Page 61 of Sacrifice the Knight (Checkmate 6)

17

Katrina

Itold no one about my pending date with the man I’m crushing on.

Damn me and my stupid girl crush!

I brushed Stefan’s inquiries off with the typicalwe were just talking. I declined Meg’s girl’s night invitation and said I’d rather go to bed. I told my son I’d drive straight home after work and toss my sweatpants on. My daddy asked if I’d like to sleep at his place, like a slumber party for something fun and new, but again, I declined, claimed I was too tired and pretended I wasn’t freaking the hell out in my mind.

I understand now what they mean when someone says they’re screaming internally. The gritted teeth, the eyes, the straight lips and clenched jaw. It’s the act of pretending everything is completely normal, but inside, I’m freaking the EFF out.

I declined all of those invitations with smooth efficiency, and now here I am, it’s eleven-fifty-five, I’m dressed, spritzed on a little perfume, perfected my lipstick, wore skimpy panties, and I have a whole list of people I lied to so this could happen.

I watched Zeke Douglas for years through high school. He was the bad boy set on being a bum, and I was the good girl who dreamed of two minutes and a ride in his car.

Which, evidently, I got.

It wasn’t even a cool car.

But because of my ridiculous crush on that tool, I forgot the rest of my high school experiences. Experiences like dating, sneaking out, flirting with boys, and girl’s nights atThe Shed, a local party spot that every other high school student in this town got to experience.

I got just one night of bad choices, one night of rebellion while my dad was busy and not paying as much attention as usual, and what am I left with? A child, an unhealthy addiction to work and doing everything for myself, and not one single date.

Not one. In my whole life.

Now I’m standing at the door with butterflies battering my stomach and an insane need to check my makeup for the billionth time. Like this is a blind date and tonight is the first time he’ll see me, like he hasn’t seen me at my absolute worst in that diner, like he doesn’t know what I look like when I’m pissed, or sad, or scared.

Tonight is a first for me, even if it’s at midnight and not what anyone would consider conventional. But it is what it is, and my nerves want to eat me up and spit me back out.

I still have a few minutes to wait, and standing here is making me sick to my stomach, so I make my way back to the couch and sit down with shaking hands.

Shaking hands!

I’m being ridiculous, but I can’t stop it. I’m not a teenager anymore, but I can’t convince my heart to cool its shit. Taking out my cell, I scan my texts: one from Mac that assures me he’s being good, and if I find the energy after work, I should go out and dance.

I truly don’t understand my kid.

I have another text from Bobby Kincaid, assuring me Mac is locked in, and I have no reason to worry.

Another from Meg, who suggests I should use my free time to fuck a certain security expert.

And then a final text from Eric:see you soon.

He sent that ten minutes ago while I was fixing my lipstick, which forced me to jump and ruin my work, then bite off a string of curses that would make even my father blush. At twelve on the dot and just a second before my nerves strangle me to death, a soft knock at my door brings my head up. It’s the middle of the night, and my apartment complex is both cheap and shitty. That means all of my neighbors will know I have a visitor. They’ll know I’m a dirty whore who’s having a raging sexual affair with a man who tells shitty jokes and wears an even shittier hat.

“Oh God. Please don’t be wearing the hat. Please don’t be wearing the hat. Please don’t be wearing the hat.” I move across my apartment in high heels and hold my stomach before it explodes, then I peek through the security hole just to make sure it’s not Zeke set on ruining something else for me. I smile when I catch sight of Eric in jeans, boots, a plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows, and a white shirt beneath that. His dog tags hang against his chest, and ink stretches down his forearms and up the side of his neck.

I haven’t asked him who Gemma or Callie are yet.

For starters, my commitment-phobia forbids me from asking such a personal question. To ask would prove I care. It would show my heart, and I don’t have the luxury of making myself so vulnerable. But on top of that, the only time I might have had the chance was when he was fucking me. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t really want to discuss other women while we’re doing that.

But deep in my heart, the part that aches and bleeds for him, I know it’s important. I mean, isn’t every tattoo? Who are these women that he might put them on his skin for all eternity?

Oh God.

I swing the door wide and stop him with a hand on his chest when he wants to steamroll ahead. “Have you ever murdered a date? Is this midnight date thing something you’ve done before?”

Eric’s laughing eyes scour my body and eat me up like a physical caress. He’s wearing a hat, but not the weird fur-lined, earflap hat that makes me wonder why he’d purposely make himself look like a dork. It’s just a baseball cap, midnight black, and pulled low so his eyes are shadowed and make him more mysterious.

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