King

I haven’t needed many people in my life. My father was a cold man who concentrated on building his drug empire, and my mother was wrapped up in looking like the perfect wife, so when I stepped onto the jet, I was never surer of anything in my life. I need Holland.

I can’t even get on the plane without texting her and promising to text her again in a few minutes. What the fuck? The dread of having thousands of miles between us is disconcerting. If someone hadn’t fucking murdered three key distributors in my Miami club where I move the bulk of my product, I would have never left her. This fucking business was the death of my father, and it’s going to be the death of me too if I can’t find a way out.

“Sir?” The stewardess says, lightly touching my shoulder. “Hmm?” I pull myself from my reverie and look up into a pretty young blonde woman’s eyes. It’s odd not to be attracted to her. She’s lovely, but no one compares to the sweet, innocent creature that recently robbed me of my common sense and my heart.

“We’re about to take off. You’ll need your seatbelt.” She gestures to my lap, and as I buckle it, I realize that on any other occasion I would be planning which way to fuck her at cruising altitude, but not tonight. Not ever again. I wanted to find someone special, but I never imagined being pussy whipped. Kingpins don’t get pussy whipped. They manipulate and steal. They threaten and kill and rule. That was my father. He may have named me King, but he was the real King—the King of Cocaine. It’s a title I never wanted but inherited just the same when he was murdered while trying to cheat a Colombian kingpin a few years ago.

“Can I get you a drink?” she asks, blinking her big, brown doe eyes. I glance at the gold nameplate on her blouse. Candy. Figures. She’s probably a stripper at one of my clubs as well as a stewardess. I should probably know her. Hell, I’ve probably fucked her. God, I hate the asshole dick I’ve grown to be.

“Yeah, sweetheart, a rusty nail.” My brief eye contact and blasé tone make it clear that her only requirement on this flight is stewarding. She makes her way to the back of the plane, expertly mixes my drink, delivers it, and takes her seat while we taxi down the runway. Yes, she’s done this before, I’m sure. She’s familiar enough to know I fucking hate flying and that I need a drink in my hand during take-off.

I swirl the ice in my tumbler and flex my jaw as the jet lifts into the air. The pressure in the cabin regulates and I relax. It’s the take-off I hate most. As soon as I hear the ding indicating it’s safe to remove my seatbelt, I unbuckle and text Holland again. I twist in my chair and pull at my collar when she doesn’t respond. She’s fine. I’m overreacting. I have an entire team watching out for her in my absence. There’s nothing to worry about. So why do I feel like something terrible is going to come from my leaving her?

Candy approaches me with another drink and a pair of headphones. Yeah, now I remember her. A very attentive girl, she always anticipates my needs. I like that. She’s flown with me before, and I haven’t fucked her. I remember that I respected her professional attitude. I think she was a brunette, though. That must be why I didn’t recognize her tonight.

“Thank you, Candy,” I say, looking at her in earnest this time. It’s a relief to know she’s not expecting anything from me.

Five minutes go by, then ten. Still no reply. I heave a deep sigh and lean my head back, put on the headphones and close my eyes while I listen to the playlist of classical music Candy has cued up for me. It’s not easy to settle my mind, knowing what’s waiting in Miami for me and not knowing what Holland is doing, but the alcohol and the music help a lot. Candy deserves a bonus and a full-time job as my assistant. I’ll see about making that happen tomorrow. No more strip clubs for her.

My neck is aching and my right foot’s asleep when Candy lightly taps my shoulder two hours later. I open my eyes and remove my headphones. Candy is just an outline in the dim lighting of the cabin, and her voice is soft and soothing.

“Mr. Romero, we will be landing in fifteen minutes. I thought you might like something to eat before the seatbelt light comes on.” She’s holding a tray with my two of my favorite childhood snacks. I tilt my head to the side and frown. The drink and music I understand, but this? She must have done some serious research to know that my mother used to give me spicy popcorn and gelatin with mandarin oranges when I was little. In fact, I can’t think of a way she could possibly know this. She reads the question on my face and busies herself with sliding the tray table over my lap from its hidden compartment. I grab her wrist sharply, and she jerks her head so that we are eye to eye.

