KNUD, Her Big Bad Wolf: 50 Loving States, Kansas Page 3

  Excellent. A quick fuck. No bullshit small talk required. This was exactly what he wanted.

  But then Fancy Shit put his hand on Hot Social Worker’s shoulder and she immediately knocked it away, taking a step back from him.

  Knight pushed off the bar, barely hearing the offended “Hey!” that followed him, as he stalked across the club.

  “…let’s not cause a scene, love,” Fancy Shit was saying as Knight approached. The guy didn’t speak High Media like she did, but he had a classic English accent to make up for it.

  However, Hot Social Worker didn’t seem all that impressed by his accent or his reasonable tone. “If you didn’t want a scene, you shouldn’t have—” she started to say before cutting off with an abrupt, “Oh, hello there!” when she saw Knight standing there.

  She turned away from Fancy Shit to give him a winning smile. “How nice to see you again,” she said even though it was obvious to Knight that she didn’t remember his name.

  Fancy Shit visibly startled but recovered enough to ask Hot Social Worker, “Is this a…friend of yours?”

  No way to miss how he said friend—like he was attempting to inject humor into the awkward interruption because there was no way Hot Social Worker and the hard ass standing in front of them could be friends.

  Well, okay then. Without a single fuck given, he stepped in front of the wealthy Brit and asked Hot Social Worker, “You sick of talking to this guy yet?”

  Her eyes widened at his question but instead of giving her any time to come up with a gracious High Media answer, Knight pulled her onto the dance floor.

  Like, a heat-seeking radar, the heavily tattooed woman she’d been dancing in a circle with earlier, started toward them. But Hot Social Worker raised her hand, as if to say, “It’s okay!” and the tattooed badass stood down.

  Then as if pre-ordained, a Latin song with a sick club beat came on.

  “I love this song!” Hot Social Worker cheered.

  In response, Knight spun her under his arm before guiding her through a set of sexy Latin dance moves. Nice. Just the excuse he needed to touch her without having to discuss it first.

  “Where did you learn to dance like that?” she asked breathlessly when the electronic DJ’s algorithm faded the club-thumper into a slow song.

  Knight pulled her in close for an easy side-to-side sway. “My dad,” he answered. Not providing additional details because personal info wasn’t required for one-night stand negotiations.

  “So…you’re Latino?”

  “And some other stuff.” He didn’t bother to ask about her background. Thanks to advents in cellular-level dermatology, with the help of skin lighteners and darkeners, anyone could look like any combination of races these days if they had enough money. And again, he didn’t need any of her personal details to bang her.

  “Well, I’m glad I ran into you…” she said smiling up at him. He had to admit that ever-present smile of hers was a fucking stun gun. Full of white teeth and soundless-laughter. Better than any of the other “come hither” looks he’d gotten tonight.

  “…because I’m still wondering why someone working out of an Urgent Care would be listed as Jandro’s primary doctor. That doesn’t make much sense, considering the higher cost of being seen there as opposed to a pediatrician’s office.”

  No, it didn’t make much sense. Which was why as soon as Jandro was placed in a foster home, the she-wolf social worker at WCH would make damn sure his record was expunged from the human data system. As if he’d never been there at all.

  But obviously he couldn’t tell her that. So instead of answering her question, he asked, “You want to come back to my place and do this or what?”

  “Do this…?” she repeated as if his relatively low form of speech was a foreign language. But then her eyes widened with sudden realization as she said, “Oh my gosh, are you…,” he could almost hear some teacher telling her to substitute a pause as opposed to using a filler word as she struggled to come up with the rest of her question, “…coming on to me?”

  “Yeah,” he answered, his tone frank because he’d thought that much was obvious.

  “You’re requesting a date with me?” she asked carefully, as if she were trying to process the completely foreign concept of dating someone who wasn’t a fancy shit while putting the question to him.

  “No,” he answered just as carefully. “I don’t want to date you. I want to get with you.”

