Lost King

by Piper Lennox

  God...incredible fucks.

  But it can still mean nothing. It’s not too late to keep my train on its tracks. It’s not too late to—

  “I want in.”

  I open my eyes. Callum is tucking a pouch of Skoal against his cheek, not looking at me, stare now trained vaguely on the pedal of the trash can.

  “What?”

  “I said,” he mutters, glancing at me, “I want in.” He straightens his shoulders and steps close again. Then, in what’s no doubt a miracle, he holds up his hands in surrender and steps back, when I tense up.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” He laughs like I’m adorable and dumb. “Because fuck that guy. Because you need help, Ruby. Because he deserves way, way worse than just ‘getting his heart broken,’ and you know it.”

  Callum stomps the trash can pedal. When the lid swings upward, he spits, coating my old receipts and junk mail with that grimy mess I still can’t stand.

  “Because,” he adds quietly, “you’re too sweet and good to do it on your own.”

  “I’ve done just fine on my own so far, thank you.”

  “You know how many times I see that prick around town? Don’t forget, Ru: you stayed in Jersey all those summers. I didn’t. And neither did he. I’ve been watching him for years. I know his habits, I know everywhere he goes—”

  “I don’t need help, Call, and I definitely don’t want yours.” I go to the front door and open it, standing by impatiently. “We’re done.”

  “I’m not doing it as your boyfriend,” he spits, “or your ex. I’m doing it as your friend.”

  “We’re not friends.”

  It chisels at my heart to say it, even though I know it’s true. Denial can’t save me now.

  Callum’s features darken again. He used to have soft, sweet angles to his face: a rounded jaw like his dad, and baby fat all over. Now, he’s broken shards.

  “Don’t ever say that shit again,” he whispers. He fills the kitchen doorway, leaning hard against one side while his legs, crossed at the ankles, scuff up the other. One arm braces over his head, cracking each of his fingers inside his fist a single pop at a time. It reminds me of crackling embers.

  “We are friends,” he goes on, “and friends want to help each other. Let me.”

  “No.” I open the door even wider, until the handle squishes the cracked rubber stopper screwed into the wall. “You’ll take things way too far.”

  “You won’t take them far enough.”

  My protest stalls, then fades. I shut my mouth.

  He’s right.

  But so am I. Callum brings guns to knife fights (practically literally). He’s the type to knock a guy out for looking at him wrong. I can only imagine what he’s got in mind for Theo. And, no matter what Theo did years ago, he doesn’t deserve revenge the way Callum serves it up.

  I’m starting to think he doesn’t even deserve mine. Not anymore.

  “Go.” This final plea and demand floats between us, delicate and useless. If Callum leaves, it’ll be because he’s ready to leave, never because I’ve told him to.

  “You’ve got it under control?” he asks as he passes. He keeps his boot wedged in the doorway, even though I’m not closing it. “You swear?”

  I sigh. “Yes, Call, I swear.”

  “And you promise,” he adds, leveling his flat yet intense eyes with mine, “if you need help, you’ll call me?”

  Not in a thousand fucking years, I think.

  But I just want him gone, so I nod. “Yeah. Promise.”

  He nods back with this “that’s all I wanted” look and slips his foot from the doorway. He steps onto the porch, hands in his pockets, waiting for me to shut the door.

  With a long blink, I do. Then I twist the deadbolt into place, hard enough to know he hears it.

  20

  “Look, I said I was sorry. You don’t have to ignore my calls like that, son. Not exactly mature.”

  I stare at the Bluetooth speaker like my dad can see the “fuck off” look I’m giving him right now. “Just didn’t feel like talking for a while. That a crime?”

  While he sighs—it’s far more dramatic than he claims I’ve been, dodging his shitty apology calls for the last few days—I finish dicing the onions and check the time. Ruby gets off work soon, and I’ve timed dinner perfectly to finish twenty minutes after she arrives. Just enough time to get my hands on her. And in.

  Dad’s talking again, though, which kills the mood big-time.

  “...working Thanksgiving Day, but only until four, so.” He clicks his tongue, waiting. “You could fly out.”

