Taking a shower, alone, without King, is little sad and a lot boring. I wouldn’t admit it if he asked me, but I wish he would’ve gotten in with me.
Pulling open the frosted glass door, I step out and onto the rug, and I almost come out of my damn skin when I see King standing in the bathroom, leaning against my sink. Watching.
“You cookin’ or am I?” he asks, eyes taking a leisurely trip up my legs and to my face, appreciation in his eyes.
“You like creepin’ around, don’t you?” I towel off, watching him out of the corner of my eye.
“You tell me, Morbid Molly.”
I can’t help but smile when King’s being funny, which is never. “I’ll cook, Creepy Craig.”
King laughs loudly. “You can cook?” He looks truly impressed at the idea.
I try to look offended, but I can’t muster it. He’s not wrong to be surprised. I’m not great. I can cook enough to sustain life, but I’m not sure how tasty it’ll be. “I can try.”
“Sounds like food poisoning.”
Walking out of the bathroom and into my bedroom, King following, I toss my towel in the laundry basket and pull out a tank and shorts from my drawer. “You either eat my food poisoning or you starve, your choice.” I shrug, getting dressed.
King watches me from the doorway, a smirk on his face. “I die either way?”
“Exactly.”
“At least you’re plannin’ my funeral,” he says, smirking. I don’t know why I said that, as weird as it was, but I meant it as much as I wish I didn’t. I care about King. I always have, and that’s where the hate comes from. I hate caring for someone who gives me nothing, promises me nothing, when I feel like I lose a little piece of myself to him every time we’re together. I care. King doesn’t.
“Color of flowers?” I ask him, bent over at the waist and twisting my hair into a messy bun on top of my head.
“No goddamn flowers at my funeral. Just toss me into a dirt hole and be done with it.”
I laugh, slipping on a pair of fuzzy black socks. “Fireworks then,” I muse, looking up. Standing there, six feet plus of solid muscle, tattoos, and hard edges, I feel my stomach flip and my heart split. I don’t want to want King. I don’t want to fall, but I feel myself slipping the longer he’s here, the more time we spend together.
There’s just something about him. There always has been.
“No flowers. No fireworks,” he grumbles.
I make a mental note. “You’re definitely gettin’ flowers.” Walking down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, I look up at King, who doesn’t look happy.
“I’ll beat your ass,” he grumbles, stomping down my stairs, his boots echoing off the walls.
I roll my eyes. “You’ll beat my ass?” I question, digging into the fridge and pulling out a pound of ground burger. Bent over, King smacks my ass, laughing.
“Ass has been beat.”
Setting the hamburger on the counter, I turn around and lean back against the stove, looking at him.
It hits me like a wave, how strange this is—me and King. How this time feels different. It scares the hell out of me how comfortable I’ve become in a matter of days. How easily I fall, and how quickly I know it can all change.
In the years we’ve been doing this, I’ve never let him in, never giving too much of myself. Never fell too hard. But here I am, letting him in and starting to fall, and fall fast. It’s scary. Scary in the best and worst way possible because I can’t trust King.
“You okay there, Princess?” King asks, stepping into me, wrapping an arm around my back and jerking me into him.
Am I okay? That’s a loaded question.
Nodding, I melt into him. “I’m gonna make tacos,” I mumble into his chest, inhaling his scent. He smells like man—woodsy, Earthy, King. I commit his smell to memory, storing it for later because I know this time is the last time. The next time he leaves he won’t be coming back. I can feel it. Things have changed as much as I don’t want to believe it.
“I’m good.”
“How good?” he taunts, grinding into me.
My choice in men is questionable, King being the glaringly prime example. I choose the ones living with one foot here and the other on the move. Men who are unavailable, and not just emotionally, but physically. Men who can’t be here. Hell, won’t be here. King is that man.
I blame my mother, the one who left for greener pastures and a deep pocket. The woman who left her three kids for something more, something better, and didn’t look back. She’s around, always has been, but never like I wished she would have been.
First it was my mother.
Then it was my first boyfriend, my high school sweetheart, moving away and trying the long-distance thing that never actually works. And even back then, I knew it was dumb and fruitless, but I was stupid. I was young and thought I was in love.
After that, I had Tags, a man who was all-in while I was all out. Couldn’t commit.
And then there’s King, my biggest mistake. So no, I’m not okay, and I blame Kingston “King” Toretto. He’s ruined me.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“You’re worried.” He’s not wrong. But what he doesn’t know is that I’m worried for a whole other reason than what he’s thinking. A stalker is scary, worrisome, but what’s scarier, more dangerous, is the way I feel when I’m with the King.