Broken Knight (All Saints High 2)

Fuuuuuuck.

I needed to tell someone. Who? Vaughn and Hunter would taunt me into my grave and beyond. All my other friends had the mental maturity of a La Croix can. I texted Luna on a whim, conveniently ignoring the fact she hadn’t answered my last trillion messages. I didn’t know what had made her flip, but I’d been working extra hard on being a douche before sticking my mammoth fingers into her, then pretending nothing happened, so she had a variety of reasons to choose from.

Knight: I just saw something.

Knight: You cannot ignore this.

Knight: I caught my dad going down on my mom.

Knight: I can’t unsee it, Moonshine. It’s burned into my retinas. Forever.

Knight: Answer me for fuck’s sake. Seriously? It was just a bit of fooling around. Nothing has changed. You’re still my best friend.

And my only lover.

And the reason I woke up every day instead of giving up.

I had to keep her in my life, even at the price of making said life unbearable.

She could still have FUCKING JOSH.

Fuck him. Love him. Build a shrine to him.

And I’d still be here.

Waiting. Pining. Watching the time stretch between us, like an endless ocean.

I tossed my phone onto my bed, letting it drown in heaps of black satin, then plopped down next to it. I rubbed my eyes like I could wipe off the memory of my dad doing what he’d done to Mom.

Uncle Vicious had once jokingly said life was not an easy phase in one’s existence. I now understood what he meant. Life felt like a chain of calamities strung together. What helped me go through it was reminding myself of famous people who went through bad shit and were still alive. It was kind of creepy, but it helped. Like, Joaquin Phoenix had watched his brother die, and had to call 911. Keanu Reeves had lost his stillborn baby and the love of his life eighteen months apart. Oprah Winfrey had been a fourteen-year-old runaway after being sexually abused. Charlize Theron watched her mother shoot her father to death in self-defense.

These people still lived. Laughed. Breathed. Got married. Had babies. Moved on.

Statistically, I could, too.

Yet sometimes, I watched from the outside and wanted to fist-bump myself for still functioning. Staying in bed for eternity was goddamn tempting.

“Hi.”

The small voice jerked me from my thoughts. I sat upright in my bed. Mom. She was clad in a green robe that hugged her thin waist. Her face looked flush and young. Almost healthy. Happy. Like Luna after I gave her an orgasm.

Note to self: Never put your mom and orgasm in the same sentence. Even in your head.

“Yo.”

“You were early.”

“And you were busy.” I propped my chin on my knee, not giving a damn it was kind of feminine, looking up at the ceiling.

She let out a breathless laugh, pushing off the doorframe and taking a seat beside me. Her leg pressed against mine. She nudged me. It took everything in my two-hundred-pound body not to roll my eyes like a fucking Kardashian.

“How about we don’t talk about it?” I wasn’t above begging.

Was I really above anything at this point?

“Come on. I’m sure you know all about the birds and the bees.”

“Right. So we are talking about it.”

“Sex is natural.”

“Not the type Adriana Chechik taught me.”

“Adriana Chechik, the porn star?” Mom’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

“No, the astronomer. Don’t play coy now.”

She laughed, tousling my hair. “How are you feeling?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” I arched an eyebrow.

“I’m feeling great, actually.” She chuckled. “And you? How is my son?”

“Fine,” I grumbled.

I’ve been drinking at least a bottle a day since Luna left, but fine.

“Great, great, great.”

I can’t fucking breathe without thinking about life without you.

But unloading on her would be a bitch move. Talking to Dad about it was out of the question. We both needed to cool down. He fucked my mom. With toys. Not cool.

She cupped my face and tilted my head up. Our gazes locked.

“Knight Jameson Cole, you build your walls high and thick, but I see through them. Tell me what’s bothering you. It can’t be my health, because I’m here and feeling better. Is it about a certain gray-eyed girl who flew across the country recently?”

She bunched the collar of my shirt in her fist, lowering me to her. She placed my head in her lap, threading her delicate, pale fingers through my hair, running them back and forth over my skull. Goosebumps rose all over my skin. She used to do this to me all the time when I had meltdowns as a kid. Calmed the hell out of me.

“Talk to your mama, boy,” she whispered.

My words spilled like acid, a tsunami of confessions. I told her everything: About what had happened at the dog shelter. About kissing Poppy in front of Luna. About Luna kissing Daria in front of me. About the night I’d sneaked into Moonshine’s room again (omitting the sexy parts—just because my dinner was ruined didn’t mean Mom couldn’t eat this decade, too) and about how I tried forgetting about her. About how I’d invited Poppy to our treehouse to settle the score with Luna.