“Aw, it’s nothin,” he scoffs, slapping his hand through the air.
“It’s very kind.”
“Don’t talk to anyone. Doc might hear,” Knives says.
“Doc isn’t even around,” I point out as we step onto the porch. The day is promising fall. The air is cool, but the sun is warm. It’s a perfect combination. Knives stomps down the steps, looks longingly at his bike as we head toward the black on black diesel truck.
I reach out to open the door, and Knives yanks me away so I can’t. “Knives, come on. I can open a door.”
“No fucking way. Hands to yourself,” he says, moving around and grumbling under his breath as he tries to open the door. “Damn it.” He struggles. He spins around, pressing my head against the truck, and he manages to get his fingers under the door handle.
Don’t mind me. I’m fine. My cheek is only pressed against dried mud on the truck.
“There we go,” he celebrates with a big goofy grin.
I wipe my cheek off, and he bends down to put me in the truck, but he smacks my head against the door frame. “Ow,” I hiss.
“Shit, are you okay? Are you bleeding? Is the baby okay?”
I rub my head, and he carefully swings my legs in front of the seat and gestures for them to stay as he backs away from me. “Please, don’t tell Doc. Fuck me. He’s going to remove all my organs.”
“I’m fine. The baby is fine. My head hit the door, not my stomach.”
Knives closes the door gently, and I watch as he walks around the truck, kicking the dirt and hitting himself in the head with his hand. The guy is too hard on himself. He finally opens the driver’s side door and climbs in, cranks the engine, and the grumbles vibrate my ass, but they tickle my stiches and I wince.
I’m real tired of these damn stitches, but it’s my fault. Pain is karma, and I deserve it. I dig in my pocket for a pain killer, break it in half because I don’t want to be loopy, and toss it in my mouth.
“It’s been awhile since I’ve seen Rachel. I’m excited. Don’t tell, Doc, but his mom is hot. I’d totally—”
“Nope, don’t tell me. Please, don’t tell me.” I stop him, not wanting to hear what he thinks. Eric’s mom is beautiful, but I don’t want to think of her like that.
“Right. You’re right.” He whips out of the parking lot, and my back slams against the seat. The tires spin, and the bed fishtails. Braveheart opens the gate just in time before Knives is speeding down the road. I grasp the ‘oh-shit’ handle above me, and my fingers dig into the middle console.
He’s worried about smacking my head against the door, but not my life while he drives? I just made peace with myself. I don’t really feel like seeing my brains scattered along the road. “Why are we checking on her? Rachel doesn’t like to be bothered unless it’s by Doc.”
“Knives,” I sigh. “She’s sick. Really sick. I want to check on her. She and Eric didn’t leave on a great note. She has cancer. Terminal. Doc hasn’t told anyone. I’ve only told Reaper so I can go check on her. And since…” We fly over the hill and catch a few inches of air and land on a rough bounce. My stomach turns, and the baby doesn’t like the speed. “Can you slow down a little? I’m not feeling so hot.”
“Oh, sure.” He slams his foot on the brake to slow down, and I fly forward, catching myself on the dash.
Note to freaking self, never drive with Knives again.
“Better?” he asks as he speeds up.
Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.
“Sure,” I grumble.
“Now, why is she sick? The flu or some shit?” he asks.
I hold a hand over my stomach as we jump over another hill. “She has breast cancer. Terminal. Are you not listening to me?”
“What!” He slams on the brakes again, and my head almost slams against the dash. “No, no, not Rachel. No.” Denial is thick in his voice as he leans his arms against the steering wheel.
“Doc hasn’t told anyone. He isn’t taking it well. So keep it to yourself. I’m telling you because you’re coming with me to check on her.”
He jerks the wheel right to turn down her street, and my body slides left, smashing against Knives. I hold on to the door as the tires skid, and I swear, I know we’re about to tip over. This is it. I’m going to die.
Knives then takes a left into her driveway and slams the truck in park. I gasp for air, trying not to throw up, but I can’t manage. I open the door and stick my head out, puking all over Rachel’s beautiful daisies.
Ugh, I’m so sorry, Rachel.
“You can’t drive worth a damn,” I mutter, wiping my mouth off.
“Did you die?” he asks, climbing out of the truck.
“No, but—”
“Stop being dramatic.” He rolls his eyes as he helps me out of the truck by swinging me in his arms.
“Nope, put me down or I swear, I’ll beat you with my crutches, Knives. All the movement is making me sick.”
“The baby?” he asks, horrified.
“The baby,” I agree, and he gently places my feet on the ground, then grabs my crutches from the bed of the truck.
I tuck them under my arms, sweating already from the effort of hopping toward the door and the Vegas sun searing my shoulders. Knives is in front of me, arms out, as if he’s waiting on something to jump from either side of them.
Knives rings the doorbell, and we wait. She’s home. Eric told me he makes sure she’s taken care of so she doesn’t have to work and can do whatever she wants. He takes care of her, not only because he loves her, but for what she did for him when he was younger.
“I don’t think she’s home,” Knives says, ringing the doorbell again.
“Her car is in the driveway. She’s home.”
A few seconds go by, and there still isn’t an answer. I’m worried. What if something happened? “Knives, she should be answering,” I whisper, cupping my eyes as I press my head against the window in the door. “I can’t see anything.”
“Rachel!” Knives yells and bangs his fist against it. There is no way she can’t hear that loud banging. I bet the neighbors can hear the loud thunder coming from the door. “Rachel, I’m going to kick the door in if you don’t answer,” he warns.
We wait.
Nothing.
“Stand back,” Knives says, and I do as I’m told without question. My crutch slips off the side of the walkway, sinking into the decorative rocks, but I catch myself. Knives stands straight, lifts his leg, and smashes his foot under the silver knob. The wood splinters apart and hangs off the hinges, creaking in the silence of the house.
Knives reaches behind him, lifts the back of his cut, and grabs onto a gun before stepping inside. “Rachel? You here?” he shouts, sidestepping the pieces of wood on the beautiful slate floors.
Silence.
I keep my more injured leg off the floor as I swing the crutches in front of me to hold my weight. The silence is unsettling. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. Something is wrong. I feel it.
“Knives,” I whisper in fear, and he places his finger against his lips as we stealthily move deeper inside the house. I roll my lips to keep myself quiet. I only wanted to come check on her. I wanted to show that I care about her and respect her as Eric’s mom, but I didn’t actually think something would be wrong.