyes and stood up, advancing to my room. She was in a probing mood, and I wasn’t in the business of denying my mother anything, especially when she’d spent the past week throwing up mucus, retching all night. Dad had put pillows all around their bathroom floor, and they sat there all night, every night. I heard them talk and laugh and whisper. Whenever she felt good enough, anyway.

In the mornings, when her massage therapist arrived, Dad would disappear to one of the spare rooms downstairs, his eyes bloodshot. Earlier, I’d followed him into his study silently. I’d found him bracing his desk from the other side, his back quivering as sobs rippled through his body. My dad. The mighty Dean Cole. Crying.

Not that there was anything wrong with that, but it was another stepping stone in our demise as a family.

The Cole men didn’t cry.

Not when they lost their mothers. Their wives. The quiet, gorgeous loves of their lives.

Things were changing, and I didn’t know how to stop them. Luna was living elsewhere, and no longer mine. She was speaking. She had friends. Boyfriends. Mom was dying. Really dying. Dad was consumed by it. He could barely look at Levy and me. Whether he felt guilty or just generally pissed was beside the issue.

“Don’t run away from the conversation.” Mom coughed.

The doorbell rang. I gestured in its general direction.

“That would be Poppy,” I said.

It was the first time I’d been glad she’d stopped by.

“You guys are going strong.” Mom’s face melted instantly.

She wanted me to be happy. To be in love. I was one of these things, for sure. But happiness wasn’t a part of the package deal.

“’Suppose.”

“She seems very smitten with you.”

That word again.

“Are you happy with her?” Mom’s eyes clung to my face, begging for crumbs of truth.

“Sure.”

“You’ve never had a girlfriend.”

“I’ve had plenty of girlfriends.”

“No one serious.”

“I’m not a serious guy.”

“You’re the most serious guy I know, Knight Jameson Cole.”

My phone rang again. Texas. Motherfucker. I killed the call, then sent Dixie a string of middle-finger emojis before tucking the device into my back pocket.

“Better answer the door before Poppy gives me the third degree.” I smiled apologetically.

I took Poppy to the front porch. I wasn’t in the mood for sitting in my room. Maybe I subconsciously wanted Luna to see us, but she had drawn her curtains and made sure I couldn’t peek into her room. Not that I was looking.

Okay, I was looking. Sue me.

God, why her? Why couldn’t I fall in love with the nice English chick who actually wore dresses and talked all the time?

Poppy and I sat on white rocking chairs overlooking the cul-de-sac, me drinking Gatorade to nurse hangover number five hundred for the week, her cradling a glass of orange juice.

“How’s your mum feeling?” she asked, staring at the yellow liquid swimming in her glass.

She’d brought over homemade cookies, which my mother gushed over and took a bite of, even though her appetite was shitty nowadays. Poppy, for all intents and purposes, was perfect. Only problem was, she wasn’t perfect for me.

I shrugged, still staring at the street.

The street where I’d played with Luna.

Where I’d kissed her on the steps of her house.

Where I’d tugged at her braids.

Thrown water bombs at her.

Run around, laughing, when she’d thrown water bombs at me.

Where we’d drawn with chalk on the cobblestones, bounced on hippity hop, and fell asleep on her front lawn, our heads touching, as we’d waited for the fireworks to explode every Fourth of July.

Then I thought about how I’d treated her. Taunted her. Kissed her. Belittled her.

I couldn’t stop myself from doing any of those things, even when I wanted to. Desperately. The more my mother weakened, the more I drank. The more I drank, the more mean Knight came out. It was a vicious cycle. I knew there was only so much Luna would suffer before she flipped on my ass. She was a proud girl.

“I don’t want to talk about my mother,” I said frankly.

“Obviously.” Poppy slapped her forehead. “Sorry. Can we talk about what happened yesterday? About us?”

There is no us.

“Okay.”

