Reign: A Romance Anthology

by Nina Levine

  “Here, we go again.” Lorcan looks up at the ceiling then back down at me. “I’m not yet ready to trust you with our family secrets, no matter how high the pedestal is that Hemsworth has put you on.”

  What the fuck?

  “Three… two…”

  What was I saying?

  5

  Queenie

  “Don’t hurt me.” I lash out, fighting with everything I’ve got, kicking and thrashing my body.

  A weight lands on me, attempting to force me into compliance, but I keep on fighting, trying to buck the solid mass off me. I won’t give in.

  “Nooo… get off me,” I cry out in a cocktail of fear and determination, jabbing my elbow as hard as I can into the mass, receiving a curse and grunt in return as we roll about.

  “Queenie! Wake up!”

  I stop fighting.

  “Queenie, you’re dreaming. Be a good girl and open those pretty eyes of yours.”

  Strong hands lift me, binding my body against something hard.

  “Nooo… STOP!” I’m screaming with everything I have for somebody to save me. Then I’m lashing out, my fist connecting with something above my head.

  “Queenie! Enough! Open those damn—”

  My eyes flicker open.

  My bedside light is on. I’m face to face with the bare-chested guy from last night looking hotter than sin—even with blood dripping from his nose onto my pajamas. Pajamas? I don’t remember putting them on. I don’t remember telling him my name is Queenie.

  “You’ve got a mean right upper-cut,” the hot guy says in explanation, getting out of bed to pick up his business shirt and use it to mop at his nose.

  His tight black boxers are hanging low on his hips, distracting me while I lock onto the snail-trail of fine hairs pointing like an arrow down to—

  “I did this to you?” I’m searching my memory; nausea making me feel queasy. My mouth is dusty, dry. I feel like I have a terrible hangover.

  “You had a bad dream.” He frowns, watching me trying to piece the night together while he climbs back in bed, propping himself up against the headboard.

  “You’re still here?” Dumb question because I can see he’s still here.

  “I am. You needed me.” Did I?

  I recall getting up to take the trash out—I bolt upright. Suddenly I’m very awake. Hangover, be damned. “What time is it?” My stepfather is coming home. I don’t want him to find Hot-guy in my bed.

  “After eleven in the morning. We let you sleep.”

  “We?”

  “My friend, Hemsworth, stayed with us.”

  “Friend?! With us? We didn’t all”—I wave a hand between the two of us—“menage… threesome?” I would remember doing that, wouldn’t I? There is a blackhole from when I walked Hot-guy up to my room and now.

  Hot-guy drills two dimples into his face, making him look even sexier if only he weren’t smiling at me.

  Oh, God! I jump out of bed feeling awkward, embarrassed and stumble against my antique dresser, catching myself by planting my palms firmly on the top.

  Hot-guy is behind me, helping to steady me. “No threesome, buttercup, only you and me and hot sex.”

  Oh, yeah, now it is all coming back to me. Scorching hot sex.

  “Sir, if I might be of assistance.” I do a one-eighty ready to lash out again and find the younger (although still old) George Clooney’s doppelganger nervously looking between Hot-guy and me. “Miss, could I bring you a cup of tea?” He’s got a proper Londoner British accent.

  “Tea?” I repeat. Stunned, I am getting offered a cup of tea by a George Clooney doppelganger in my bedroom. “Hemsworth?”

  “Yes, Miss, at your service.” He bows, dressed in a black suit and cream silk tie.

  “And there he goes with the bowing again,” Hot-guy mutters.

  “Ooh.” My eyes widen at the realization Hot-guy knew all along—definitely not threesome material, but still handsome in a silver fox way.

  “A good cup of tea will help to settle you while Mr. Ki—”

  “Blake—”

  “Sir, I think you are above this behavior.”

  What the hell is the deal with these two?

  Hot-guy rubs the back of his neck as though he’s pondering his next move without breaking eye contact. “Queenie, my name is Bradford King. Please call me Bradford. I apologize for being untruthful about my identity.”