“How do you know so much about me?”

Her dark eyes widen, and I get the impression she can’t answer me—as in she is physically incapable because she is so afraid. I loosen my grip, and she relaxes microscopically.

“I don’t mean to frighten you, but you do need to tell me how you know so much about my likes and dislikes.” She shifts, looking away, but I sense her answer will be honest.

“I know your head of security, Sebastián. I asked him to help me with details to better serve you.” I release her wrist, and she transitions smoothly to the galley to make me another drink—club soda this time though, exactly what I want when I’m not in the mood to drink alcohol. My God, I never realized Sebastián was so observant.

“How do you know Sebastián so well?” I ask, scooping up a handful of the popcorn. It tastes exactly the way my mother used to make it when I was a kid. Sebastián has always been part of my life. He worked for my father before I was born. There isn’t anyone still alive who knows me better.

“I met him working in a club in Dallas.”

I know there’s more though. She returns to set my drink down at precisely ten o’clock, and I realize that’s where I always place it too. Always.

“Met him how? Were you a waitress or a stripper?” I ask. For the first time since taking off in Houston, her sweetness wavers.

“Neither. I did the books,” she says curtly. I’ve offended her with my assumption.

“Sorry, that wasn’t a dig. I just assumed from your name and because you look familiar that you . . . well, you know.”

Her demeanor softens, and one corner of her lip lifts in a demure smile.

“It’s short for Candace, which was my mother’s name, and I don’t care for her much, so I have always gone by Candy. And you recognize me because I’ve flown with you before.”

“You were a brunette, yeah?” I ask, leaning back in my chair and lifting my ankle to rest on my knee. She’s on the up and up. Good.

“Yes, I was,” she says, brushing a stray strand away from her face.

“Why the change?”

“Ah, well, that was actually Sebastián’s idea,” she says, fiddling with a bracelet on her wrist.

“Oh yeah? Sebastián’s idea, huh? Why’s that?”

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, looking anywhere in the cabin but directly at me.

“Well, I told him how much I’d like to be permanently employed by you and . . .”

“Go ahead.”

“Sebastián said you prefer brunettes, and I didn’t want you to be attracted to me, so I changed my hair.” The poor thing rushes through her answer, but I’m impressed. This is a first, a woman changing something about herself to repel instead of attract me.

“I see. Well, I appreciate your dedication to professionalism, and you don’t need to worry about your employment. You will always have a job with me, and I’m seriously involved with someone, so it’s safe to color your hair however you like.” I smirk and watch as every muscle in her body visibly uncoils.

“Thank you,” she says just as the pilot’s voice comes over the intercom.

“Setting down in five, sir,” he says.

“You can take this, Candy. It’s okay, I’ll get something at the club.” But she doesn’t sweep it away like I expect her to. Instead, she hangs back, biting her lip.

“What is it, Candy?”

“Sebastián and I are involved. I want to be honest with you. I really need this job. I have a little boy to support.” Her body jerks after spewing her secret, as if she can’t believe she’s said it out loud.

Shit, she’s fucking Sebastián. That’s fabulous. As long as I’ve known him, he’s never been married. No steady woman, no kids, just one hundred percent dedication to my family and his job. I’ll have to talk to him about this. Women make a man weak. God knows, I’ve learned that lately, and I can’t have my head of security weak in any way. It could cost us all our lives.

“All right, Candy, thank you for being honest.” It very well may cost her her job, but I’ve got other things to worry about right now. Candy removes my tray, and I watch her bustle around in the galley, putting things away, wiping down counters, and arranging things that don’t need arranging. She doesn’t take her seat until seconds before the seatbelt sign begins to glow above the entrance to the galley. I’ve buckled up so she won’t have to tell me. She glances quickly at my lap and sits in her designated seat at the rear of the plane, laying her trembling hands in her lap. Sebastián has some serious explaining to do the minute I get home.

