King

“Monty, buzz me in, will you?” I need to be alone. What have I done? That woman completely bewitched me. I lost control tonight, and I don’t lose control. Holland is irresistible. That long, silky black hair and those clear, grey, haunting eyes did something to me—something I can’t explain. The way she melded with the music and the crowd on the dance floor made my head swim. Before I knew it, I was in the elevator and going down to get her. I can’t believe I broke rule number one—don’t bring strange women into the VIP club, let alone my apartment. Smashed that rule. Rule number two—don’t give the guests something to gossip about. Rule obliterated. I’m sure the whole club is buzzing about the woman King hauled off to his apartment. Fuck. I can’t believe I wasn’t more discreet. I should have never brought her here. Rule number three is just plain common sense—never, ever have unprotected sex. I crushed that one too. At least she’s on birth control, or so she says. I don’t see her lying, though. She seemed honest. I went after her. She wasn’t some slut looking to score the big dog. I wanted her. Fuck, King, you sound pathetically pussy whipped right now, and you don’t even know this woman. Why would you think she doesn’t sleep around when she let you do her after thirty minutes of dancing and light flirting?

My bartender, Monty, buzzes me into my apartment, where I flop down on the couch. I can still smell her on the cushions. I roll over face-down to inhale her intoxicating scent. What the fuck is going on? It’s not like I can’t get a piece of ass whenever I want. I own the hottest fucking club in the U.S. Something’s been different over the past couple of years, though. I haven’t been craving my normal meaningless one-night stands. They’ve become boring. Lately, I’ve been yearning for something more, something normal. I’ve found myself searching for a person I can trust, someone I can spend some time with, someone with common interests. I don’t do long-term relationships. The longest I have ever been able to stand the same woman is a weekend, maybe two weeks—that’s it. But Holland . . . something in her soul called to mine. The second I laid eyes on her, I knew she was special. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but something clicked when I saw Holland. The atmosphere changed and the earth shifted under my feet.

I’m sleeping on the couch tonight. I never sleep on the couch, but she’s everywhere out here and nowhere in there—and I want her everywhere. I’m starting to regret letting her go. Actually, that’s not true. I regretted letting her go the second she started panicking about her phone and her friends.

I’m calling her in the morning. Shit, I might not even wait that long. This must be how a drug addict feels after getting high for the first time: the temptation, the rush, and then, as soon as it’s over, the craving for more. I’ve never been addicted to drugs, but if Holland Bennett were a drug, I’d be addicted to her.

I’ve been staying in the club apartment and overseeing operations since we opened two months ago. I spend every evening in the club until it closes to make sure things go smoothly. I’m love stoned tonight, however, and I have no desire to be around clingy women and drunken people. I’m staying in.

Down the hall in my bedroom, I strip down to my boxers and grab my comforter and a pillow. In the living room, I make a bed on top of Holland’s sweet scent. Everything about that woman is sweet—her smile, her scent, her personality—but my favorite sweet thing is the way she tastes on my tongue.

It’s too soon to call her. She’s probably just getting to her car. I should have offered to drive her home. I could have at least called a car to pick her up at the door. Those shoes of hers were killing her feet, and rightly so. I’m sure she’s fine. She’s with her friends. I ruined their night by stealing her away. Well, I’m pretty sure I didn’t ruin Holland’s night. I can’t fucking believe I’m doing this when I grab my phone and text her to make sure she’s safe. I’ve known this woman for all of an hour, and I’ve been separated from her for fifteen minutes, but I’m worrying about her safety. Something is very fucking wrong with this scenario.

Just wanted to be sure you made it to your car safely. The parking lot can be a dangerous place for incredibly beautiful women like you. I hope whoever is driving is sober. I feel terrible for not making sure of that before you left. I could have called for a car to take you all home, but I was distracted thinking of our time together. Please let me know when you’re home safe and sound--King.

My text is saccharine and romantic, like a boyfriend worrying about his girlfriend, ugh. My thumb hovers over the send button while I contemplate the possible ramifications of sending this text, but I tap the button anyway. I have to.

I reach over the back of the couch to the console table and grab the remote and my smokes. I switch the television on to ESPN and toss the remote on the cushion next to me. I flip open my Zippo, hold the flame to the end of my cigarette, and take a long drag. I hate smoking. It’s a nasty habit, but it comes with my lifestyle.

My phone chirps; it’s a text from Holland.

Thank you for being concerned. Mika is driving and she is sober. We’re safe and sound. Thank you for the compliment. I had a nice time tonight too.–H

She has no idea the kind of man she’s dealing with, and I don’t ever want her to. I steer clear of relationships, another rule I made for myself when I was younger. They’re messy and time consuming, and they require honesty and dedication. My father’s line of work never allowed for any of those things, especially honesty. I knew how my family made money, and so did everyone else, but it was a taboo subject that no one ever mentioned.

Note to self: scratch that rule from the rulebook . . . permanently. I’m pretty sure Holland is the thing I’ve been searching for to help me escape my crazy lifestyle. In the short amount of time we spent together, she has already made me want to be someone different. She’s not the type of woman who associates with dark people from the world’s underbelly like me. She is delicate and fine-spun, graceful and angelic, so contrary to myself. I didn’t know exactly what I was searching for until I saw Holland on the dance floor tonight. It was the first time since I was a child that I didn’t feel unclean or polluted.

Right now, I want to text her back, but more than that, I want to hear her voice. I want to tuck her under my arm and kiss the top of her head and snuggle with her until morning—and that’s a little unnerving. I don’t do this. I don’t form bonds or connect with women. I show them a good time, get what I want, and dismiss them. That’s what a drug lord’s son does.

I prop my feet up while John Anderson talks about the day’s sports scores and highlights on Sports Center. I lean my head back against the couch and pull the last of the carcinogens from my cigarette deep into my lungs. I blow the smoke straight up and watch it swirl and roll up to the ceiling until I smell the scent of the filter burning. I toss my duvet onto the floor and stomp into the kitchen, where I drop what’s left of the smoldering filter into the sink. I open the fridge and grab a Corona, twist off the top and head into the den where I can check my security cameras and see what’s happening in the club. The cameras cover the main entrance, the elevators, all of the exits, and every bar, as well as the dance floor. Everyone is having a good time. Everything’s in order, and even though I know she has gone home, I find myself searching the crowd for Holland’s sultry figure. Every woman with raven hair causes me to look twice, searching for her haunting eyes, those curves, and that sweet mouth. Fuck, King. Go to bed.

I punch the button, shutting off the monitors, and return to the couch, where her scent is already fading. I need to change that soon.