  “Oh,” she looked from side to side. And she appeared to be speaking over a bunch of small explosions going off in her head when she said, “Am I to understand you are requesting a one-night stand with me?”

  “Yeah, I want to have a one-night stand with you,” he answered about ten times faster because apparently, he wasn’t nearly as confused by this concept as she was. “I want to take you back to my place and bang. So are you down for that or what?”

  “Oh, my….” she said. And swear to God, she actually placed a hand over her chest like she’d never been so shocked in all her life. Real talk, it felt like he’d just asked a Jane Austen novel to hit and quit it.

  “Listen, if you don’t want to do this I can find somebody else—” he started to say, already scanning the bar for the Blonde DTF he let get away.

  But then Hot Social Worker cut him off with an, “Oh, no, please don’t do that. My answer is a resounding yes! I would LOVE to go back to your place to participate in a one-night stand. Thank you so very much for the invitation!” That declared, she clapped her hands together like a seal. “Let’s go!”

  And then—what the hell—she ended up pulling him out of the club.

  4

  “Home sweet fortress!” I declare as the heavily fortified manual car pulls up to the front gate of our heavily fortified Texas compound.

  My mother, who’s sitting next to me in the backseat, laughs in that big way of hers. “I’m glad you’ve still got your sense of humor, baby.”

  I’m only half joking. The place I’ve called home for all but eight years of my life consists of three huge brick villas on a giant property surrounded by a brick-and-wrought iron curtain wall. And though the ex-Mossad operative manning the security booth waves our driver through the front gate with a welcome back wave for me, any other visitor would be vetted and full-body scanned. Even with an invite.

  To say my father is overprotective is an understatement. It’s more like security is his religion, and he’s raised all three of his children as acolytes. Which is why I never bothered to move out when I took over my mother’s old job as a one-stop social worker for all of Drummond, the small town where we live. It seemed easier to live at home as opposed to attempting to live like a normal girl who just happens to have two huge bodyguard following her around at all times.

  Yet according to my parents, I’d decided to not only take an internship with the Department of Children Services in Wichita, of all places. But to also leave my bodyguards behind and move in with Gracie, the daughter of my father’s best friend and his Global Head of security, Suro Nakamura.

  Why? Because I’d wanted to try something new, according to my mother. After 27 years of doing everything by the book.

  I am confused…so, so confused. But according to my team of doctors, that’s to be expected.

  “Yes, at least I still have my sense of humor,” I answer with a wry smile. “It seems like I’ve retained everything except for the last six months.”

  Mom makes a sympathetic sound and rubs my shoulder. “I know this is a horrible way to come back home,” she says. “But I’m glad you’ve decided to stay here where we can take care of you instead of going back to Kansas. I missed you.”

  I wished I could say the same, but the story about me deciding to move to Kansas on a whim still doesn’t feel real. None of it does.

  And though the doctors keep assuring me my memory could come back any day now, I’m impatient with questions. Many of which my parents haven’t been able to answer clearly because, according to my mom,
I got “caught up” in my new life and haven’t called her since I moved to Kansas. Which once more doesn’t sound at all like me.

  But then again, I’ve never lived apart from my parents so what would I know about how I might react to living on my own? Sometimes it takes my little sister Alma weeks to return Mom’s calls.

  Weeks not months, the new voice inside of me replies skeptically. And Alma doesn’t consider Mom to be her best friend.

  The voice is new, too, and I’ll be honest—I’m a little afraid of it. It’s not quite how I’ve heard schizophrenia described, but it’s also not something I can easily ignore. It feels like the voice is separate from me, as if my gut instinct suddenly copped an attitude and started talking to me in a deep, throaty voice that brings to mind…

  Nature…

  No, that’s not it.

  Spirit…

  No, that’s not it either.

  Animal, the voice says. I’m the animal inside you now.

