Mr. Knight/A Jordan Knight Fanfic ✔️

22

22. genre

"On her hip was a scar. Old and faded, smooth like a pebble worn by water, and so close to her healthy skin tone that I didn't at first notice it. It wasn't until she shifted onto her side that firelight danced there, teasing a sheen from the spot.

"I traced the small line with my fingertip, feeling her body tense, then relax. I wouldn't ask where it came from. She would tell me in time. For now, the gift of her brave nakedness was enough.

"My touch, though lingering, only skimmed the surface of her dreams. She lay still and hard and smooth before me, a chrysalises awaiting transformation. Soon, she would break free, and I would revel in witnessing her metamorphosis."

Jordan closes the book, setting it on the small table with his water as the crowd applauds. He's just finished the third and final passage from Indigo. I haven't read it, and now I'm not sure I want to.

Did he read that on purpose?

Of course he did.

But I don't know whether it was meant to wound or heal. Perhaps both.

"All right, then," he says gravely. "I'm yours for the next hour and a half. Ask whatever you want, but do try to be original."

Hands shoot up all around the room.

"You there, red shirt."

"Hi, Mr. Knight. Who's your favorite author?"

I wince; it's a question writer's loathe. Once you reveal your most-admired peers, oftentimes your works are weighed against theirs for the length of your career.

"Myself, of course."

Clever man, I acknowledge privately as the crowd laughs.

"How about you with the red lips. I'm indulging in a theme, clearly."

A young female voice asks, "Hi, professor. I'm wondering if you'll ever publish another book of poetry?"

"Fancy you should ask. There's one in the works as we speak. It's slated for release next year. Ah, how about you with the questionable piercing in your nose. You've got a red scarf, at least."

The man laughs. "Thanks. Do you get your inspiration from people or events in your life, or do you just think it all up?"

"All of the above," replies Jordan. "You might find yourself in one of my books one day. I'm not likely to forget that ornament on your face anytime soon. Ah, Griffen Banks, it's good to see you. Question?"

"Is it true that you almost didn't publish Footprints of a Poet, the biography on Richard Davis?"

I stiffen, looking up to see Jordan's smother a frown. He clears his throat. "It's true that my publisher wasn't happy with certain elements of the book, yes. But I'm a stubborn bloke, and they eventually came around."

Before Jordan can pick someone else, Griffen asks a followup question. "Why weren't they happy with it?"

Brown eyes flicker to me. "Writing biographies is tricky business, and sometimes the truth isn't black and white."

When he calls for the next question, I release the breath I'd been holding. Leaning toward Claire, I hiss, "What the fuck was that?"

She looks at me guiltily. "Just something we thought you should know."

"God save me from meddling friends," I whisper back.

She winks.

"Ms. Davis," says a carrying voice, "am I boring you?"