Page 9 of One Bad Knight

I needed to focus on what was important and real. My uncle’s election, and my future in law.

Love was duty, and I would show my family I loved them more than anything by doing my due diligence.

No matter how the prospect made me feel like a cage was closing in around me.

4

Gatsby

You can give it one more day,I convinced myself once again.You can stay just one more day to make sure she’s alright.

I dropped out of the tree into the yard after Kat had gone, keys in hand. For a moment she’d stared right at me, where I crouched in the sycamore. I was certain she’d seen me as a myriad of emotions, from fear, to anger, to longing, crossed her face.

But then she’d turned and left. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed. She hadn’t seen me in twelve years, but I had seen her.

Three times since that night in her father’s study, to be exact.

Twice, I hadn’t even realized where I was going until I sat right outside her bedroom in that familiar tree. The first time, she’d been fourteen, scribbling over a thick textbook while I sat perfectly still, mesmerized for hours. The second time she was eighteen, and blasting music in her room as she danced around with her dog and sang off-key.

And now I was back again, and here I stayed, for almost two weeks.

Even in the gray morning light, I easily evaded the cameras on the property, scaling the fence back to where I’d parked my motorcycle.

As I secured my helmet, the roar of another motorcycle came from nearby. Katherine was on her way to the studio. Her schedule wasn’t hard to figure out. Her routine rarely varied. I knew she tried to get to the studio first thing and would occasionally visit with the other artists in the coffee shop situated below the studio. Two days a week she taught art classes to children in the afternoon. Four times a week, she went to Krav Maga classes, kicking, punching, and grappling until she was soaked in sweat. The evenings were about supporting her uncle’s campaign, and spending time with family. She always showed up at dinner on time to entertain her uncle’s frequent guests, or fold pamphlets for one of his events.

In the past two weeks, I’d learned how little she slept. How in the dead of night, Kat would sneak out to the studio. While everyone else slept, she painted furiously in the empty room, dark circles heavy under her eyes until she could get whatever plagued her onto canvas.

But wherever she went, I’d be right there, watching. Watching each stroke of paint, the way her tongue stuck out of her mouth and the line that formed between her eyes when she observed her work, displeased with something about it. From the empty building balcony next to the studio, I’d watch how her eyes almost became glazed when she got in the zone, brushing madly yet so intentionally.

My fingers paused on the ignition.

“What are you doing, Gatsby?” I hissed to myself. “You shouldn’t be here. You already ruined her life.”

I should go. I didn’t get involved. When I did, it only ended in death and destruction.

The faces of two crying children haunted me. That had been weeks ago, but I still saw them whenever I closed my eyes.

My brothers were heroes. If I stayed, I was going to make things worse.

Even as I decided Kat was better off without me, I started up my bike and headed in the familiar direction of her studio.

One last time. This would be the last day I watched.

Tonight, I’d get on my bike and drive out of town without looking back.

5

Kat

“Up here,” Viet pointed at the top corner of my half-done painting, “I love the play of light and dark. It’s like they are battling for dominance, and I’m not sure which one will win.”

I tried to cover up my smile, but I loved how she instantly got what I was trying to do.

“You are beyond talented, Kat,” Viet said as she nudged my shoulder. She was practically half my height, but twice as talented. Her hair was fuchsia this week, and she made her eyes more cat-like with winged eyeliner. She’d cut up a shirt that said “The Future is Female,” so it showed off her generous, plus-sized breasts. The ripped jeans that accentuated her generous, curvy rear looked as though they lost a cage match with a wolverine.

Viet preferred to sculpt clay, and gray bits dotted her clothes and stained her hands. I adored her work and had already bought several busts colored in bright neon splotches that instantly energized me when I set eyes on them. But where in my secret heart of hearts I wanted to be a professional artist, Viet did it for fun, selling a couple sculptures online from time to time.

We’d met eight months ago when I first started painting at the studio. She continually made a point to come over to chat with me despite my polite but cool demeanor. I wasn’t looking for friends, and in my experience, people got weird, angry or tried to cozy up to me once they found out who my uncle was. But Viet wore me down with invites of pizza and wine and our mutual love for Jane Austen had sealed the deal.