  “Bradford, you don’t owe me any explanations. Nice name. You got drunk. We flirted, we had sex. Yardi-ya. I checked your ring finger, there was no tan line or ring mark, so unless you have been unfaithful—which would not be okay with me—then you owe me no more of your time. Why are you still here? You should leave and go back to your life, and I will continue with mine...” She pauses, waiting for me to answer her.

  “No. I’m definitely single. No romantic attachments. I’m not in the market for a girlfriend or wife.” The look of distaste on his face at the meer idea annoys me at a level I don’t quite know how to interpret.

  “This is true, Miss. Mr. King’s fraternization with the opposite sex is based on a good time had by all and no promises. I’ve given up counting. He’s a handsome, well-to-do, thirty-two-year-old bachelor—”

  “Thank you, old friend, I can answer for myself and for the glowing report on my non-existent love life, which is by choice. If you could please attend to the tea making and I will attend to Queenie and her questions.”

  “Yes, of course, sir.”

  And then he bows again at me, which is weird.

  “I hope you don’t make Hemsworth bow to people. That’s just odd.”

  “Trust me—”

  “I doubt that will happen. I hardly know you.”

  Bradford sighs in frustration. I gather he’s not used to people talking back to him. “Hemsworth only started that up now. That is all on him. Please sit. We need to clear the air on a few things.”

  I sit, resting my back against the headboard. I’m ignoring the nausea swimming through my system. Sitting helps. I want Bradford out of here before my stepfather gets home. “Talk and make it quick.”

  Bradford sits facing me, one leg bent and folded under his other leg. He’s still in his boxers, which draws my eyes to his impressive thighs, which then wanders over to the bulge in his pants. And it’s not even an erection. It’s a healthy sized bulge, which then starts my mind down the path of what he looks like naked and how big his dick is and—

  “Queenie, are you objectifying me?” There’s a smug look on his face.

  “What?” I wrinkle my nose up. “No?”

  “Then why is your face going red? You are lying to me, Queenie.”

  “Wait! How do you know my name is Queenie?” I never told him my real name.

  “I’ll get to that in a moment.”

  “Well, while you’re waiting for the perfect moment to tell me, put some pants on.” How am I supposed to think straight with him sitting here looking like he looks, all perfect-model-handsome and sexy? “You tell me we had hot sex. It can’t have been that good; I can’t recall any of it.” Liar.

  And then he dials up the sexiest grin I have ever seen on a man. It is movie star quality. “Oh, trust me. You were hot, wild, and adventurous, and I doubt your mind has made you forget what went on between the sheets, up against the wall, on your knees, my face in your—”

  A shiver slithers down my back.

  “Please, you’re cold.” Thank goodness he misinterprets the shiver. “Get under the bed coverings. You’ve had a rough night—”

  “Of sex?” I’m not cold. I’m confused as to why the guy is still here and with a friend.

  “No… but yes, but no. There are other things to discuss.”

  I hold my hand up when he wants to assist me with the comforter. “I’m fine. I need you out of here before my stepfather gets home. Let’s get on with you talking and me listening.”

  “All right. In a nutshell, you excused yourself from the bedroom after three in the mornin
g to do some cleanup of things down in the bar. You owed one of the bartenders a favor for letting you slip out for the night to roll around in the sheets with me...” He pauses. “You never returned.”

  “Yet, here I am.” Is this guy altogether in the head?

  “You are. You are also missing some of your memory.”

  “Okaay. I admit I feel like I have a bad hangover.”

  “In a way, you do. Can you remember anything at all from when you left me in the bedroom to now?”

  I search my mind, feeling the tug of memory, but I can’t grasp a hold of it. “I got dressed and came downstairs. Everybody had left…” I shut my eyes and work hard to bring into focus my memories of coming downstairs. “Trash bags!” I shout.

  “Yes, you were delivering trash bags to the dumpster in the alleyway, which I would have done for you if I had known.” Well, that’s a nice thought. “Do you remember what happens next?” Now I feel like he’s talking to a child with that careful tone.

