Dain scratched along the stubble peppering his cheek. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
Dain didn’t respond and King stopped caring. The thread of the conversation slipped from importance as they reached his car. He was ready to be back with Charlotte, to hold her and breathe her in and pretend that horrible moment when he ran into Wes’s study and found him with a hole blasted through his brain had never happened.
Charlotte. He had to tell Charlotte about Wes. She might never forgive him.
Digging his keys out of his pocket, he glanced down at them before tossing them to Saint. “Hurry.”
His car was his baby, his pet, the only major indulgence he’d ever allowed himself. He used to joke that not even an apocalypse could get him to let someone else drive it. And he was handing it over to Saint without hesitation. King would probably wreck it on the way back to the mansion if he tried to drive anyway.
Saint didn’t argue, simply snatched the keys out of the air and rounded the car to the driver’s side. Most of the ride back was a blur—one minute King was buckling in; the next, they were waiting for the gate at the Alexander mansion to open and Saint was reaching over, gripping the back of his neck, squeezing him back into awareness.
“I’m truly sorry, King,” his friend said roughly. “I promise you, we’ll figure out what’s going on. This all feels just a little too convenient to me.”
King wanted to ask why, but the words wouldn’t come. He should know why, shouldn’t he? The why of Wes’s death mattered almost as much as the fact that he was dead, at least to King. If he allowed himself to think about it, to realize he might never know why, he might go insane. But—
The car stopped at the foot of the front steps. King got out, closed the door. Waited for the click of the locks. Even walked inside between Dain and Saint, all with his brain completely blank. In the foyer, Kim and Ben walked past the staircase toward the sitting room, coming to a stop at the sight of the three men moving their direction.
Dain put a hand on King’s back, urging him toward the stairs. “Why don’t you go on up?”
To Charlotte. The words went unspoken, but they all knew they were there.
“I’ll talk to the Alexanders,” Dain promised.
King was beyond nodding at this point, beyond looking at the couple who were about to experience so much pain. They’d treated Wes like a son, and now…
As he reached the second floor, a long, high wail echoed up from the foyer. Charlotte’s door, far down the hall, slammed open a second later, and she rushed out, her face full of fear. She slid to a stop when she saw King in her path. “What’s wrong with Mom?”
King kept moving forward, knowing that if he stopped, he would fall to his knees and not get up again. He took one step at a time, over and over, the invisible wire between them guiding him despite the tears once again crowding his eyes. He walked until he reached Charlotte and pulled her against him. Wrapped her in his arms. His chin settled on the top of her head because he couldn’t look her in the eye, couldn’t bear it.
“What’s wrong, King? You’re scaring me,” she whispered, though she didn’t pull back from his embrace.
King savored the feel of her for one more moment, a moment out of time before everything changed. Then he stepped back to take her hand. “We need to talk.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Charlotte blinked open her eyes, sighed, and rolled to her other side. If she hadn’t done the exact same thing five minutes ago—and been certain she would do it again in another five—she might have been able to settle. Unfortunately the same routine had played out for the hour since she laid down, so…
With another sigh she threw her covers back and stood. Her desk drew her, the possibility of work blocking out the thoughts like bricks in her brain, but work meant thinking about Wes, and despite the fact that his death seemed unreal, unbelievable, every time she thought about him, she started to cry.
A tear escaped, slithering down the side of her nose. Like I said…
She shouldn’t mind tears. Wes deserved far more than that, and yet every time the tears came, they made her angry. Made her want to rage, fight, rail against whatever, whoever it was that had made this happen.
Swiping angrily at her face, she walked to the window and looked blindly out on the moonlit yard.
The soft click of the door opening reached her, but she couldn’t be bothered to move.
“Angel?”
She squeezed her eyes shut tight and didn’t answer.
King crossed the room, the slide of his clothes against his skin the only way to track him. Something inside her unfurled, reaching for him, needing him. She slammed it shut. She didn’t—they didn’t deserve comfort, especially not from each other. Not with Wes gone.
The heat of his body reached her, the faint leather-and-musk scent of his skin. He didn’t touch her. Could he read her thoughts, her body language? Know that she was denying herself, denying them because she needed the punishment? Typical response, right? That’s what a therapist would tell her. Friend commits suicide after you broke his fucking heart, and you punish yourself. Didn’t take Freud to figure that one out.
“Charlotte,” King said, the rasp of his voice sending a shiver down her spine. “You need to lie down. Get some rest.”
“Why? You’re not.”
“I—” He swallowed whatever he’d been about to say. Maybe he knew she couldn’t accept it, whatever it was. Words gave her something to fight against, to focus on. Without words…
Warm hands settled on her biceps. Charlotte jerked away—or tried to. King’s grip tightened, holding her in place whether she wanted to stay or not.
Maybe words weren’t necessary to fight.
The second the impulse appeared in her mind, she clamped down on it. She and King both deserved pain, but she wouldn’t force him to hurt her. That might break him permanently, and much as she thought that might be justifiable, she couldn’t make herself be the one to do it.
“King, don’t.”
“Why?” He eased closer, his chest connecting with her back.
