Page 12 of Wild for the Knight

“Fine.” She shoves her things at me just like she did with the list earlier this week, then walks out the door. Lord, give me strength. After paying, I run to the bathroom, splash some water on my face, and pop yet another energy drink open. I can’t fall asleep on her again. I’d probably wake up with dicks drawn on my face this time.

I’m scrolling through the team group chat as I push the door of the gas station open, stopping dead in my tracks when I see Abby leaning against the side of the car. Three men crowd her on every side, one with his arms crossed, another blocking the door handle, and one with his arm leaning against the car like he's hitting on her.

The bag of snacks and my almost full drink drop to the ground as I stalk over to her. “What the hell is going on here?” I ask as I push myself between her and the dickheads that are trying to intimidate her.

“You got a boy toy, Knight?” The one in the middle says. I get a good look at them. They look like the type that peaked in high school. Awful haircuts, designer clothes, horrid cologne. The vibe I’m getting is sleazeball. But what pisses me off most is they know her. I’ve never seen Abby anything but strong, confident, and independent. Right now, I don’t even know who this person is.

“Tatum,” I hold my hand out, feigning interest. “And you are?” One of them sneers, his eyes so dark they look black as they run the length of Abby’s body. Her eyes immediately drop to the floor as a shiver rolls through her. Yeah, I don’t think so. I turn and step in front of her, blocking them from her line of sight.

“You alright?” I ask as I run my hand along her jaw, cupping her cheek. Her lips part as she looks at me in shock. I don’t know what comes over me; maybe it’s how stunning she looks when her tough girl armor is off. Or the fact that I want to take her mind off the men in front of us. Or I’m suffering from momentary insanity. Whatever it may be, my lips find hers.

Her quick inhale makes me melt into her further. Her hands slide up my chest and wrap around my neck as she pulls me in a bit more. Her lips are soft and warm, and the slight quiver in them has me tightening my hold on her. Soon, our tongues are dancing, slow, searching, like a recon mission.

“Damn, Knight,” one of them grunts. “How come you didn’t melt like that for us?” We break apart at the question only because she stiffens so much that her head moves away from mine. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, and fear is evident in the way her face seems frozen. She’s not even blinking. They hurt her. I don’t know how, but I have a hunch. They did something so awful that the toughest woman I’ve ever met has a tear running down her face.

One of these men has no brain cells because he steps in closer to my back, trying to crowd her. “Come on, sugar.” He drawls, “One scrawny dude can’t be better than us.” Scrawny?! She cowers into my side, hiding her face. I don’t even think before I turn, placing my hand on her hip as I shift her fully behind me. Purposely elbowing the idiot in the ribs as I go.

“Keep my woman’s name out of your mouth.” My voice is venomous as I enunciate every word, leaving no room for questions. “I suggest you run along before someone gets hurt.” It’s times like these that I’m glad I’ve perfected the unapproachable look because as one of them starts to say something, I flinch, and two of them hold their hands up as they back away. Their ring leader lingers, his eyes laser-focused on where her hand rests on my lower back. The corner of his lip pulls down into a frown as his eyes meet mine.

“Have something to say?” I step closer to him, understanding crossing his face as he begins to back away and join his groupies who have already gotten into the black BMW they came in. Who the hell do they think they are?

Turning back to Abby, she’s shaking, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Come here, sweetheart.” The term rolled off my tongue like it was always meant for her. Pulling her into my chest, I rest my chin on the opposite side of her head, tucking her completely into me.

My hand runs up and down her back as she breaks. Sobs wrack through her body, a wet spot growing on my shirt at a rapid pace. It’s taking everything in me not to chase those guys down and hurt them in the worst of ways. But there’s nothing that could get me to walk away from her right now. The anger coursing through my veins at the moment can’t be healthy.

I don’t know how long she cries, but when she finally pulls back, I see her. I see the real, unguarded her. The her that lets me know I’ve had it all wrong the entire time. “Thank you,” she whispers. “I’m sure you want answers, but I can’t give you any right now.” She steps out of my hold and walks around to the passenger side, pausing as her hand grips the handle. “And Tate?”

