Chapter 7: Ruby - Keeping Knight

I’ve never understood why some clients think it’s my fault their book didn’t succeed.

As I re-read the snippish email I just received, I sigh. Looks like I’ve got a new opening in my schedule, since I don’t think this author will be using me again. And considering the rude tone of their message, I can’t say I’m sorry about it.

Fifty rejections, the email emphasizes. Fifty. This is unacceptable. Your services are unacceptable. I expect a full refund immediately. And an apology.

An apology? I shake my head in disbelief. I didn’t write the darn thing. My job was to polish what I was given. If the agents the client submitted to didn’t like the concept, that’s not my fault.

But this isn’t the first client who’s taken out their frustrations on me, and I’m sure they won’t be the last. I can almost understand—they spend hundreds of hours on their creation only to receive rejection after rejection, because, unfortunately, that’s how the publishing business works. It’s got to hurt. A lot.

But that doesn’t mean they should take it out on me.

My finger hovers over the keyboard as I debate how to respond. I could remind my client—well, ex-client, now—about the signed contract that clearly stated that once he accepted the edited manuscript, the payment was final. And I’m almost certain if he tries to file a claim with his bank, he won’t get anywhere with it.

Could is the operative word. But I won’t. Continuing to engage with this man will only breed more negativity, which I really don’t need right now. And I can afford to refund his payment. I don’t like it, because I don’t think it’s fair, but I’ve got plenty of money to make up for it.

So, with that in mind, I compose a politely concise reply.

I’m sorry you were unhappy with my services. I’ll initiate the refund today. Best of luck in your future endeavors.

I read the message a couple of times to make sure I’m satisfied with it, then hit send with a sharp jab of my finger. As the email shoots off into the ether with a little swoosh, I make a face at my phone.

They’re not all like that, I remind myself. Most of my clients are lovely. They’re polite and funny and self-deprecating, and I get almost as invested in their successes as they do. I still remember when my first-ever editing client got a publishing deal, and she sent me a bouquet of carnations in thanks. Along with it was the message, I couldn’t have done it without you, Ruby. And I’ll forever be thankful.

She didn’t have to send me flowers. I was just doing my job, after all. But it was nice. And I still have that note tacked on the wall above my desk as a reminder that what I do matters.

I know my parents hoped I’d go into medicine, like they had. When I was young, my mom would bring me into her office and let me practice dental cleanings on my dolls. When I was in high school, my dad would take me to his medical conferences with him, always making sure to introduce me to doctors in a variety of specialities.

“Of course, I think neurology is best,” he said on more than one occasion. “But I could see you in psychiatry, Ruby. Or maybe family medicine.”

Halfway through junior year, I sat him down and told him I wanted to major in English instead. I wanted to be a writer, or an editor, or get my PhD and teach at a college. He was a little disappointed, I could tell, but he took it in stride. And when I wanted to visit a string of liberal arts colleges during the summer before senior year, he fully supported me.

Sighing again, I lean back against the headboard and set my phone on the mattress beside me. My throat goes thick. My nose goes all prickly.

I wish my dad were here. I wish I could talk to him about everything.

I wish he could meet Micah.

Swiping at the tears welling up, I sniff a few times. Then I cast my gaze around the bedroom, looking for something to distract me. There’s a bookshelf with an artful arrangement of antique books on one wall, a sleek chaise that faces the window near another, and on the wall opposite the bed, there’s an enormous painting done all in shades of blue and gold, to match the rest of the room.

It’s a nice room, for sure. The colors are tasteful, the furniture comfortable but clearly expensive, the rug is thick enough to bury my toes, and there’s a magnificent view of the city skyline from the window. Still, I prefer my bedroom at my apartment. I have all my things there, to start—my framed photos of my parents, my diplomas, a couple of the paint-by-numbers that turned out the best, my journals from the creative writing courses I took in college, and even the stuffed unicorn my mom gave me when I was six.

Thinking back to the list I gave Micah, worry niggles at me. Will he think it’s silly that I want my stuffed unicorn with me? Or the paintings that are clearly not to the quality of the ones he has in his condo?

“No,” I say to myself. “Micah’s not like that.”