  I bring my knees up to my chest, resting my forehead on them, hugging my legs while I think, and then it comes to me. “Trash bags… three trips to the dumpster,” I mutter, squeezing my eyes tight in an attempt to pull the memory out of the black hole. “Back and forth, lobbing bags over the edge into the dumpster.”

  “Anything else? Take your time.”

  As hard as I try, I can’t get past a barricade that has gone up in my mind. The harder I try, the more my head hurts. “Ahhh, my head is pounding.”

  “Here, take these.” Bradford hands me two pills and a glass of water that was on the bedside table. “These should help your headache.”

  “Thanks.” I swallow the pills, rest my head against the headboard, close my eyes, and wait for the throbbing to get to a more manageable level.

  After a few minutes, the pain subsides. I open my eyes. “That was intense.”

  “How are you feeling now?” The look of concern on his face makes me feel strange. I feel like he genuinely cares, even though we have just met.

  “I’m better. Seriously, you don’t need to stay and babysit me. I can look after myself. We had sex; you don’t owe me any more of your time.”

  “Queenie, two thugs cowardly attacked you last night, roughing you up, then drugging you. They left you in the alleyway. When I found you you told me your name is Queenie.”

  I jump up off the bed, stumbling about again on unseaworthy legs—Bradford is at my side to steady me. “What the hell? I would remember something like that.” Wouldn’t I? From the grave look, Bradford aims at me; I believe he is telling me the truth. “I didn’t have any money on me. Did they rob Queenie’s?” I worry I failed my stepfather. It’s the first time he’s ever gone away and trusted me with the tavern.

  “No. It wasn’t a robbery.”

  “Then why? I haven’t wronged anybody, and I don’t have any enemies. It must have been a mistake. Wrong place and the wrong time.” I badly want to believe my words, but I’m starting to feel sick that this is worse than I can imagine.

  I turn away from Bradford, unable to think straight while he’s standing there in only tight boxers. Everything he is saying feels surreal. I catch my reflection in the mirror on the dresser.

  Horrified, my hands fly to the top of my head, feeling the rough surface.

  Bradford leans down, watching me over my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Queenie, we had to shave your hea—”

  Our eyes meet in the mirror. “You did this?” What sick game is he playing?

  “Well, not exactly—”

  “What did you do to me?” I whisper, warm tears slipping over my cheekbones. “My hair…” I can barely talk.

  I spin around, taking a step back, punching him in the face as hard as I can, forcing him to stumble backward. “I’m bald”—and then in a louder voice, I demand—“why am I bald?” Deep down, I know it’s not going to be his fault, but the shock has me lashing out. All my hair is gone, leaving me with a halo of stubby growth.

  I swipe at my waterfall of tears, angry at myself for letting my guard down in front of Bradford. I’m feeling lost, confused, and anxious.

  “Christ! Woman! Fucking magic right hook, but damn… if you will let me explain before you assume the worst of me.” He stands at his full height, rubbing his cheek while I pretend my hand isn’t smarting from his hard head.

  “I’m bald.” I can’t help my voice cracking. It’s self-centered to feel such vanity when there are much bigger things in the world to worry about. My hair is fixable over time. Losing my mom to breast cancer and my dad to the virus wasn’t fixable.

  Bradford grimaces while his eyes soften. He takes the envelope resting on the top of the dresser, handing it to me. “You might want to sit down.” Shit! Is it that bad?

  My initial response is to want to scowl at him before snatching the envelope from his hand, but I check myself, taking a deep breath, and accept the offered envelope. “I can stand, thank you.”

  I peel the envelope open and read the message addressed to my stepfather.

  Then I reread it slower. I’m confused by most of it. Does Lorenzo owe this man a lot of money? The guy will have us killed if he doesn’t pay up?

  “I need to speak with my stepfather and hear his side of the story.”

  “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to stop them from hurting you. Hemsworth had arrived to take me home when I found you unconscious. He called a lady doctor friend of his to take a look at you to make sure you were not hurt badly. The thugs made a mess of your hair, leaving random longer strands while shaving most of your hair off, scattering it around the inside of the dumpster. It was kinder to complete the job. The lady doctor bathed you and—”

  “Shaved my head neatly.” I finish his sentence. “Hold on, back it up a second. You said you found me in the alleyway. Did you find me inside the dumpster?”