Pain blossomed at the contact. A whimper escaped her.
“Why, angel?”
“I can’t…” A tear dripped onto her cheek, and she slapped it away. “I can’t deal with this right now.”
He didn’t argue, but neither did he move away. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to think. She wanted to disappear, to start this day all over again, make the outcome different. Make it so her best friend was still walking. Talking.
Breathing.
“I—”
That was it; no other words came to her. Instead a sob choked off in her throat, followed by another and another and another.
King’s arms came around her. He pulled her firmly into his body, ignoring her protests, holding her secure while she broke into pieces. Soft words whispered in her ear, and his breath warmed her cold skin. Her crying went on and on before finally settling into the occasional shudder.
She couldn’t stand it. It was wrong—she shouldn’t feel better when Wes would never feel anything again.
With a sudden jerk, she broke away from King’s hold and paced across the room.
“Charlotte.”
“I don’t believe it,” she spit out. “I can’t. He can’t be gone. He wouldn’t have done this, not to himself, not to me, not to the people that love him. He wouldn’t, King.”
“Charlotte—”
“Stop ‘Charlotting’ me!” Anger had her twisting to face him. “You know I’m right. I don’t care if he thought he was about to get caught—which is a ridiculous idea in and of itself! Wes. Would not. Do this. Any of it.”
“Arnold insists it was him.”
“She’s lying!” Charlotte rubbed her fingers hard against the throb between her brows. “She’s lying. Why is that so hard to get?” She dropped her hand. “Someone murdered him, an
d no one is out there looking. No one is looking out for him now. Why?” When King didn’t answer, she tried again. “Why, damn it?”
There hadn’t even been a note. If whoever had done this hoped to make it stick, wouldn’t they have left a note? An admittance of guilt? Or were they hoping the lack of answers would work in their favor?
“He didn’t do this, King.” Maybe if she said it enough, someone would finally believe her. “I’m his best friend. If he were suicidal, I’d know.”
King stared at her from across the room, his eyes glittering in the dim light of the room. “A lot of things were coming to a head in Wes’s life,” he said.
“You mean like me breaking things off?” The words were bitter, but she couldn’t help that.
“That’s not what I—”
“Of course it’s what you meant!” Forget bitter—there were so many emotions roiling inside her, she felt like she might explode. And then she did. More tears, more freaking words, more shouting. The next thing she knew, she was on her knees on the rug and King was beside her. Not touching this time, just…there. Waiting. Watching over her. Standing guard. Being King.
She needed him to be King even as she hated accepting it. But some things just were.
At some point he got up. She registered the sound of water running in the bathroom, and then he was back, lifting her from the floor into his arms.
“What are you doing?”
“You need to relax,” he said, the stubble on his chin tugging at her hair as he spoke. “Nothing helps you sleep like heat.”
She closed her eyes, resting her head against his chest as he carried her into the bathroom. The warmth of the shower was already sending steam into the air, and though she wanted to tell King no, wanted to keep arguing, suddenly she didn’t have the energy for either. She hurt, head to toe, inside and out. Physically, emotionally. Her heart had been shattered, and all she could think about was oblivion.
King set her feet on the ground and straightened. She didn’t protest as he raised her shirt over her head, slid the boxers she wore down her legs. No arguing when he placed a hand on the small of her back and ushered her into the shower. Not even a whimper when the door opened a minute later and a naked King entered behind her. He wasn’t looking for sex—his cock was soft, his eyes worried; he just wanted to take care of her.
Maybe what she needed was more than for him to just take care of her.
King moved close, grabbing the handheld showerhead. When he reached up, she reached down and took him in her hands.
“Wha—”
Charlotte didn’t smile, didn’t answer his question. Didn’t meet his eyes. If he didn’t want this, she didn’t want to know. Not yet. Instead she stroked a fist along the rapidly firming length of his penis. Pushed back down. Pulled out.
Her mind quieted. Her every thought centered on the weapon in her hand, the one she now had control of.
King made a sound—of protest, of pleasure, she wasn’t sure and didn’t try to decipher. Meeting his eyes, she prayed her need shone bright enough for him to read. “Make me forget.”
King squeezed his eyelids shut, but his cock bucked in her grip. She smoothed down to cup his balls, rolling the firm globes in her palm as his breathing quickened. “Please, King.”
His eyes snapped open. A firm hand removed hers from his sac, and disappointment flared inside her, along with a deep, dirty shame. But before she could move around him to the door, he was pushing her back until she met the cold, wet wall of the shower.
King dropped to his knees.
Charlotte filled her struggling lungs as she looked down. His eyes had darkened to twilight, his brow furrowed as he stared up at her. A hint of the shame she felt, and the need, shone in his gaze. “I’ll give you anything you need, angel,” he rasped, “always.”
He gripped her inner thighs with hard fingers and forced them apart. As cool air rushed to invade her most private spaces, King leaned forward and placed his lips directly on her clit. His tongue pushed beneath the hood, and a hard suck drew the tiny, sensitive bud into his mouth. Charlotte hissed at the flare of sensation, the shot of adrenaline that drew her attention to the center of her body and held it there despite their circumstances. Wes was gone, but there was this—King. She could lose herself in this for a while.