I don’t think he is, at least. I can’t know for sure, since we’re definitely still in the getting to know each other stage. But Micah’s told me things I don’t think he shares with many people, like how he goes to the Museum of Natural History twice a year by himself because he loves to look at the dinosaur skeletons. Or that he still has his entire collection of Transformers from when he was a kid, not just stored in a box, but displayed on a shelf in his office.

When he first told me that a few weeks ago, I wasn’t sure he was serious. How could this tough guy who’d spent over a decade serving his country, who practically oozed toughness, still hang on to his childhood interests?

But I saw the Transformers when he gave me a tour of the condo. At least forty of them, all well-worn from use, posed in various stages of transformation. “I don’t play with them,” Micah said quickly when I went over to the shelf to look at them. His cheeks went the cutest shade of pink. “I just like having them out, is all. As kind of a reminder of simpler times.”

My irritation with my client fades as I think about Micah. A smile tugs at my lips. Staying at his condo has already turned out to be much better than I could have expected. I knew it would be safe here. I trusted that Micah would protect me. But I didn’t imagine how quickly my feelings would grow for him in such a short time.

But they have. And that’s the unexpected silver lining in all of this.

Fizzy anticipation builds as I think about practicing self-defense with Micah later. I’ve read scenes with similar scenarios—the guy all confident and sexy while he demonstrates the moves, then using his hands to position the woman just so, putting them on her hips, her back, her arms…

I didn’t have an ulterior motive when I asked Micah to teach me. I really did—do—think it’ll make me feel safer. It was only afterwards, when I was thinking about the logistics of it that I realized the other benefits.

Closing my eyes, I let myself sink into a brief fantasy. In it, Micah is wearing only a pair of athletic shorts that drape over his muscled thighs and the not-insignificant bulge between them. His chest is bare and dappled with perspiration. He stands behind me, one big hand on my waist, the other, my shoulder. He turns me just so, and his body presses against mine, sending a shockwave of electricity surging through me.

As we practice, my desire for him builds. My pulse races. My skin tingles wherever he touches me. A relentless pressure builds at my core, and it’s a struggle to concentrate on anything besides what my body is begging for.

Then he turns me around to face him, and when I look into his eyes, they’re dark and hungry. He devours me with his gaze. Time seems to slow as his head dips and his lips move closer to mine. Then, in a breathless moment, he kisses me, and⁠—

My phone chimes, popping the little fantasy bubble I’m in. I’m annoyed for a second, but then I realize the text could be from Micah, either telling me he’s on his way home, or asking about something I put on the list. Either way, I’m glad to hear from him.

But when I flip the phone over to read the message, the text is neither of those things. Instead, it’s from Kylie.

Hey. How’s it going? You up for going out this weekend? I actually have it off for a change. And I feel like I haven’t seen you for ages.

I try to tamp down the spurt of disappointment that comes. I should be happy to hear from Kylie. She’s one of my closest friends, after all. It’s just… she’s not Micah. And he’s the one I want to talk to right now.

As I look at Kylie’s message, I try to decide how to respond. Obviously, I can’t go out with her this weekend. Even if, by some chance, my attacker is caught by then, I still have the issue of all the lovely bruises on my face and neck. Which, I suppose, I could cover with makeup, but…

But I’ve been thinking about spending the weekend with Micah. He already mentioned something about a movie and ordering from his favorite pizzeria—if your throat is up to it, he made sure to add—and playing some games together.

Anyway, I doubt I’ll be able to leave Micah’s condo by then, even if I wanted to. But I can’t explain all of that to Kylie. After talking with Micah and his friends, we decided it would be better to keep my friends in the dark for now. I’m sure Kylie, Jordan, and Grace had nothing to do with it, but not knowing who’s actually involved, it just seems safer all around not to tell them. I mean, I will eventually, when it’s all over. Just not now.

I didn’t tell Sylvia what happened, either. Though I really don’t think she had anything to do with it, the F&F guys still consider her a suspect. But they don’t know Sylvia. They don’t know that she’d rather die than chip a nail, and she arranges her entire schedule around her twice-weekly blowouts. They don’t understand how self-absorbed she is, and that hiring someone to kill me means she has to think about someone other than herself.

I still don’t know why my dad picked her to marry. Unless he was just lonely. I guess that could have been it—with me off living my own life, and he was cutting back on his hours at the hospital… It’s possible. And maybe it was easier to pick someone who was the complete opposite of my mom instead of someone who’d be a weak shadow of her.