I take my phone from the inside breast pocket of my suit coat and text Holland again.

Getting ready to land. You’re quiet, baby. You okay?

I text again. Call me.

And again. Call. Me.

If she doesn’t answer my text or call, I’m turning this plane around and flying straight back to Houston. Fuck the dead distributors, fuck my father and his empire, fuck my drug selling, murderous, lavish life. Fuck it all. The only thing that matters to me now is Holland.

The plane touches down, and I breathe easier when we are back on the ground where God intended humans to be. If he wanted me to fly, he’d have given me wings.

I’m having the jet refueled. I’m coming home right now if you don’t call me.

And I will, dammit.

Standing just inside the hanger in the dark, I work on my third cigarette while I wait for the jet to refuel. Dragging my hand through my hair, I rub the back of my neck. My chest is as tight as the strings on Holland’s violin and my pulse is racing. I feel like I’m having a fucking heart attack, but other than smoking, I’m healthier than a horse, so I chalk it up to anxiety.

Why the hell isn’t she calling me? Doesn’t she know it’s not nice to mess with the King? No, of course she doesn’t. She doesn’t know I’m a fucking drug lord, and she never will if I can help it. I have to find a way to cash out and start over with her.

The whine of the plane’s engine escalates, and I prepare to board again when I feel my pocket vibrate. I almost tear my suit trying to get to my phone, and when I see her gorgeous face on the screen, I tip my head back to look into the twinkling stars of the Miami sky and sigh. Thank fucking God, it’s her.

She apologizes for not calling sooner, and I flirt so shamelessly that I can feel her blush through the phone. Something isn’t quite right though. I can’t pinpoint it, but it bothers me, a lot. After I agree not to come home right away, I head to the club with a nagging feeling of doom.

Carlos, my head of security in Miami, maneuvers the car away from the airstrip, sitting stiffly in the driver’s seat and sweating bullets. How appropriate.

“Fill me in before we get there. I need everything you’ve got before I start fucking talking to the cops.”

“Alberto Guerrero, Nikolai Alkaev and Juan Martinez were all shot in the VIP area—close range, one shot to the head each, same weapon. I checked it all out before the police got there. Neat and clean, nobody caught on camera, nobody in security saw the shooter, no obvious explanation, and nobody’s talking.

How the fuck did nobody see the shooter?” I shout. Carlos cringes and jerks his head away from the boom of my voice.

“Sir, the cameras were disabled and the guards on the VIP floor were switching shifts. We change switch times randomly, but they still hit at exactly the right moment, when we were at our weakest.”

“There should never be a moment of weakness, Carlos, ever. That’s why I fucking pay you out the ass.” I reach out to grip the dash to keep from punching Carlos in the throat. I need to get everything out of him first, though. He can’t fill me in if he’s holding his neck and gasping for breath.

Those three distributors were from all corners of the world, and we were on the verge of moving product overseas regularly.

“Sir, I think it was an inside job.” Carlos’s voice trembles. If it’s an inside job, it’s his responsibility, and when you fuck up that royally, you don’t get to live. He’s got balls being honest, and I respect that. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s going to die though. The decision won’t be entirely up to me. Sebastián has always handled these situations. It’s his hands that technically get dirty, not mine.

“Do you know who?” I ask, trying like hell to keep my tone even and controlled, when inside I want to pummel him for allowing this to happen. Three of my key people are dead, and it could be an insider who’s responsible, so Carlos has to live until I get all the facts.

“We’ve been questioning the whole staff, and there’s a waiter named Sanchez who looks like he could be dirty, but he’s also Juan Martinez’s nephew.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he kill his own Uncle?”

“I guess Sanchez wanted to be part of the business but Juan wouldn’t let him. He told him it was too dangerous or some shit, made him mad, so he took em all out. He’s a waiter, and I swear, Boss, his psychological testing was all totally normal, and he’s never done an illegal thing in his life.”

“Why suspect him then?”