“That thing with Luna…”

“Luna and I are unfinished business.” I bit on the tip of my tongue ring, slicing into her speech. “We’ll always be unfinished business. Now. In five years. When we’re eighty. That’s the deal; it’s always been the deal. You knew it. You saw us up until senior year. We were always together.”

That was Poppy’s in to break up with me. I’d handle it with grace. I’d still take her to prom. But there was no reason to keep up with this bullshit.

“I get that.” She swallowed hard. “Let’s try again. I’m willing to give you another chance. If you want it, that is.”

I don’t.

I spun toward her, studying her face: the soft planes of her cheeks, her carefully brushed hair, flawless little Neiman Marcus dress. She could be someone else’s Luna, someone else’s everything. A guy like Jefferson, maybe.

“Look, Poppy, I know you said we’d give this a chance…”

“Please.” She cleared her throat again, chuckling in embarrassment. “Please don’t make me beg. I know you don’t feel it yet, but I do. I can feel it. There’s something here. And Luna is heading back to North Carolina in a bit. It’s not like you can explore whatever it is between you two.”

All valid points, but I didn’t think it was right to string her along.

Thing was, Poppy was practically pleading to be strung along, and I had too much shit on my calamity plate to muster the self-control I needed to push her away. She begged to be here for me, and, the orphan mutt that I was, I couldn’t deprive her of the dubious pleasure. She was convenient as hell. Plus, I no longer had to pretend to be fucking anyone else. I had a steady ride now.

“I get what you’re saying, but I’m a shitty boyfriend,” I gave it one last run. “I cheated on you. In your face. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I did.”

“No. I know. It’s just that…” She looked around, shrugging. “I saw the look on both your faces. Luna is not going to let you kiss her again. She regrets this. I want this, and I’m willing to take the risk.”

Was that what she’d seen? Luna regretting it? My blood sizzled in my veins.

“You’re going to regret it,” I said quietly.

She grinned, standing up and ambling my way. She parked her ass in my lap, knotting her arms around my shoulders.

“I’m not the queen, you know,” she said huskily, her gaze dropping to my lips. “You can touch me whenever you want.”

I took her mouth in mine and tried to drown myself in her beauty, giving her a sweet lie to hold on to.

“Yes, you are.” I erased Luna’s kiss from my lips, replacing it with Poppy’s sweet, soft petals. “You’re my queen.”

When the next letter arrived on Christmas Eve, obviously violating my request, I burned it in my backyard and sent Dixie a video of the whole thing.

Knight: Is it a wonder that the no-show who knocked you up left your ass? You’re clingy as all fuck. Get it into your head: I’m not interested.

This was my best Vaughn impression. Being an asshole was goddamn hard work.

“You smell like ashes,” Dad pointed out as we slicked our hair back in front of his gold-leafed mirror.

Two peacocks in Kiton Ombre suits—it was one of the rare times this past year we’d actually done anything together, which didn’t escape me. Before Mom’s lung transplant debacle, we’d still had hope, so we’d still been close. We’d spent a lot of time together. Not anymore.

“Are you okay?” He ripped his gaze from his reflection, giving me a sideways glance. I used two fingers to dab Clive Christian cologne on my neck.

“Are you?” I asked casually.

“Don’t dodge the question.”

“Ditto.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“I am yours,” I said by way of explanation.

He grinned proudly. I liked that look on Dad, the one that made me feel like I belonged in this world. In this house. In this family.

“I’m working night and day looking into experimental treatments.” He shook his head, referring to my mother. “She’ll be fine.”

“Do you actually believe that?”

“I have to, or I’ll go mad.”

“Don’t go mad. You’re already straddling the line of insanity.”

“Straddling is quite the feminine word.”

“Then you’re punching sanity in the face sometimes. Hard.”

“Much better.” He let out a sad laugh. He caught my gaze in the mirror. “Break up with Poppy yet?”

I passed him the cologne, rearranging my moussed hair. “She’s a little young for you, old man.”

More laughing, without the sad aftertaste.

This felt good, like old times.

“So you haven’t forgiven Luna for that guy yet.”