  Oh, wow. “Only” until four, huh?

  Sad thing is, I would still call this a great deal. Better than nothing.

  That is, if I believed even half of it. He always works later than planned. He always forgets.

  And you, I remind myself, need to stop caring.

  Meeting Ruby was like a reset for my brain or something, I swear. I’ve been noticing all these sad-as-shit aspects of my life I used to ignore: the multi-hour video game sessions, excessive espresso intake, and joblessness were all top-tier cringe on their own. But this whole “please pay attention to me, Dad” thing is, by far, the worst.

  We’re two grown men. I’m not going to beg him to meet up on a goddamn holiday anymore. And I’m done falling for it when he says he will.

  “I’m going to a cabin with Wes and some other people, actually.” Again, I stare at the speaker, this time in a sort of challenge. It feels like calling bluffs, even though I’m not bluffing. Just letting him know the father-son-bonding train has left the station.

  “Oh. Well...that’s good. That you’ve got plans, I mean.” He clicks his tongue again, thinking. “I’ve ordered cleaning for the winter house already, though. Oh, you know what? If you and your friends want to—”

  “They’ve already rented their cabin,” I interject. “We don’t need the winter house.” And I like the idea of chilling with people in a house where I’m not the host, for once. I’ve been thinking more and more lately about what Ruby said—my “Gatsby” complex. Much as I love having people over, it’s for all the wrong reasons. I should be around people I actually want to spend time with. Not because I’m afraid of spending time with myself.

  “Want my opinion?” I ask, licking a burn on my thumb. “You should invite Kimberly.”

  The line buzzes in his silence. After a full damn minute, he asks, “Kimberly?”

  “Yeah. If you’re working Thanksgiving, that means she is, too. Right? And it’s not like she’s going to fly back to...where is she from? Montreal?” I spin the burner knob down to simmer and drop the lid over the soup, checking the time again. “Yeah, she’s not flying back at four in the afternoon for a holiday she doesn’t even celebrate.”

  Dad laughs like he’s nervous. “She’s probably got plans here, son. And something about it feels...less than professional. Just the two of us up there.”

  “That’s the point.” Jesus. How dense can a man be, missing all the signs right in front of his face?

  “I suppose a—a casual invitation wouldn’t hurt.” His words sound kind of warped, like he’s speaking through the side of his mouth while chewing his cheek. Maybe things are starting to click.

  I’m glad: Kimberly is the nicest, most patient, most absolutely relentless woman I’ve ever met, to put up with my father the way she has all these years. Why on fucking earth she wants him after seeing his life up-close this long, I’ll never know. But if I can help her out, I’m more than happy to.

  Besides: I want my dad to be happy, too. True, I’m pissed he’s put work over me for years now, but I’m more worried about him putting work over himself, by this point. Dude hasn’t had a real relationship since my mom took off.

  “Order tulips for the winter house,” I tell him, just before we hang up. “Those are her favorite.”

  He laughs. It sounds bewildered, either because he has no idea how I know that, or he can’t believe his own
stupidity for not knowing.

  “Knock, knock.” Ruby’s face appears on the television. She’s smiling into the doorbell cam, holding up a white cardboard box. “I brought dessert.”

  I laugh, taking note of the Gret’s Pie Shop sticker sealing it shut. “Door’s unlocked, come in.”

  From the foyer, I hear her shout, “Stop! Leaving! The house! Unlocked!”

  “Trying. Old habits,” I call back, untying my apron to go greet her. She gets to the kitchen right when I’m lifting it off over my head, but bites her lip and stops me.

  “Leave it on. I like a man in bakery attire.”

  Her fingers traveling up into my hair melt every bone in my legs. Fuck.

  “Twenty minutes until dinner is ready,” I tell her hoarsely. My hands fumble with the buttons of her winter coat; it’s supposed to snow tonight. The weatherman’s calling for a light dusting. I hope it’s a full-on blizzard.

  “Lot of time to kill.” She presses her face to my neck, standing on her tiptoes to reach, and inhales. “You smell like you. I missed it.”

