King

It’s been four long weeks without Holland. I’ve thrown myself back into the life of a drug lord full throttle. In two short days I discovered my light, my anchor, the person who made me want to be an upstanding, honorable man. But after the catastrophic ending of our abbreviated romance, that’s impossible. I’ve gone back into the dark. This is a world I’m familiar with, the one I’ve always known.

One more drink and I’m out. I’m leaving Miami in the morning. I’ve been on a reckless binge for five long days. Candy keeps telling me I need to sleep, and she’s usually right. She’s been telling me to take it easy all week, but I’m not interested in taking it easy. I’m interested in all things self-destructive, and if she doesn’t like it she can just fuck off.

“King . . .” Candy says, her voice laced with concern.

“I know, Candy. That’s the hundredth time you’ve reminded me. Don’t say it again.” I reach out to set my drink down, but I’m seeing three of everything, and my hand bumps against the edge of the table, sloshing scotch whisky and ice cubes all over the floor.

“Whoa there.” Candy thrusts her hand out, catching the glass before it completely slips out of my hand. Our fingers brush, and my bloodshot eyes meet her serious gaze. “You really should go back to the hotel, sir.”

I flop back into the leather booth and wink at her despite how irritated I am right now.

“I pay you to keep track of my schedule, not babysit me, so give it a rest.” Taking the hint, she turns away, and the pulsing crowd of club goers swallows her up.

I know Candy, though. She’s out there somewhere watching over me, and deep down inside, I appreciate that. I’ll never tell her, but I do. My world is a dangerous world when someone is in his or her right mind, and I am so not in my right mind. I haven’t been since Sebastián told me the only person in my life who’s ever made sense is a minor. I’m navigating in the dark, completely off course, and I don’t even fucking care.

“Melody, come here.” I close one eye and crook my finger at the sexy little kitten that’s been hovering around me all week. She’s never too close like some of the annoying, junkie sluts who have been throwing themselves at me, hoping for a free high or some prime cock. Those women make me want to vomit. Not Melody, though. She’s never out of my sight. Whenever I look around, no matter where I am, her forest green eyes are quietly watching, waiting, anticipating my needs.

“You ready?” I ask. She doesn’t speak. She just nods. I like that—no strings, no complications, no feelings. She’s just there when I want her and gone when I don’t.

I stand and sway, but Melody steadies me. I drape my heavy arm over her petite shoulders as we make our way to the doors and into a car that I’m positive Candy has had waiting on standby for hours.

“I’ve got this, baby, slide on in,” I say, slurring my words, leaning heavily against the luxury SUV and watching her perfect, round ass disappear into the back seat. Melody’s not a working girl, not a stripper or a druggie, and she doesn’t drink. She’s more of a groupie. Most importantly, she is without a doubt twenty-three years old. Lord knows, I’ve had her checked out. There’s nothing I don’t know about her. When I fall in after her, she stays in her spot by the opposite window until I pat the space next to me, inviting her to come closer.

“Do you need anything tonight?” she asks in her baby voice. That’s the worst thing about Melody, her shrill as nails on a chalkboard voice. No one’s perfect though . . . no one except Holland.

“Just take me home and put me to bed, baby, that’s all.” She slides her hand from my knee along the inside of my thigh. When she’s gone far enough, I take her wrist and return her hand to her lap. Melody doesn’t complain. She simply laces her fingers with mine and rests her head against my shoulder.

We arrive in front of the Welch Hotel, and when the driver hustles around to open my door, I’m blasted by the humid, heavy wind blowing in off the ocean. I can taste the salt in the air—or maybe that’s the salt from tequila shots earlier. Who fucking knows?

While walking through the grand lobby, as always, I’m practically accosted by George, the concierge.

“Mr. Romero, sir! Is there anything I can send up for you this evening?” He’s obnoxious—good at his job, but what the fuck does he think I’m going to want at three thirty in the morning? Sure as hell wouldn’t be drugs. I’m the most famous non-drug using drug Lord in the world. And not women, obviously. I’ve got a beautiful one on my arm . . . well, more like under my arm, trying to keep all six foot five of me in an upright position.

“No, I’m god . . . good . . .” Shit, I’m fucking plastered. I loll my head back and watch George’s brows lift before he goes back to shuffling papers around at his concierge podium.

When we stumble into the room after a nauseating elevator ride, Melody helps me out of my clothes. She is patient with me, and after what seems like a long time of me weaving and swaying about, she undresses and slides into the California king bed next to me like a good girl. She knows the rules: no touching below the waist and no sex of any kind. She can plaster herself against me if she wants to—in fact, I rather like having her warm body next to me. I’ve taken to closing my eyes in my drunken stupor and imagining this quiet, obedient girl is my intelligent, talented, sexy Holland. I haven’t fucked anyone since Holland launched herself into my arms a month ago in Savannah’s bathroom, and I don’t plan to for a very long time . . . maybe never. I’ve had the best, and I’m not willing to settle for less. Maybe I’ll wait the two years until she’s legal and try again? Yeah, right, King. She’s sheer perfection. There’s no way she’s going to be single then, not to mention the fact that she knows what I do for a living. She doesn’t approve of my lifestyle, and I don’t blame her. I was going to change for her . . . I wanted to be different, better . . . but now she’s gone, and I’m trying to set a Guinness world record for consecutive days being drunk as fuck.

My heavy eyelids droop, and after several feeble attempts to keep them open, I give in. The room still tilts in the dark while the alcohol numbs my heart, keeping the painful memories at bay. Melody’s steady, even breathing helps to lull me into an agonizing sleep, where no amount of alcohol can block Holland from my mind. She haunts every dream, with her clear grey eyes looking through me or past me like I don’t exist. Worse are the dreams where she is with me again—her sweet, citrusy scent invades my nose, her hot, smooth skin slides over mine, the sexy sound of her moan fills my ears when I make her come, her silky hair slides between my fingers, and I swear to God she’s real when I wake up panting and covered with sweat, with a heart full of hope and a major hard on.