Page 150 of Fighting Mr. Knight

Jack’s gone to the police.

“What?”

“Seriously?” She shrieks. “You haven’t seen it? Oh, my God. Wait, I’ll send it to you now.”

“Great.” Talk about getting me all worked up.

Moments later a message flashes on my screen.

I click on the link, hyperventilating. Will it show a picture of Dad?

Except . . . the link isn’t about Dad. It’s a picture of Jack and me. I zoom in on the article.

“What is this?” I say more to myself than to Kate.

“Are you in the middle of a fight?” she asks. “I can’t believe you got bloody papped! Actually, notpapped, it was just a random girl with a camera. But everyone’s paparazzi these days. Still look how many likes and comments it has!”

It’s from Friday night. It shows Jack and I outside my flat in Brixton. I look like I’m trying to plead with him, and Jack looks irate.

Oh, fuck. That’s all I need.

“It’s a pity they caught you like that,” Kate muses. “It’s not the most romantic of shots.”

No, it’s most certainly not.

My cheeks burn. I’m screwed. On one hand, it’s not Dad being exposed, which is a good thing, but on the other hand, it’s me being exposed.

What a mess.

I sigh loudly into the phone. “Bradshaw and Brown are going to have a fit.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Kate says reassuringly. “I doubt your old bosses are on social media. Besides, it’s not ground-breaking news. The only reason I came across it is because I was hungover and spent hours on Instagram.”

She has a point.

A message from Max flashes up.

Max:Care to tell me why you are in a fight in the street with Jack Knight?

Kill me now.

36

Jack

“I’m busy.” I glare at Danny and Tristan in the hallway.

Unfortunately, Lucy, the traitor, has other ideas. She leaps all over the two of them, begging them to come inside. I feel slightly appeased that their custom-made designer suits are being slobbered over.

Danny pets Lucy. “Your security is rubbish. A welcoming guard dog and an unlocked front door.”

“And?” I shrug. “If anyone decides to rob the place, they’ll find me here. I’d be happy for the boxing practice.”

He strolls past me into the lounge area. Tristan follows.

“Didn’t you hear I’m busy?” I mutter.

“Fuck off.” Tristan snorts. “What are you doing then?”

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