I know he cared about Sylvia, though. Not like my mom—“She’ll always be my soulmate,” he confided a few weeks before the wedding, “but I care about Sylvia, too. And she makes me happy. At my age, that’s enough.”

While I’m contemplating, another message from Kylie comes in.

Or have you met someone? And that’s why I haven’t seen you?

Micah. I can tell Kylie about him. Not the whole saving me from a masked attacker, but the spending extra time with him.

A slightly giddy feeling comes over me as I type.

Sort of. I met him in my cooking class. Remember how I said I was partnering with the same guy every week?

Three dots blink briefly.

The Army guy?

I smile at the screen.

Yes. He’s been walking me home from class every week. But we’ve been spending time together outside of class, too. It’s still early. But I like him.

This time her response is almost immediate.

I knew it!

I can practically see Kylie pumping her arm and cheering. Laughing, I text her back.

You knew what?

More love stories to choose from.

Visit Lokepub and find a novel you like.

On the screen, she starts and stops typing several times.

It was the way you talked about him. When we were having dinner, remember? And you said you were partnering with this nice guy in your cooking class. Even though you kept saying you weren’t interested in dating, your face was all lit up. I could tell you liked him more than you wanted to admit.

I lean against the headboard and stare at the painting.

That’s actually pretty insightful.

After thinking for a few seconds, I send my reply.

He’s really, really nice. I didn’t think I wanted to date yet. But Micah is different.

Just as I’m waiting for Kylie’s response, there’s a knock at the half-open door.

My heart jumps. Is Micah back already?

But Jester’s head appears in the doorway instead. And as soon as I see his somber expression, I can tell something’s wrong.

“Ruby.” His tone is the same as his expression. “Do you have a minute?”

My stomach lurches. “Yes.” I set my phone aside. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

He walks into the room and comes over to the bed, then perches at the end of it. His solemn gaze meets mine. “Sort of.”

“Sort of? What do you mean, sort of?”

“Well.” His mouth thins. “First off, everyone’s okay. That’s the most important thing.”

“Everyone’s okay?” My voice pitches up. “Who’s okay?”

“Knight and Houdini,” Jester replies. “They’re fine. A few cuts and bruises⁠—”

“A few cuts and bruises?” Panic expands inside me. “What happened?”

“I don’t want you to panic.”

“Too late!” I leap off the bed and spin around to face him. “What happened at my apartment? Was someone there? Did they get shot?” As soon as I say it, the panic blossoms bigger. “God. Did Micah get shot? Is he in the hospital?”

“Ruby, calm down.”

“Calm down? You just said Micah was hurt. How can I calm down?”

Jester stands, takes my hand, and leads me back to the bed. “A few cuts and bruises is what I said. Not in the hospital. He’s on his way home right now. But we thought it would be better if you knew before he gets here. So you’re not surprised.”

From his expression, it’s pretty clear Jester is regretting telling me.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, I release it slowly. “Okay. Sorry. Will you please tell me what happened?”

He stares at me for a second, his gaze assessing. Probably debating whether he wants to risk telling me more. Finally, he says, “There was an explosion. And⁠—”

“An explosion!”

“Yes. The bomb was set right at the entrance to your apartment, and it was triggered by the door opening. Fortunately,” he emphasizes, “Houdini had a weird feeling before going in. So they pushed the door open and got out of the way, just in case. That’s when the bomb went off. They got hit by some shrapnel⁠—”

“Shrapnel?” It’s a choked croak. This keeps getting worse.

“Wood,” Jester explains. “Hinges. Stuff like that. But they’re okay. And the fire was put out pretty quickly. According to Houdini, the bomb was set to do the maximum damage at the point of entry. So the rest of the apartment only got a little smoke damage.”

I look at him in horror. Someone put a bomb in my apartment. Micah and Houdini were hurt. Because of me.

“They’re okay,” he repeats. “Like I said, Knight will be back soon. They had to deal with the fire department and the police, so that took a while. But you’ll see, he’s fine. Couple of scrapes and dings. We got worse when we were training.”

But I can’t respond. Not without bursting into tears. So I squeeze my lips shut and nod instead.

“Do you want me to stay in here?” Jester asks. “Until Knight gets back? Or do you want to be alone?”

I dig my fingernails into my palms, hoping the pain will keep me from crying. “I’m okay,” I manage. “You don’t have to stay.”