The rhythmic sucking on her clit sent pulses of lust shafting through her body. Pressing her shoulders into the tile, she arched her back and spread her legs farther, giving King access. He cupped her butt cheeks in his big palms and kneaded, pulling them apart, squeezing with bruising strength. His tongue circled her clit, slipped back into her opening, thrusting deep before returning to her most sensitive spot. Over and over he repeated the pattern until she was riding his face with every invasion and squeezing and pulling her nipples in sync with him.
“King, please!”
He didn’t have to ask what she wanted. He knew; he always knew. Two long, thick fingers slid through the cream coating her body and invaded her opening, filling her beyond full as he bit down lightly on her clit and sucked hard. Oblivion was what she wanted, and it hit right at that moment, filling her mind with nothing but a blessed black void that wiped everything else away.
When reality returned, she was staring up at the shower ceiling. King still sat at her feet, his body surging in a way she knew well. Sliding down the tile, she reached for the hand surrounding his cock, replaced it with her own as her body settled on the floor. King dipped forward and tongued her softening nipple, teased it to fullness as she stroked him, then dug his teeth in to hold back a roar when pulses milked the cum from his body.
They sat for long minutes like that, shipwrecked on the shower floor. Finally King stood, reached for her hand, and pulled her up. This time the handheld nozzle made it into his hand. It was the work of a minute to rinse both of them off, and then he was drying her skin, toweling the damp ends of her hair.
When he urged her out of the bathroom, she followed without protest.
“Come to bed,” he told her. “Come sleep.”
And she did.
Chapter Thirty
Something woke Charlotte from a deep, dreamless sleep. Little ambient light filtered through the curtains across the room, telling her it was still the middle of the night. At first she couldn’t figure out what had pulled her awake, then realized her phone was dancing across the bedside table, buzzing away, Becky’s name flashing across the screen.
Awareness flicked on in her brain like a light switch. She snatched the cell up and pushed the Talk button.
“What’s up, hon?”
Becky panted for a moment through the phone, then let out a long sigh. “Uh, labor? Maybe? I don’t know.”
Oh boy. Sitting up, Charlotte glanced at the clock to see it was only two a.m. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be down there, okay? Want me to call Mom?”
“Please.” Though Becky sounded calmer than when Charlotte had answered the phone, a thread of fear whispered through the word.
“Don’t worry, you hear me?” Charlotte told her. “We’ll be with you. We’ll help you through this, I promise.” Not that she knew even as much as Becky did, but she knew how to hold a hand, and she’d do that for as long as she could.
“What if I’m wrong and I’m bothering everyone for nothing?”
“Have you been through this before?” Charlotte asked. “Do you know for sure what labor feels like?” She didn’t mention that labor could feel different from woman to woman and pregnancy to pregnancy. Becky knew that; she just needed the reassurance.
“No.”
The word went tight, and Becky started to pant. Charlotte glanced at the clock. Four minutes. She needed to get down the hall.
“Breathe, hon. Just breathe, nice and deep.”
The covers shifted against her, and King sat up on the opposite side. She didn’t have to tell him what was going on—he immediately began getting dressed, pulling his phone out to text at the same time. Notifying his team,
Charlotte was sure. She had a feeling the effort wouldn’t be in vain.
She talked Becky through the contraction, then hung up. “I need to wake Mom.”
King rounded the bed and pulled her into his arms. His shirt brushed roughly over her bare nipples, and she had no more than a moment to wonder why she was naked before King lowered his head and took advantage of her surprised gasp.
That’s when she remembered: King had bathed her, dried her off, and tucked her in, not bothering with pajamas. Because she’d been upset and unable to sleep. Because she’d had to face the fact that Wes was dead.
King’s kiss gentled as her body went stiff. His openmouthed passion softened, turned tender, from sizzling heat to warm comfort. Slowly he backed off, his hands rising to cup her face. When she opened her eyes, King was gazing down at her, sadness glittering in his stare. How long would they feel this way? How long would thoughts of Wes bring grief?
A long time. She knew that from experience.
King brushed his thumb over her cheek. “You get dressed. I’ll get your mom.”
Her first instinct was to protest. King was the last person her mom would want to see. But right now any battles between them had to be put aside—Becky mattered, nothing else. “Okay.”
He drew her close once more. “You okay to do this?”
With his warmth surrounding her, she felt like maybe, just maybe she could. “I’ll be fine.” She gave him a final squeeze before stepping back. “Go on. I’m right behind you.”
King left. Charlotte scrambled for a bra and panties, a T-shirt and some jeans. Labor meant she needed comfort; who knew how long it would last. Snatching up a sweater and a hair tie for a ponytail, she shoved her feet into tennis shoes and headed down the hall.
At Becky’s door she knocked gently, then pushed inside without waiting. The living room glowed from a single lamp on a table beside the couch. Becky’s blanket was a jumbled mass there, where she usually sat, but no Becky. Charlotte was just about to call the girl’s name when the door to the bedroom opened and Becky came out. She wore sweats and a maternity T-shirt, and her hair was damp.
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