“Hmm?” I could stare at her like this for hours. She’s a completely different person than the one I’ve known for years. Raw, gentle, vulnerable, absolutely beautiful.

Then she goes and ruins it by saying, “Don’t do that again,” before sliding into her front seat. I watch through the windshield as she tucks her knees into her oversized sweatshirt, pulls the hood over her head, and leans against the window, much like I did before. Checking our surroundings, I scoop up the dropped bag of snacks. When I’m situated in the driver’s seat, I notice her eyes are closed, the universal sign for leave me alone.

Message received loud and clear. I’ll let it go. For now.

Chapter 6 - Abby

What the hell just happened? More importantly, why did I like it? Yesterday, when Tate said his therapist told him to start dating again, there was a part of me that wanted to scream, “Pick me!” But then my brain caught up and was like, girlfriend, what are you doing!? I don’t date, the main reason being the three men we just encountered.

I haven’t let another man put his hands on me in that way since that awful night. At nineteen years old, my naive self was so excited for the freedom that came with college, only to have my world flipped on its head in year two. We'll call it intimacy issues. I’m terrified of handing that power over to someone else. The level of trust it requires? No, thank you, I need control and all that. My therapist has her hands full with me.

Now, at twenty-eight, for some reason, my body didn’t go into flight mode like it normally does. It freaking melted under Tate’s touch, like it knew I was safe. My skin itches at the thought of what that could mean.

It’s the first time in almost a decade that my body has cried out for someone to pay attention to it. To give it that safety and comfort it’s been so desperately trying to give itself. Years of being in control of every part of it, what goes in it in the form of food. How hard I push it in the gym. The pleasure I give it in whatever form that may be. The common denominator? Me. I’ve been the one pulling the strings and making the decisions. Yet, I’ve never felt fully “safe,” like I could just exist without being perfect, out of fear that I’d land myself in a similar situation.

But right now? Right now, my entire being wants to throw the car in park in the middle of the highway, pull him over the center console, and smash my lips against his again. Strictly for research purposes.

How are we supposed to spend an entire week together after that? How am I going to survive a week in close proximity to this man? This infuriating man who seems to have an obscenely hot protective side. One that I hate a little less right now.

Damn it, no. I default to focusing on the shame coursing through my veins, allowing myself to feel all the things before I call an emergency boxing session with Nelson tomorrow. It’s the only logical way I can think of to work through this. I pull out my phone and fire off two texts, one to Nelson, giving him my code word for I need to hit something. “Firecracker.”

Then, I texted Megan, my therapist, telling her something had happened and I’d take the first open appointment she had. I’ve learned a lot from watching Hannah go through her rollercoaster of a journey. The main lesson is that letting things ruminate isn’t good for anyone. The best thing you can do is deal with it as soon as you can. We have a pact now: we sit with the feelings for 12 hours, max, and then we face them. Sometimes, that’s by ourselves; other times, that’s together. Just another reason I’m not looking forward to her moving out.

“Do we need to go anywhere else, or are we done for that day?” His voice is surprisingly gentle, which does not help the situation. I need grumpy, stand-off-ish Tatum. I look at him for a second, mentally running through the list in my head. My head shakes; words don’t seem to work at the moment. It’s a little after 7:30 pm, and I could use food, but I just want to go home.

He seems to understand and drives toward downtown, except when he gets to the exit that takes us to my apartment, he keeps going. “You missed the exit,” I say, annoyance bubbling up in me as exhaustion threatens to drag me under. I’m not driving; that was mistake number one. Can’t control the direction of the car when you’re not behind the wheel.

“No.” His tone leaves no room for argument. Ahh, there he is. I can handle this. At least that's what I’m telling myself. “I’m taking you somewhere to get you out of your head.”

I’ve semi-convinced myself that I can handle whatever this detour is as he pulls into an underground parking garage of one of the luxury lofts in the area. He doesn’t say anything; he just parks, throws the door open, and gets out. His heavy feet stomp rhythmically against the concrete as he makes his way to my side of the car. I don’t even have my seatbelt off by the time my door is pulled open, and he’s offering me a hand. The second my palm slides into his, it’s abundantly clear that I was horribly wrong. I cannot handle this.