“There’s no other explanation except . . . I think Sebastián knows something. He won’t tell me, though.” Sebastián? I just left him, and he never mentioned anything about an inside job. Carlos glances over, raising his eyebrows, and a knot starts to form in my stomach. I need to talk to Sebastián now.

I jab Sebastián’s number on my contact list and grip the phone hard. What’s he keeping from me, and why? He informs me of every infinitesimal detail of the business, but something about this smells really really bad.

Smokes. I need my smokes. Patting my chest with my free hand, I find them inside my breast pocket, shake one up, and take it between my lips. I hardly notice when Carlos reaches across the front seat and lights it for me. Dragging long and hard, I smoke half the cigarette in one inhalation while waiting for Sebastián to answer.

“Hey, Boss, how’s everything going down there?”

“I have three dead men and I’m being told it’s an inside job. You know anything about that?”

My body vibrates waiting for Sebastián’s response while the palm trees of Ocean Drive slide by.

“What are you really asking, King? Do you think I had something to do with it?”

“I don’t know, Sebastián, did you?” The silence that hangs on the line between us tells me one of two things. He’s hiding something or he’s shocked and fucking pissed as hell. I’m praying it’s the latter.

“King, I have been loyal to the Romero family since I was seventeen when your pop took me in and gave me a job protecting a delivery from Columbia. I would never do anything to jeopardize you or your business.”

For the first time in . . . hell, my entire life, I doubt him. The outside of my fist connects with the car door at the same time my heart sags in my chest. He has been keeping Candy a secret. What’s to say he isn’t hiding something else?

I take a deep drag off of my cigarette and blow it out vehemently.

“Prove it.”

“Prove it? What are you talking about, King? I’ve been ‘proving it’ for thirty years. My whole life has been spent protecting you and your parents.”

“All right, I’m just going to come out and say this. You’re keeping something from me. What is it?”

Sebastián clears his throat and that seals the deal. Here it comes.

“I’m doing what I always do, King. I’m protecting you. I’ve never seen you fall so hard for a woman, so I of course did a background check on Holland.”

“A background check, so?” How could that possibly matter?

“King, she’s a teenager.”

His voice fades, and I drop my hand holding the phone in my lap. I can’t fucking breathe. No way. I met her in the club. She had to be twenty-one to get in. We have a foolproof way of checking IDs. She can’t be a kid. She’s so mature, and the sex—God, the sex . . . he has to be wrong. This can’t be true. He was supposed to tell me about Candy or the insider who murdered my distributers. He wasn’t supposed to tell me that the first woman I’ve ever given a shit about isn’t even a woman but a teenager.

“Wait, wait, you said a teenager. Exactly how old is she? Please, don’t you dare say she’s fifteen. I may have a stroke, Sebastián.”

“Nineteen. And King . . . she knows about you.”

“Turn around, turn the car around, Carlos. Turn around, turn around, turn around! I scream as a billion thoughts fight for the lead on the stage of my mind. Carlos obeys, whipping the car in a U-turn right in the middle of Ocean Drive, nearly causing a ten-car pile-up. Maybe he did cause an accident—who knows?

I can deal with nineteen. I mean, I don’t like it. She lied to me, and she’s six years younger than I am, but if she knows what I am, I’m sure it’s over.

“Uh, Boss . . . the phone.” Carlos risks a few words to bring my attention back to the phone in my hand. Sebastián is shouting my name. I can’t talk. I press the red disconnect button.

“Airport—just get me to the airport,” I say, and Carlos increases our speed exponentially.

The battle in my head continues. She plays the violin like a professional. How can a nineteen-year-old be so incredibly talented? We have things in common. She fucking stops my heart with her smile.

I roll down the window and gulp the muggy air into my lungs. She’s young and talented, with an unparalleled career in music ahead of her, and she knows I’m a drug lord. As hopeless as it is, I need to get to her. I need to explain. She has to understand how much I care for her and that I had every intention of giving up the Romero empire if it meant she would stay with me.