“She hasn’t asked for forgiveness,” I admitted, taking a step back from the mirror, wondering if I should confide in him.

Mom wouldn’t understand this part. I didn’t think any woman would. Dad might, although we hadn’t had talks like that in months. Still…

“I can’t stop thinking about them.” I dropped my hand from my hair. “I mean, about him…”

“Inside her,” Dad finished for me, turning around and leaning against the sink, eyes blazing. “You keep rewinding it in your head. How he touched her. How she felt to him. How he felt to her.”

“Stab me with your razor and get it over with.”

“I would, but what about the new tiles?” he deadpanned.

I pretended to scratch my nose with my middle finger. We had the same four-year-old sense of humor. He swatted the finger away, grinning with confidence.

“At the risk of sounding ancient…” he started.

“Here we go.” I rolled my eyes.

“Know what the problem with your generation is? You refuse to understand that love has a price. That’s what makes it significant, pungent, rich. It costs you anger, jealousy, heartbreak, time, money, health…” He stopped, snarling at his last word like a wounded beast.

I looked away. Watching my dad love my mom sometimes felt like watching a chest being shredded open, the heart still beating inside. It was too raw, too real.

“Food for thought—is she worth it? You have to pay your dues, you see.”

I snorted, thinking about what he was going through with Mom. “No one is.”

He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “When you refuse to pay your dues to love, sometimes the price goes up. There’s an inflation, and you end up losing more than you’d bargained.”

Don’t I fucking know it, Dad. I shook my head, thinking about Dixie. Don’t I fucking know it.

If you ever wondered how douchebags were born, this is the exact recipe: admiration that leads to false self-entitlement, multiplied by enough money to sink a battleship, divided by good genes and formidable height.

I was allowed to open my Christmas gift first, since I’d won the state championship earlier in the month, leading All Saints High as captain. It was on the night I took Poppy out for the first time. The night I’d had to finish an entire bottle of vodka to go through with fondling her. She’d tasted different than Luna, and smelled nothing like her. It was like making out with a bottle of Chanel No. 5—bitter and about as sexy as licking a fish.

As it happened, my gift was a blue-leather belted Ronde Solo De Cartier watch, with my varsity number—sixty-nine—(yes, they allowed it at All Saints High when your name was Knight Cole) in gold.

As I said, I wasn’t born a douchebag. It took hard work.

“We’re so proud of you.”

Dad and his best friends and business partners, my extended family—Vicious, Jaime, Dean, and Trent—squeezed my shoulders. Even Penn gave my arm a friendly punch.

“Thanks.” I secured the watch on my mammoth wrist.

“Man, you could go pro with your stats. Why the hell aren’t you trying?” Penn whistled, slinging his arm over his fiancée’s shoulder.

I threw a pointed glance at Mom, who was talking to her sister, Emilia.

“Yeah. Foot-in-mouth moment on my part. My apologies.” Penn winced.

After consuming three Marines’ bodyweights in food, hearing Daria and Penn going on about how fucking amazing they were (file under: jerks. The recipe for making them is different), Vaughn announcing that he wanted to study in Europe to a room full of people who let out a collective sigh of relief (file under: mega asshole. Don’t ask me how to make a Vaughn. Only his ruthless father is capable of that), and Luna working really hard on making herself extra-invisible (which only made my ogling more apparent), we all retired to the Rexroths’ drawing room with alcohol and dessert.

My parents, of course, had no idea just how intimately I was acquainted with alcohol at this point. Mom was busy not-dying, and Dad was busy helping her not-die. Plus, I’d always been a resourceful son of a bitch. I’d been able to hide, disguise, and downplay how drunk I was, in and outside of the house. I was a high-functioning shitfaced drunk at this point.

Luna, of course, was right. Even when I hid my alcohol breath, she could tell when I was intoxicated, because when I was, I was mean to her. I didn’t want to be. But staying sober, sharp, and present felt slightly worse than dealing with her disappointed gaze.