  My laugh is tangled up in a sigh. Having her abdomen right against my erection isn’t great for my lungs. “What do I smell like?”

  “Lavender,” she lists, giggling while I cup her ass in my hands, “and coffee beans.” She sniffs again. “And...onions?”

  “Ew.” We step apart, both of us laughing while I remove the apron and wash my hands up to my elbows. “Sounded good until you said that.”

  “It is good.” She steps up behind me at the sink, face against my back. Her arms locking around me intensify that whole deliriously-happy-and-horny feeling I’ve become very well acquainted with, the last few days.

  Apparently, the line between being exclusive and being a real couple is blurry as hell. And that’s totally fine by me.

  I lower my head and capture her mouth in mine. Her taste gives me an instant high filled with contradictions. I’m mellowed, but my heart’s racing. All I can think about is getting her naked and propped up on that kitchen counter...but all I really want to do is hold her, just like this, and hear her talk about her day, every last detail whispered into my chest.

  I’m so damn happy it hurts.

  The second she’s out of her coat and shoes, I lift her against me and carry her to the living room. We tumble onto the sofa, losing clothes all the way down.

  “Theo,” she gasps, when I find her already wet and push my fingers inside without warning. Her hands fly up to cover her face.

  “I’ll let you get away with that for now,” I breathe across her skin, navigating my way down her neck as I find her G-spot, “but you’d better not cover your face once I’m inside you.”

  “You are inside me.” It sounds like a joyous sob. “How you do this to me with just your fingers, I can’t....” Her arms cross, a blindfold over her eyes; her teeth bite into her swollen bottom lip.

  I think I know what she’s getting at, because I feel that way too. Every single touch feels intimate.

  “You’re coming already?” I mean it like a joke, just to tease her, but feeling her muscles tighten and knowing she’s so incredibly close gets me teetering on the edge, too, when she hasn’t touched me at all. I love when she loses control.

  She pants my name again as I slide my thumb back and forth on her clit, fingers moving harder inside her. As soon as her orgasm starts, I bring my head up, use my free hand to throw her arms off her face, and kiss her. The moan she tries to give vibrates through my teeth like a hornet.

  When it’s over, she presses her palms into her eyes and sniffs, laughing at the same time.

  “Need a minute?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says, but starts stroking me before she’s even caught her breath.

  I press my lips to her forehead and sigh a string of curses. “This is all I’ve thought about for days.”

  “Me jerking you off?”

  “You,” I correct, watching the way her hair flutters under my breath, “being here. With me.”

  Ruby’s smile fades into something serious and searching when I lift my head and stare down at her. I don’t amend what I said, or expand on it. I meant it.

  I don’t just miss her when she’s gone. I miss us.

  I miss who I am when she’s with me.

  And some part of her’s got to know that already. If my wild pulse, that usual half-asleep heartbeat shocked back to life, isn’t evidence enough, this is: the way I stare at her and forget anything else in this fucking world exists.

  Like kitchen timers.

  “The soup’s done,” she whispers with a smirk, right after I’ve put on the condom and pushed the head into her.

  “It’s on simmer,” I tell her, driving in my full length. She gives a choked gasp that’s going to live in my brain for months. I bite her earlobe to hear it again. “But honestly? The whole goddamn kitchen could be on fire right now, for all I care. Nothing’s going to stop me.”

  Ruby puts her hands in my hair again. It brings me so close, I have to slow my hips until I’m barely moving.

  Then I notice the marks.

  “Whoa.” I push her hair off her shoulder to get a better look. When I confirm the small stains on her collar are, in fact, bruises, she opens her eyes, follows my stare, and blushes. Everything halts.

  “What happened?”

  Ruby watches my face as I fit my thumb over each one. Yeah: these are fucking fingerprints.

  Someone’s hurt her.

  “Friend of mine got drunk,” she says, after a minute. Her hips rock upward, ankles locking behind my back to pull me in deeper.

  I don’t let the topic go that easily. “And...what? Started a wrestling match?” I move my hand out of the way to look at them again.