  My heart stutters, and I place my hand on my stomach. Still flat, but apparently there’s a baby inside. Which still feels so impossible. I was on the device. But, as it turns out, the device didn’t work. And though nothing abnormal came back on the initial diagnostic scans, I’m now one of 31 women worldwide who have somehow managed to get pregnant after its insertion.

  I’m pretty sure the press will have a field day with this. But my mom assures me all my media protections were put back in place from the moment I was airlifted out of Kansas. Which means that even in this age of “Everyone Knows Everything About You,” no one will know anything about my mental or physical condition until my family’s PR team releases a statement.

  I’m protected. The baby I’ve decided to keep will be, too. But the question remains… where is its father?

  My own father is waiting for us when I walk into the bedroom with Mom holding onto my arm like I’m some feeble old lady, and two of her guards flanking my back.

  “Good, Lasha. You are here,” he calls out, holding up a razor-thin tablet. “I have downloaded much good entertainment content from the past six months, and it is all here for you to watch while you recover.”

  “Thank you, Papa. That was very thoughtful of you,” I say, even as the new internal voice says, This feels like walking back into a cage.

  What? No! I silently answer the new voice. I’m as grateful to my parents as I’ve always been, but instead of taking the tablet, I ask, “Has Uncle Suro called?”

  “Yes. I am afraid there are still no solid clues as to why you went camping,” Dad answers, tone gruff.

  We’ve ruled out a botched kidnapping during my month long stay in the hospital. But my father’s head of security still hasn’t been able to find any details about why I’d seemingly gone to a remote area of the woods on my own.

  “Why don’t you come get into bed,” Mom says, pulling back the covers and patting the mattress.

  I take her up on the suggestion, feeling a little weary after the long drive from Dallas, combined with weeks in a hospital where I didn’t feel all that comfortable. But before I let myself settle in, I ask Dad if my boyfriend’s called him back yet.

  “No, not yet,” Dad answers, setting the tablet on my dark oak nightstand. “Perhaps he is not as good a guy as we previously thought.”

  I screw up my face because I know my boyfriend and he is that good of a guy. Not to mention the first boyfriend my dad’s ever said he liked.

  “Are you sure you’re using the right contact number? He’d been talking about doing Doctors Without Borders this summer. Maybe he decided to leave early and turned off his bioware?”

  My defense of him seems to annoy my father more than persuade. “Layla, I assure you we are doing everything in our power to reach him,” he answers, voice testy despite having received huge amounts of media training right along with his kids. Luckily our PR team gave him an Intelligent Russian Billionaire Redeemed by American Family brand, which allows for more wiggle room than mine: Ever Pleasant American Princess Living Next Door.

  Dad suddenly grabs the tablet he set aside. “I did not put the last season of The Next American Viking Warrior on here. You love this show. How could I forget to load it for you?”

  “Everything in your power?” I ask, doggedly sticking to the original subject. “Because when Uncle Suro called for his check-in yesterday he didn’t mention anything about paying him a visit at work.”

  Dad looks away and says, “You are right, my smart and beautiful daughter. I do not know why I did not think to do this myself. I will have Suro try to visit him and report back.”

  With that sorted out, he returns to fiddling with the tablet. But…

  He’s lying. I know he is. First of all, I find it impossible to believe Dad needed me to suggest he send Suro to find my MIA boyfriend. But let’s say he did. My dad is a man with a huge bias toward action. He doesn’t agree to do things, he simply does them. Him avoiding a promise he’s made feels not only disingenuous, but also completely out of character. Right now, he honestly appears more intent on getting my old-fashioned tablet to work than he does on finding my boyfriend.

  “Alexei, put that tablet down. We should let her get some sleep,” my mom says while throwing Dad an irritated look.

  I startle a little because I’d honestly forgot Mom was still in the room with us, she’d been so quiet since we walked into my bedroom.

  Not right… not right, the strange new voice insists.

