“Hey,” I called as I moved across the balcony to him. “Sorry I fell asleep.”

“Here, baby,” he called back softly even as I was going there but when his arm came out I knew he meant he wanted me there as in, in his arm.

I thought about it as I moved the two feet I had left.

Then I did it and his arm curled around my waist and he pulled my lower body into his.

“Business done?” I asked, tipping my head back to look at his face softly illuminated partly by moon and city lights and partly by the lights coming from his apartment.

“Yeah,” he answered then asked, “You sleep last night?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Fuck,” he muttered then got half the reason right, “Nick.”

He was the other half of the reason but I didn’t share this. I didn’t say anything.

He shifted and crushed his cigarette in the ashtray he had resting on the edge of the railing.

Then he came back to me, curving his other arm around me so he held me loosely in both and asked, “What happened to him?”

This question was confusing so I asked back, “Who?”

“Guy who did your parents.”

I sucked in an unexpected breath like he’d struck me with a surprise body blow.

He either didn’t hear it or was focused because he repeated, “What happened to him?”

“He got life,” I whispered.

“No shot at parole?”

I shook my head. Two murdered people who were doing nothing but driving to work. They were the parents of a seven year old and killed by a man who took their car because he was literally on the run from cops. Cops who finally caught up with him because he was wanted for putting his pregnant girlfriend in the hospital because he was pissed she was pregnant. A problem he solved since she lost the baby.

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.”