No. No parole.

Knight kept at it. “He livin’ a long one?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

“He died in prison, it’s likely cops would let you know.”

“Would they tell my aunt?”

“If he bought it when you were a minor, maybe, expecting her to tell you. Now, no. They did it, they’d find you.”

“Well, I haven’t heard anything.”

He was quiet a moment before he muttered, “No shot at parole, nothin’ to inform you about.”

I suspected this was true but I had no idea. I didn’t think about him. Ever.

And I didn’t want to now either.

“Why are you asking about him?” I asked quietly and his arms gave me a light squeeze.

“Nothin’. Just curious, baby. I’ll shut up about it, yeah?”

I nodded.

Knight asked, “Hungry?”

For some reason I giggled then explained, “Uh… lunch was kinda big.”

“Yeah, babe, but lunch was also six and a half hours ago.”

I blinked up at him.

“Is it that late?”

“Uh… yeah.”

Whoa.

“Maybe I should go home,” I mumbled to his throat and I got another light squeeze.

“No, maybe you should answer my question if you’re hungry.”

Thinking about it and knowing the time, suddenly I was.

“Yeah. But if you make me steaks, I’ll explode.”

I heard his soft, deep chuckle. I also felt it. I’d never done either and I liked both immensely.

Then he told me, “Got a quota, baby, I cook once a week. You got that thrill. I’ll take you out for something.”

A date. In fact, that day had been the longest, weirdest, strangely most comprehensive date in history even though I’d showed at his place to tell him I never wanted to see him again. We’d shared. We’d touched. We’d had profound moments of intensity. He’d cooked for me. I’d napped in his house. And now we were going out to eat together for the first time.

As I thought this, I got another light squeeze and a simple order. “Jacket, Anya.”

I didn’t move but looked into his shadowed face. “Can I drive your car?”

“No,” he denied immediately.

“I’m a good driver.”

“Your ass is next to me, I drive. You wanna borrow it sometime, it’s yours.”

“Knight, I only had one experience but I think I’m actually a better driver than you.”

“This is doubtful, babe, seein’ as I drove drags, sprints and raced streets. My Dad was a f**kin’ race freak, lived it, breathed it, put me behind the wheel of a cart when I was eight and never looked back.”

This explained the “driving since I was twelve” comment though he’d semi-lied since I thought go-carts counted so he’d been driving since he was eight.

I didn’t quibble this fact. Instead I pointed out, “Those race people get in wrecks all the time.”

“When’s the last time you heard of a driver getting in one on a city street?”

He, unfortunately, had a point.

I decided not to tell him that and concede through silence.

He accepted then declared, “I drive. You ride. Not a rule, that’s a law. Get me?”

“What if you’ve had a freak accident and you’ve broken your arm and ankle?” I asked for specifics.

“If that shit happens, I hope to God you’re smart enough to pick up a phone and call an ambulance rather than draggin’ my ass to my car, which would be agony, shoving it in, which would be more agony, and taking me to the hospital.”

Another valid point.

Again I conceded through silence.

Knight’s body started shaking and his voice was too when he asked, “Are we done with this f**kin’ stupid conversation?”

“I guess,” I muttered, still wanting to drive his car.

I got another light squeeze and he dipped his smiling face in mine. “Whenever you want, baby, you can take my ride out. Just say the word. I’ll arrange it. I’m just not gonna be in it with you.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I’m a man,” he answered.

“So?”

“I’ll clarify,” he offered. “I’m a man who does not let my woman or any woman drive when my ass is in the car.”

“That teeters over the edge of macho crazy, Knight,” I informed him.

“Yeah,” he was completely not offended, “Head’s up, babe, get used to that.”

It was then it occurred to me he was pointing out the obvious.

So I conceded not with silence but instead by sharing, “Now, I’m even more hungry.”

I got more of his hard body shaking against mine, I liked it and he reiterated, “Then jacket, babe.”

“Right,” I whispered, pulled away and moved into his apartment to get my jacket and purse.

I met him where he was waiting for me at the top of the three steps in front of the mouth of the hall.

Then he took my hand.

Then he took me to his car.

Then he drove like the ex-speed-racer he was and took me to dinner.

* * * * *

I was laying in bed, feeling my new soft sheets, thinking Knight’s satin ones were probably way softer, staring at my ceiling and thinking that Knight Sebring had claimed me, no doubt about it, but he had yet to kiss me.

Dinner wasn’t good, it was great. He took me to Wynkoop’s and suddenly, somehow, after the day, the nap, me coming to my understanding and our lighthearted, safe and amusing bickering, I was at ease. Knight always seemed at ease even when he was pissed or annoyed. He was just Knight. And I settled into that.

He told me about his race-freak Dad. He told me about his race-widow Mom. He told me they both were still alive and lived in Hawaii. He told me I was right, Slade stayed popular because he closed it down for a month every year after he put out bids to designers to offer their visions of a shit-hot new look, he picked one and went with it. He told me his business that day had to do with a side business that also vaguely linked with the club (though he didn’t fully explain). He told me Nick had always been a pain in the ass f**k up but he’d also, obviously, always been a brother. So Knight put up with it and covered a lot so his parents wouldn’t take any hits from Nick’s ass**le behavior and f**k ups but that didn’t make him any less done with it.