  “Aah… yes. I may have left that part off earlier.” He rubs the back of his neck.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have accused you. It was rude of me.”

  “No need for apologies. You got a shock, and you reacted. You’ve had a tough night.”

  Jesus! While I was left vulnerable in a dumpster, two men laid their hands on me. They had the power to kill me, but luckily their orders were to rough me up.

  Did Lorenzo deliberately leave me vulnerable tonight?

  Would he have knowingly done that to me?

  Nausea overwhelms my system. I clamp a hand over my mouth, racing for the toilet, dropping to my knees.

  Reality bites back like a bitch.

  I’m retching up a stomach of mostly liquid.

  “Can I—?”

  “Please… wait for me in the bar,” I cough out while blindly tugging on the toilet roll, tearing a length of it to wipe my mouth.

  And then I’m retching again.

  6

  King

  I grab the suit bag hanging on the back of Queenie’s bathroom door and the polished black boots neatly placed on the floor and walk into Queenie’s bedroom to get changed, giving her privacy to throw up her guts without me hovering, but I’m close enough if she needs me.

  I had taken a shower in Queenie’s ensuite earlier. I was starting to get dressed in fresh clothes that Hemsworth had picked up for me when Queenie began crying out in her sleep—at least I got my boxers on before taking her into my arms, drawing her out of the nightmare that was plaguing her.

  The Queenie pre-attack was sassy, funny, and sexy. Exactly who I thought I needed to distract me for one night, but now I find I want to hang around and make sure she stays safe, which is totally out of character for me.

  I’m not a tavern dweller. I’m the seat at the top restaurant, a top-shelf whiskey-drinking businessman with a penchant for the finer things in life.

  Now?

  After one evening in Queenie’s presence, I’m feeling possessive and protective and a whole bunch of nonsense emotions I don’t want to deal with right now.

  Queenie’s got her post-attack feeli
ngs to deal with, and I’m going to be giving her more to adjust to sooner than later because I’ve been busy while she was sleeping. Decisions got made without her knowledge, and there’s no turning back the clock.

  That’s twice now Queenie’s punched me in the face. I’ll be best prepared for the third time, which will inevitably happen within the next half-hour.

  Queenie’s about to gain a new neighbor. She’s going to fight me on it, probably literally, but I have to ensure her safety.

  I haven’t slept. I collected as much information as I could on Lorenzo Rossi a.k.a, Gino Carrollo, and Queenie. Hemsworth called in a few favors, and I called in mine. Nothing like sweet-talking Xander Black, my oldest childhood friend, into being on board. He wants the scum off the streets as much as the next person, and it looks like Lorenzo/Gino just became scum.

  I will be prepared for Mr. Carrollo, fully armed with knowledge for the takeover going down, when he strolls through the door of his bar this morning.

  And it will be going down.

  Hemsworth, looking as tired as I feel, pokes his head around the half-open bedroom door. “Sir, Gino Carrollo has arrived. He’s parking his car in the underground garage.”

  “Say whatever you need to keep the bastard in the bar area. He is to get no farther inside this building. I’ll be down in a few moments.”

  “Right you are, sir.” And then he’s gone.

  Things are about to get roller coaster intense.

  I hope Queenie can forgive me for what I’m about to do.

  7

  Queenie

  After a hot shower and a fresh face of full makeup—my armor—I feel better equipped to handle what comes next. Covering my split lip with my favorite red lipstick isn’t an option for a few days, but I’ll cope.

  I have on comfortable black leggings, black bike boots, and a burnt-orange knit V-neck sweater, which usually looks great with my long silver-gray hair, but now I’m sporting a number one hairdo.

  I start my walk down the old wooden staircase, prepared to wait for Lorenzo and hear his side of whatever caused him to owe money to Charlie Roemer, a known criminal. I refuse to think about the letter’s implications until I listen to what my stepfather has to say.