Luna tucked her legs underneath her butt and settled on the carpet by the fire. She nibbled on a cookie and cracked open a book called The Dark Between Stars. The doorbell rang.

“Who has the social audacity to drop in on Christmas Eve?” Uncle Vicious seethed in his usual diplomatic fashion as I stood up to get the door.

“Ask your son,” I told him.

I knew it was a dick move to invite Poppy and Lenora, but in my defense, it really wasn’t my idea, nor my doing. Vaughn had practically requested I extend an invitation to the sisters. Since he and I were still beefing about the kiss with Luna—which had occurred because he’d thought he was teaching me some fucked-up lesson, and I thought he was being a little pussy about it—I figured why the hell not?

He’d said he needed to talk to the younger Astalis about some internship she was about to steal from him. Didn’t know. Didn’t care. I just knew it was a good opportunity to cement the fact that I wasn’t heartbroken.

Because I wasn’t.

Fuck Luna.

Oh wait, someone else already had.

Awesome. The inflation on my love was clearly skyrocketing through the roof. But really, I cared more about the fact that I didn’t care than anything else. Confused? So was I. All I knew was Luna, once again, had managed to friend-zone my ass in the treehouse, and I’d taken it, again, because apparently, I had a side gig as her doormat. To make everything much, much worse, Luna was now flirting with people like Jefferson in front of me and kissing my best friend. And I shouldn’t care, but I did.

The girls moseyed into the drawing room, carrying a homemade funnel cake and an awkward silence like a half-dead animal behind them. Luna refused to look up from her book, acting completely oblivious to the situation.

Daria pinned me with a death glare from the couch, curled around her fiancé. “Smooth, Cole.”

“Also thick, long, and hard. Your point?” I flashed her a smirk, whispering under my breath.

“Astalis.” Vaughn stood up.

Didn’t take a genius to know which sister he was referring to.

Lenora offered him a steadfast gaze. “Spencer.”

“Did you make the funnel cake?”

“No, why?”

“I would very much like to see my family and friends avoid being poisoned this Christmas,” he quipped.

“Lo and behold, he does have a heart. Would you believe I am literally surprised to hear that?”

“I might not know my insects, but you clearly have no clue what the word literally means. A quick word,” he demanded.

“I know quite a few.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Why is Vaughn talking British now?” Daria mumbled, looking around, dumbfounded.

Emilia and Baron stared at their son and the English girl, fascinated. It was like watching a car crash—or your pet Chihuahua standing up on two legs, reading Shakespearean poetry while sipping on black tea.

“Shall we…” she said at the same time he huffed, “Let’s go upstairs to…”

I glanced at Luna. Her eyes were still stuck on a page, but she was grinning.

Lenny nodded. “After you.”

They disappeared upstairs, leaving the rest of us in the drawing room.

I made quick introductions, noting the chilly smiles the Rexroths offered my girlfriend, before retiring to the backyard with Penn, Daria, Via (Penn’s sister), and my new best friend of late, beer. Daria invited Luna. She politely declined.

An hour later, I went in for a quick bathroom break. It was locked. Instead of going to any of the others, I waited. Luna opened the door a minute later, her eyes red-rimmed.

“Yo,” I said. Which sounded horribly stupid.

She bypassed me, but I snagged her wrist. Her shoulder pressed against my chest.

I grumbled into her ear, “I’m sorry.”

She froze in her spot, staring at an invisible dot on the opposite wall.

“I am. I do. I…” I shook my head. “I didn’t mean it, last time we saw each other.”

“Which part?” She looked up at me, her eyes a shade darker.

“The words. Only the words. Not the kiss.” I did mean the kiss.

“Why are you still with Poppy, then?”

If nothing else, her directness was admirable.

“Because forgiving you comes with a price I’m not willing to pay,” I admitted.

“I never asked you to forgive me.”

I smiled tiredly. “See?”

She shook her head, slipping from me. From us. But I wasn’t ready. I wanted her tortured, not gone.

“Ride or die, Luna Rexroth,” I yelled to her back. “You’re my ride or die.”