King

I refused to allow myself to think about it while driving. It’s just not safe. No, that’s a cop out. I just can’t think about it because it hurts too fucking much. I wish I could go to sleep and wake up with no memory of Holland and her hot, wet skin against mine, her strong legs slinking around my waist while she pushes her . . . fuck, stop. She’s a kid. I keep trying to wrap my brain around that, but it’s not happening. I spent the entire flight home going over and over every single moment of our time together. Yeah, a lot of it was spent having sex, but she was so much more than a sexy fuck. She was the real deal. My heart beat faster when I was with her, but I was never more at peace. With her in my arms, the world felt right. That piece of me I’ve been looking for . . . it was her.

The darkness of the parking garage is a welcome relief from the blazing hot Houston sun and my aching head. I’m prone to migraines, and I’ve got a whopper.

It’s private here. No one else is allowed to park here except for Sebastián, and he’s dealing with Carlos. The guy knew this business was cut throat—literally—and he still insisted he was up for the job two years ago when I promoted him. My father would roll over in his grave if I didn’t allow Sebastián to do his job, so now I’m faced with finding a new head of security for my gateway club in Miami. Fucking great.

I cut the engine and recline the seat back. I lace my fingers behind my neck and squeeze my head between my biceps. I have the urge to scream, just yell until my nicotine-riddled lungs are sore to relieve some of this stress, but my throbbing head keeps my screaming at bay. I’ve never been in a situation I couldn’t buy, sell, trade or murder my way out of, until now.

Flopping my elbows down, my left one makes contact with the metal handle of the door, and for a second the sharp, shooting pain masks the pain of my headache.

“Fuck.” I yell, and my headache pain takes the forefront again. I need a smoke. I pat my chest pockets and then my pants before I remember I smoked my last one. Figures. Wait, I keep a pack in here for emergencies. I flip open the center console, and thank God, there’s half a pack of Newports begging to be chain-smoked. I light one up with the cheap, disposable lighter that has a picture of a pair of pink tits on the side of it. I suck hard and wait for the familiar rush of cancer causing toxins to flood my lungs and calm my nerves. Smoking usually helps, but after I met Holland, I started cutting back a lot—until I took off for Miami. I’ve sizzled so many cancer sticks since then that my lungs ache, but the need for something nags at me relentlessly. It’s not cigarettes I need, though . . . it’s her.

I curse when the fiberglass filter hits the inside of my fingers and the sulfurous smell of burning flesh invades my nostrils. I fumble around until it’s smoldering in the ashtray instead of between my fingers, and when I sit up, I have a nice head rush.

Fucking great . . . I’ve been spacing off between smokes for over an hour, my headache is worse than ever, my hand is throbbing, and I still haven’t come to grips with having to leave Holland. I’ve never been addicted to anything other than cigarettes, but I am hooked on her. My skin crawls like a meth addict without a score, and I can’t help seeing the irony in it all. I’m a drug lord who’s been sent to rehab to suffer against his will, just like many of my customers.

“No,” I say aloud to make it more real. If I hear myself say it, maybe I’ll listen. I slam the seat back to its proper position and throw the door open, nearly scratching the Audi in the stall next to me. It doesn’t matter if I leave a dent. It’s my fucking car anyway. The slam of the Rover’s door echoes throughout the cavernous garage, along with the sound of my pounding feet against the cement. I’m going up for a drink. Maybe it will help me forget for a while. I need an escape, however temporary it may be.

I squint in the bright light of the elevator and feel my way over the buttons for the VIP club. When it starts to lift, a wave of nausea rolls through me and a thin layer of perspiration covers my face. No drink. I need my bed and maybe a couple of sleeping pills instead. None of this pain is going away anytime soon.

When the doors open, I cross the empty club, and when I pass the bartender, I point to my penthouse door. He buzzes me in, and I almost cry for the second time today. Fucking headache, fucking Holland, fucking drug empire, fucking Dad.

I toe off my shoes and un-tuck my shirt while I struggle to my bedroom. When I’m there, I don’t even turn on the lights. I just finish stripping down, pop two pills from the bottle on my dresser, and slip between the sheets.

I’m not there for two seconds—in fact, my head doesn’t even make contact with the pillow—before I feel a warm, soft leg curling over my hip.

“What the fuck. Crystal, what are you doing here? How did you get in?” I shout. She doesn’t even startle. I’m more affected by the sound of my voice than she is. I moan and collapse onto my pillow.

“Get out.”

“But baby, it’s been weeks. I miss you. Are you having another headache? Let me rub your shoulders. Turn over and I’ll make it all better.”

“No. Crystal, get the fuck out of my bed. You’ve never been invited in here. What makes you think I want you here now?”

The hand that was caressing my shoulder stops, and a tiny gasp escapes her lips. I’ve never been blatantly cruel to Crystal, but she’s taken this too far. I go to her when I want something, not the other way around. We fuck at her place or a hotel. Whoever let her in here is going to be very sorry. If I weren’t in so much pain, I’d probably break King’s rule number five, never hit a woman.

“King, why have you been avoiding me? Is it that little girl I walked in on you having dinner with? You can’t be serious about her.”

That’s it. I was going to let her slink away with her tail between her legs, but calling Holland out as a child snaps the thin thread of control I’m working with. I bolt out of bed and reach to turn on the light, but I end up grabbing it and throwing it against the wall when my fingers fail to find the switch. Crystal crawls backward to the opposite side of the bed, screaming.

“I said get the fuck out of my house, Crystal. Don’t call me, don’t come to the club, and if I ever catch you in my bed again, you’re dead! Do you understand me? Dead.” I can’t see her, but I sense her scurrying around the room, probably grabbing her clothes and pulling on what she dares to before running down the hall. Another surge of adrenaline flows through my veins, and I find the remaining crystal letter K bookend that Crystal cleverly gifted me and hurl it down the hall, just missing her before it explodes into a thousand tiny fragments against a wall.

“God damn it, King, what the fuck is wrong with you? I was just trying to . . .” she says, hopping up and down, trying to stuff her round ass into her tight jeans. Crystal dresses too young for her age. I always hated that.

“Shut up and leave now, Crystal. Seriously, before you get hurt.” Her eyes widen and she stops dressing. With her shirt open and her jeans unbuttoned, she turns to stomp out of the penthouse, slamming the door in her wake on purpose. She’s been witness to several of my migraines, so she knows firsthand how miserable they make me. The slam was her last dig, and it served its purpose. My head is wrecked now, but nowhere as wrecked as my heart.