by Emerson Rose
My God, what is he doing here? Shit, what am I doing? I knew I should have called him before I showered. Now he’s in Savannah’s house, where her mama could come home any minute, not to mention my own mother is right across the street in my house, getting ready to come and take me to practice.
I can’t keep my mind on what I’m supposed to be doing. My thoughts are all jumbled, and he wants me to get out. He wants to talk to me. Shit, shit, shit. I haven’t had time to wash my body or condition my hair, but King’s demanding tone isn’t one I’m willing to mess around with. I turn the faucet off with shaky hands and reach for the towel hanging on the towel rod just outside the shower. King grabs my wrist and pulls the curtain back again, completely exposing me. Thick, heavy steam billows around us as we stare at each other like two cowboys in a standoff. You’d think I would be more frightened or inhibited by this crazy drug lord bossing me around in my best friend’s bathroom, but I am neither.
His face contorts with pain and rage, which makes what I do next so insane that neither of us thinks to stop it.
I step over the side of the tub into his arms, dripping wet and shivering when the cool air hits my skin. Adrenaline blinds my common sense when I lace my arms around the back of his neck and hoist myself up, wrapping my legs around his waist. King’s hands slide easily under my ass to support me as our mouths crash together violently in a kiss filled with equal parts passion and anger.
I don’t know what he came to say. I don’t know if he found out I’m only nineteen or if he’s just pissed that I haven’t been answering my phone, but this isn’t the sweet, tender King I’ve been dealing with for two days. This King is furious and desperate and hurting.
“God damn it, Holland.” He growls between kisses, and I feel the tension and frustration rolling off of him like a cornered animal. Panic spurs me on, and I tighten my hold and push my fingers through his hair, ignorantly putting myself in harm’s way. He whirls around and sets me roughly on the edge of the vanity without breaking our kiss and works to unbutton his shirt while I fumble with his belt and unzip his suit pants.
A tiny, weak voice in the back of my mind, under a pile of sheet music, is telling me to stop. This is wrong, it’s dangerous and reckless, but when he slides inside me, that pathetic voice of reason fades into nothing.
I pull my mouth away from his and bury my face in his neck while the force of his thrusts lift me off the vanity over and over. The only sounds in the small room are King’s grunts and my gasps with every fierce penetration. There are no soft sighs or gentle moans of desire floating between us. It’s clear that this isn’t adoration or cherishing. It’s punishment—his or mine, I don’t know which, but this isn’t I miss you or I need you. This is I’m sorry and I’m angry. My apex aches with every relentless slam of his hips against mine, but I accept it willingly. If he’s trying to hurt me, the effort is soon futile when the pain turns into pure pleasure. His ferocious grunts echo off the walls of the tiny bathroom as his powerful presence drives me over the edge in seconds. I crash down around him, the rusty taste of blood spreading across my tongue as my teeth sink into his shoulder and I gasp in ecstasy.
God, What the hell am I doing?
“Bite,” King says, thrusting hard into my pulsing core.
“Me.” He thrusts again and I cry out.
“Again.”
I obey his command without hesitation and bite down on his shoulder . . . hard.
“Fuck, Holland,” he roars, slamming into me one last time as he loses control while I completely come apart at the seams in his brutal embrace.
“This is killing me, God damn it! I feel things for you, but I can’t . . . I just can’t.” He pants in my ear, no longer sounding fierce or strong.
Clinging to him with my heart pounding in my throat, I don’t know if I should laugh or cry. He just told me he has feelings for me, but the anguish behind the admission shakes me to the bone. My body trembles like a leaf in his hands the longer he holds me, the tighter his embrace is, until I can’t breathe. I really cannot breathe. I’m suffocating, so much so that I can’t speak the words my brain is screaming, “LET ME GO.”
My head swims and my heart pounds like a jackhammer from the lack of oxygen. Just when I’m sure I’m going to pass out, he loosens his death grip and collapses to his knees. I gasp, gulping in the steamy air as my back scrapes against the handles of the drawers on the vanity behind me.
Stunned and dizzy, I try and wrap my mind around what’s just happened here. Something is very wrong—that’s obvious—but I don’t grasp the enormity of the problem until I feel King’s body jerking in my arms and realize he is silently crying. The sobs that rack his body destroy my heart forever.
It’s killing him.
He has feelings for me.
He can’t.
It all adds up to It’s over.
Chapter 14
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.”