He looks at me for a long moment. Indecision clouds his gaze. “Maybe I’ll just stay here. Read one of these books or something.” He walks over to the shelf and grabs a book at random. “Ah, Moby Dick,” he says in a falsely bright voice. “I’ve been meaning to read that one.”

Really, I wish he would go. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about crying in front of him. But I can’t bring myself to ask him to leave, either. Instead, I walk over to the window and stare out it.

The only time I felt worse was the day after my dad died. That was when it really sank in that he was gone.

I clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle the sobs that want to come out. It was bad enough knowing someone wanted to kill me. But because of me, a man I care about was hurt. He could have been killed. Not just Micah, but Houdini, whose only mistake was getting mixed up with me.

“Ruby?” Micah’s voice comes from the doorway, sending me spinning around.

Jester jumps up from the armchair and drops the book on the cushion. “Knight,” he says. “You okay?”

Micah nods. “I’m good.” He glances at Jester before turning his attention to me. “Rue? Are you okay?”

On weak legs, I half-walk, half-stumble across the room. “Micah.” My voice cracks. “I’m so sorry.”

As soon as I reach him, my gaze rakes across his body. There’s a small cut on his forehead with a butterfly bandage over it and another on his jaw. His dark blue shirt is smudged with black, and there’s a scorched spot on his chest. His light brown hair is all disheveled and dusted with gray.

At first glance, his injuries don’t appear to be serious, just as Jester said. But what if his clothes are hiding something more sinister?

My hands move to Micah’s chest, and I start patting him all over. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” I blurt. “Your ribs? Did you hit your head? Were you burned?”

He takes my hands in his. “Nothing like that,” he replies. His voice is crazily calm, given the situation. “Just a couple of little cuts is all. I’m fine. Didn’t Jester tell you?”

“I did,” Jester says from the doorway. “I told Ruby you were okay. But I think she wanted to see for herself.” As he backs into the hallway, he adds, “I’ll be in the living room. So we can talk once you’re done here.”

I keep looking Micah over, not fully believing that he’s really okay. Nausea is roiling in my belly. The tears are right there, poised to burst out.

“Micah.” My voice wobbles. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I’m… I’m so sorry.”

“Ruby.” His features crease with concern as he gazes down at me. “Ah, sweetie, don’t cry. I’m okay.”

“I’m not crying,” I insist.

His eyebrows jump up. Then he touches my cheek, and his finger comes away wet.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” My attention keeps getting drawn back to that scorched spot on his shirt. “Jester said… he said there was a bomb. Right at the door.”

Micah puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me over to the bed. He sits, tugging me gently down with him. “There was. But Houdini had this feeling. So we got out of the way in time.”

“You were still hurt.” I carefully touch the bandage on his forehead. “Because of me.”

“No.” His voice firms. “Not because of you, Ruby. I don’t want to hear you saying that. I got a few bruises because of some psycho asshole. That is in no way your fault. And shit—” His eyes close for a second. “I don’t even want to think about what could have happened if you’d gone back…”

I’m torn between bursting into tears, flinging my arms around him and hugging him as hard as I can, or howling in anger and frustration.

“Can I make you some tea?” I finally ask. “Or… get you some painkillers? Do you want the arnica ointment? Can I do anything to help?”

Micah stares at me. Something deep and unreadable works in his eyes. “Just being here helps,” he says roughly. “Knowing you’re safe. I knew you were. But still…”

“Don’t worry about me. You’re the one who needs to be taken care of right now.”

He blinks. Then he leans in and pulls me into his arms. “It’s impossible not to worry about you.”

Some of the fear twisted up inside me releases. Wrapping my arms around him, I rest my cheek on his shoulder and close my eyes as I send up a silent thank you for bringing Micah safely back to me. “I worry about you, too,” I whisper.

“Rue.” Micah hugs me closer. His lips press to the top of my head. “I’m so sorry I can’t protect you from all of this. I got your stuff, by the way. It’s downstairs in the living room. We got the fire put out quickly, so there wasn’t much damage⁠—”

“I don’t care about that.” I kiss his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin and the reassuring throb of his pulse against my lips. “I care about you. As long as you’re okay, that’s what’s important.”

“Not quite,” he murmurs against my hair. “As long as you’re safe, that’s the most important thing.”