Page 49 of Sacrifice the Knight (Checkmate 6)

“Because Andi is his aunt!”

“That’s what I’m saying!” He throws his hands up with a laugh. “I know how not to die, so I keep my eyes to myself.”

“You’re playing with fire, kid. I swear, if you were twenty-five and not twelve, you’d be facing a beat down right now. Cruz doesn’t like to share.”

He snorts. “What’s he gonna do? Take his leg off and beat me with it?” He snickers. “Nah, you’re reading way too far into this. Cruz is cool; Andi is cool, and I’m just saying, the gym has nice eye candy.”

“How does your girlfriend feel about all this looking you’re not doing?”

“Shut up. I don’t have a girlfriend.” He stops in the street and fights the grin trying to split his face. “She’s got nice legs too, though. Seriously nice. But like I said, I know how not to die. It’s actually safer for me to look at Andi’s legs than it is to look at anyone else’s. Self-preservation 101: don’t look at anyone whose daddy is five times bigger than you and knows how to fight. My momma didn’t raise no fool.”

“You’re trouble.” We continue walking along the quiet street. The morning air is crisp and clean, the perfect weather before winter smashes us.

Mac lifts his shoulders in dismissal for what I know is a future of beatdowns from that girl’s parents. Look at her wrong, he’s dead. Break her heart, he’s gonna find himself in a shallow grave with a mouthful of motor oil.

“Mom freaks out most of the time when I go to the gym, ‘cause she’s scared I’m gonna getmorehurt. But at the same time, she knows I’m on lockdown there and not breaking any laws or roaming the streets, so she’s able to work without worrying about me. She’s been slinging double shifts since that day at the mill, just to pay back the bills I created.”

“Bet you feel bad about that.”

His scoff holds absolutely none of the humor from moments ago. “I’m sick to my stomach with how bad I feel. I didn’t mean for that to happen, and now my poor mom has to work extra hard because I’m an asshole. I put in a little time at the diner when I can, washing dishes, bussing tables, mopping floors or whatever, and whatever Franky pays me, I stuff into the jar we keep on our fridge. It’s our savings jar, which used to be kinda full, but it isn’t anymore. I only make a few bucks here and there, but I put it in the jar and try to help a little.”

“I saw the necklace you gave your mom for her birthday.”

Now he smiles. “Yeah, the Rollers give me money sometimes too when I work at the gym. I told my mom they paid me a hundred bucks to clean the machines. They actually paid me two-fifty, because I cleaned those machines for a whole week and they knew her birthday was coming up. I spent fifty on her necklace and slowly dripped the two hundred into the jar.” His eyes come back to mine. “Not all at once, though, because she’d notice. So I drop twenty here, twenty there. Twenty more into her tip jar at the diner. My plan is working. And when I’m grown up and finished school, I’m probably gonna be world champion where they pay me millions, so I’ll fix the rest up then, and she’ll never have to work again.”

I slow as we approach the next corner and frown. “World champion what?”

“Fighter, duh. Though Zeke’s gonna be a problem with all that.”

“Zeke, your dad?”

“Yeah, but we don’t call him my dad. He doesn’t deserve the recognition. When I become champion, he’s gonna be the first to do TV interviews. He’ll throw himself at them and claim his father of the year fame. I’m not sure how I’m gonna take care of that yet.”

“You’re making plans to make plans for a future that isn’t a reality yet?” Our eyes meet. “You’re worrying yourself about something Zeke might do just in case you become champion?”

“Yup.” He rubs the heel of his palm over the top of his thigh as though to massage away an ache. “I’m gonna be champion, and when that happens, I’ll be famous like the Rollers. Whenthathappens, I’m gonna be rich. And Zeke can sniff out money like a bloodhound. He’ll want his cut, even if it comes via paid interviews. He’ll say nasty shit about my mom. They’ll ask why he’s absent in my life, and he’ll for sure throw my mom under the bus and say she kept me from him or some bullshit. It’s not true, but he’ll say it anyway. He’ll toss her like trash, so that’s gonna be a problem for me. Not sure how to fix it yet.”

“Well, I mean, you have time, right? No need to panic right now.”

“Right.” He sinks his hands into his pockets and watches his feet as we walk. “I have four or five years.”

“Four or five years? Kid, you’re planning to be famous in five years? What the fuck?”

“I plan to be the youngest UFC champion in fighting history. I can’t do that if I get too old. I have shit to do, money to make, and a woman to take care of. So a busted brain is nothing but an inconvenience for me. My PT sessions are a tool to help me get where I’m going.”

“Jesus.” I draw in a long breath and let it out again on a huff. “I’m not sure the world is ready for you, Mac. Your plans are admirable, but your determination is kinda scary. And now I get why you think I’m old. You wanna reach your peak twenty years younger than where I’m at now.”

“Exactly.” He skips forward on a laugh as we round the final corner. “You’re old as fuck, DeWhit. I’m embarrassed for you.”

“You’re a little prick.” I push off at a jog to catch up. “I’ll beat your ass and bust your leg again.”

“Mac!” Katrina’s voice cracks from the front door of the diner and draws our eyes up with a snap. My knees hyperextend when I slam on the brakes and stop threatening her kid in public. “Baby, why is your backpack still in the booth when you should be walking your ass to school?”

“I was stretching my legs, Mom. Relax.” The little smartass jogs forward, unable to hide the odd hitch to his stride as he moves, and drops a fast kiss on her cheek as he passes into the diner.

“Get your bag. Go to school.”

I pretend I wasn’t just running or calling her kid a prick in the street. Instead, I drop my hands into my pockets and blame my racing heart on my jog. Katrina stands at the door so the rising sun reflects off the diner windows and sparkles through her dark hair. She’s beautiful, and the glistening red lipstick she wears tempts me to take a bite, to taste her on my tongue, and ask for another few minutes alone.

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