Page 97 of Fighting Mr. Knight

Like hell, we will. “I’m in the middle of something. What’s up?”

“I heard Wicks had a change of heart.”

I stiffen. Tristan and Danny eye me curiously. “What are you talking about?”

“He wants to see you about your old man.”

How the fuck does he know?

“Come on, Knight. My sources never let me down. Work with me here. I can help you.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” I say dryly.

He continues, undeterred. “I’m used to getting info out of people. I can help you talk to Wicks.”

“I don’t think so, Manning,” I snap. “You’re not getting an exclusive out of me.”

He chuckles. Insults wash over tabloid journalists like water. “You know it’ll go to press, anyway, right? It’s better if you have control.”

“The news must be slow today if you’re sniffing around a decade-old murder and a guy already in jail about to snuff it.”

Manning chuckles down the phone again. “The Wicks family always makes headlines. As do you, Knight. It’s a good combo when the news is quiet.”

“I’m not your fucking entertainment, Manning.” I snap my phone shut.

Tristan and Danny watch me in silence.

Danny clears his throat. “When are you visiting him in prison?”

I fire the phone on the table and clench my hand into a fist. “I’m in a queue. Turns out Donnie Wicks is a popular guy.”

Tristan watches me for a few seconds. “Just be careful, mate. The press has got wind of this and Donnie Wicks is the one person you see red over.”

24

Bonnie

Today is my wedding day. And on your wedding day, you’re supposed to look absolutely fabulous.

This morning, in the safety of my bedroom, I looked like a femme fatale. Heels that scream fuck-me-in-only-these-please. A tight blue shift dress that accentuates every curve. Dress hem closer to my hips than my knees. My long flowing hair teased into curls. Vaguely smoky eyes but not enough to look like I’m out on the town for the night.

Now, outside, I’m not quite as fatale as I’d hoped.

Big stinkin’ raindrops slap the shit out of me, supported as they are by a filthy wind designed to piss you right off.

British weather at its finest.

The wind does itsdarnedestto pull my dress over my head, expose my good bits to the nation andleave me with a wind-burnt vagina.

When I finally make it into the Lexington building and onto the fortieth floor, I’m less put together than I had hoped, but heads still turn.

Heads actually turn.

Approving looks. Flirty looks. Lecherous looks.

Give it to me; I’ll take itall.

Nisha is hammering away on her keyboard but stops when she sees me. “Nice,” she says loudly, giving me an approving, almost sexual, once-over. “Max’s jaw will hit the floor. Jack’s too.” She smiles innocently. “If you’re interested, but of course,you’re not.”

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