  But Dad does as she asks, leaving the room quickly as if he’s been relieved of duty, while Mom pulls the covers over me. “You’ve had a long day and you need to keep up your energy,” she says to me. “Growing babies ain’t easy.”

  Mom’s allowed to occasionally say word’s like “ain’t,” because it fits in with her brand, Best Friend Just Like You and Me with a Texas Accent.

  And though I agree with her, the voice growls, Trapped…trapped… trapped… as I roll onto my side.

  But Mom’s right about me needing to rest. My eyes fall closed before the door clicks shut behind her. However, as I fall fast asleep, two important questions linger in my mind.

  Why isn’t my boyfriend calling me back?

  And why is my dad lying to me?

  5

  Four months before Kukunniwi…

  By the time they got to his apartment building, Knight was kicking himself. No doubt Hot Social Worker was a quality piece of ass, but, as it turned out, she was also crazy as hell. Which was bad news all around because he didn’t like complicated. And he HATED crazy. Even worse, this girl was smart. And smart and crazy, as he’d discovered right before he decided to stop sleeping with the women who attended med school with him, was a recipe for disaster.

  He’d always played it straight with both human and wolf girls. Let them know he wasn’t here for the long talks and kisses goodnight. Hot Social Worker seemed to understand that. She’d pulled him out of the club after agreeing to go to his place. But fuck did she talk a lot.

  It seemed she had something to say about every aspect of their walk from “the delightfully cold” February weather to gushing over his “previously undiscovered part of town.”

  “Oh my gosh, you live in a converted school building? How wonderful!” she exclaimed when they made it to the faded red brick former elementary school he called home (at least until he finished his residency in May). “Do you have roommates? Ooh, and is your place messy?”

  “It’s a studio and no, I’m not messy,” he answered, feeling like he was giving the most disappointing replies ever.

  As usual with humans, he didn’t expand beyond the basic details. Didn’t tell her he was a lone wolf to the extreme and couldn’t abide living with others, or about how he used to be a slob before joining the Marines. He just kept grimly walking, wishing like hell he’d gone with the Bad Girl option because this good girl talked way too much.

  But it was too late to go back to the club, and girls who knew what they wanted and had the nipples to ask for it got snappe
d up quick. Most guys knew better than to shove a gift horse away in exchange for a talking stick in yellow cowboy boots. Fuck his life…

  “I simply LOVE your apartment!” Hot Social Worker announced nearly as soon as he let her inside and the automatic track lights kicked on with a belligerent buzz. “Is this an old gym floor?” she asked, tapping her boot against the peeling black lacquer paint of an old half-court circle where a couch ought to be.

  “Yeah,” he answered, dropping his keys on the faux granite counter top closest to the door.

  “How truly delightful!” She looked around like she’d happened upon a palace even though the only other things to see in his spare apartment were a neatly made bed and an open galley kitchen pressed like a last thought into the shared wall.

  “The bathroom’s over there if you need to take a leak before we do this.”

  “Yes, I would like to make use of the facilities, thank you,” she answered before trotting off to the bathroom as if she’d won a prize.

  “And you have an old-fashioned built-in bathtub—how lovely!” she called out when returned. “Your apartment is simply brilliant. It reminds me of those old 90s movies about directionless 20-year-olds!”

  Actually, the building had been converted back in the 90s, but still he felt compelled to ask, “Exactly how much did you have to drink tonight?”

  He half hoped her answer would be unacceptable so he’d have a good excuse to call a driverless car to take her away. Yeah, he still needed to get it on with somebody, but it didn’t necessarily have to be with her, and the club was only a ten-minute walk away.

  She replied, “I’ve only had sparkling water. I’m just high on this experience. Would you like me to tone it down?”

  “Can you tone it down?” he asked with a skeptical note in his voice.

  “I cannot,” she confessed before letting out another squeal. “I simply can’t believe I’m here! No one has ever asked me to do this before and I’ve always wanted to have a one-night stand. Oh my gosh, this is SO exciting!”