  They’ve faded some. Instead of being black or purple, they’re that unnatural-looking yellow that makes you sick to your stomach. Streaks of concealer come off on my thumb.

  “Christ, Ruby, if they were bad enough to cover with makeup, I’m willing to bet that person shouldn’t be your ‘friend’ anymore.”

  I don’t add what I really want to say: that these bruises fit my thumb size perfectly, which means it probably wasn’t a girl who left them.

  “They don’t hurt.” She laughs, brow furrowed, like she finds my concern equally cute and confusing.

  I can’t help but touch them again. I wish I could erase them. “So, what…they grabbed you? Like, stumbled and did it without thinking, or—”

  “Yeah, just, you know. Stupid drunk stuff.” She tries to look at them again. “Are they really that bad?”

  Now she looks self-conscious, which makes me feel like shit.

  Am I actually worried for a good reason, or is this Durham jealousy flaring in my DNA?

  “I’ve seen worse,” I tell her, because I don’t want to lie and tell her no.

  “Good. Now start moving those hips again.” She works her muscles around me while her mouth reconnects with mine.

  I’d planned on something slow and romantic. Now I rock into her like I can fuck the bruises out of her skin. Its the only way to make myself shut up about them.

  “Theo,” she cries, one hand clawing at my back, the other grabbing my hair. “Theo, oh, God, I’m gonna come....”

  Her warning undoes me. My orgasm knocks the wind out of me like a sledgehammer, the second hers starts.

  We kiss, our moans tangling together under the drone of the kitchen timer. I like it. It adds a sense of urgency, like a smoke alarm we’re happily ignoring.

  In the aftershocks, she presses her fingertips hard against the back of my neck, some erotic acupressure that would turn every limb to jelly if I wasn’t already deadweight on top of her.

  “I’m glad you go by Theo,” she says.

  I laugh as soon as I have enough oxygen to do so. “As opposed to...?”

  “I just mean, I like saying it when I finish.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. It’s sexy.” She pushes my hair back with her hand, smiling ag
ain at the sigh I give in response. “No offense, but if you went by ‘Theodore,’ I wouldn’t be able to moan that shit with a straight face.”

  “What’s wrong with Theodore?”

  “Alvin?” She blinks. “Simon?”

  I roll my eyes and withdraw, both of us wincing at the pain of pulling apart. “Well,” I call, as I stroll to the kitchen to dispose of the condom, “you wouldn’t shout ‘Theodore’ when you came, regardless. That’s not my name.”

  She sits up, peeking at me over the back of the couch while I check the soup. “It’s just ‘Theo?’”

  I smile, tonguing my cheek and keeping my mouth shut.

  Ruby gets to her knees, dangling her arms over the back. “Come on, I won’t tell anyone! Matthew? Matteo?” She pauses. “Thelonius?”

  “Wow. Imagine shouting that during sex.” I turn the burner off and stir the soup until it stops bubbling, making sure to keep my naked body as far from it as possible. When I tap the spoon on the edge and look up, she’s staring expectantly.

  “You have to promise not to make fun of me for it.”

  Grinning, she draws an X across her heart.

  I take a breath and grab the French bread, a cutting board, and a knife, so I can do something besides watch her choke back laughter once I tell her. After a few practice slices, I call without looking up, “Theoboldt.”

  In the silence, I hear nothing but the crackle of the bread crust, and a rattling wind against the house. Every few seconds, a deck chair scrapes across the wood outside the glass wall.

  “Oh,” Ruby says, in this way like she can’t quite breathe.

  As soon as I glance at her, she draws both lips inward.

  “Don’t.”

  “I’m not laughing.”

  “You’re losing your absolute shit on the inside, I can tell.”

  At last, her laugh breaks free. “I’m sorry,” she calls, when I pretend to get all heartbroken over it. She gets up and runs to the kitchen, pressing herself against my back in an apology hug. If I were actually offended, the feeling of her tits on my bare skin, and the sight of her running bare-assed through my house, would take care of that real quick. “I just...really wasn’t expecting that.”