Keeping King

by Anne Jolin

  He lured Beth from the house with the promise that she had three minutes to get into the car at the end of the driveway without alerting security or he would slit Hannah’s throat.

  It was only Beth’s quick thinking to grab that watch that allowed them to find her. The police confirmed that they believe her attacker had no intention of letting the girls go. He’d simply manipulated his son’s obsession with Beth to get him to agree to help.

  Beth’s ex was pronounced DOA en route to the hospital due to excessive blood loss from a stab wound to the abdomen. The fatality. He’d died at the hands of his father, who would now spend the remainder of his life behind bars.

  My friends are okay.

  Jayden links our hands together as the four of us move through the hospital, silently following the directions of the nurse to the maternity wing.

  “Beth,” I sob when we turn the corner to the waiting room. She’s curled up on Braxton’s lap, and her eyes are rimmed with red from her tears, her beautiful face a mess.

  Standing, she hugs both Lennon and me simultaneously. “I’m okay, and so is Hannah,” she cries. “We’re okay.”

  We remain like that awhile. Our small group has suffered so much violence this last month, and the thought of losing the only family I’ve ever had weakens me heavily.

  Sitting down next to Jayden in the waiting room, I rest my head on his shoulder. He reaches across me, squeezing my bare knee with his hand.

  “Whatever happens, sugar”—he lays his head atop mine—“you have me too.”

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I give way to the tears that beg to be cried. How I have any left, I’m not certain at all.

  Then we wait.

  We wait in silence until a beaming, blue-scrubs-wearing Greyson comes out from behind the doors.

  One of the worst days of our lives quickly becomes one of the best. At eight eleven in the night, we welcome baby Addison Bethany Holt to the world. She weighs in at seven pounds, thirteen ounces, and when they introduce me to her as “Auntie Peyton,” it is almost more love than my heart can take.

  Greyson proposes to Hannah right there in the middle of the hospital room, with their sweet baby girl in his arms. She is still frozen from the neck down from her emergency C-section when he slides the ring on her finger.

  They say that every man needs a woman when his life is a mess. Because just like in a game of chess, the queen protects the king.

  If that is the case, I am ready to catch my King and keep him too.

  Whether he is ready for it or not.

  “THANKS FOR THE ride,” I say to Jami, scooping a sleeping Peyton up into my arms.

  He nods, and I close the door to his Jeep with my knee, careful not to wake up Lennon in the front seat. It’s been one hell of a fucking day.

  When Braxton and Greyson got the call about their girls while we were on the golf course, it was as if I were witnessing the entire world as it stopped spinning. Everything happened so quickly: the arrival of the police, the information from Frank, and the clusterfuck of chaos. In the midst of it, all I could think about was getting to Peyton. The missing girls had their men, their protectors who would take out anything in their path to rescue them. But who did Peyton have? She fucking had me now, and I needed to be there. I knew she’d be scared out of her mind but doing her best not to show it. Truthfully, I just needed to hold her. I needed to reassure myself that she was okay because the thought of something happening to her terrified me.

  I’ll never survive that kind of loss a second time.

  Just as we reach the front door and I’m mentally figuring out how I’m going to hold her and unlock it at the same time, a tear-stained Jackson pulls it open.

  “Hey,” he whispers sadly. “I was waiting for you guys to get back.”

  I wish I had a free arm to hug him. My best friend needs a fucking hug. He may have not been with Hannah for quite some time now, but that doesn’t mean he’s stopped loving her. Today was probably harder on him than the rest of us and he wasn’t even allowed to be there. He’d already been trying to prepare himself for the fact that she’d be welcoming a baby into the world with another man, but now, he had to stomach the attack and the child all in a few short hours.

  “How are you holding up?” I ask, climbing the stairs.

  I hear him close the door behind me before following me to the second floor. “It doesn’t matter.” He shrugs when we hit the landing. “She’s not mine anymore, Jayden.”

  Pausing on my way down the hall, I look at him over my shoulder. “That doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to love her, Jackson,” I tell him. “Contrary to popular belief, we don’t get to choose who we love. Cupid saddles us up with the people we need, not the people we may necessarily want.” Shifting Peyton in my arms, I turn around to face my best friend. “We get people for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Hannah wasn’t your lifetime, Jackson. I know you want to believe she was, but she wasn’t. Regardless of that, you need to quit punishing yourself for caring. She’s someone you loved on the way to finding your lifetime, and that’s okay.”

  A tear slips from his eyes before he wipes it away and clenches his jaw. “And what about her?” He nods towards Peyton. “What is she to you?”

  “It’s not that simple, Jackson,” I warn, turning to walk away from him.

  “You need to make it that simple,” he growls, “before you wake up one day and another man who wasn’t so stupid realizes she’s his lifetime and it’s too late.”

  Stopping just before Peyton’s door, I sigh, “Jackson . . .” I try to argue.

  “Love isn’t the worst thing that can happen to you, Jayden. Sure, love stole the life from your heart once and it was tragic as fuck, but understand this.” He points to the petite frame in my arms. “She breathes it back into your eyes. Hell, I’ve seen it. And if you don’t get your head out of your ass soon, her body will heal and she’ll have no reason to be here, with you, any longer.” Letting out a whoosh of air, he shakes his head at me. “She won’t be around forever.”

  Before I can answer, he kicks his bedroom door shut behind him.

  Normally, a Jackson rant can be shit all. They usually happen when he’s manic, babbling a hundred miles a minute about some complete nonsense, but not tonight. His eyes were clear as day, not a hint of the fog his illness creates.

  Tonight, he was right on point, and he left me standing in a dark hallway holding my world in my arms while too damn scared to do anything about it.

  Screaming.

  “Fuck.”

  I jolt awake, startled by the sound of gut-wrenching screams. After I jump out of bed, it takes me a second to gather my bearings.

  Screaming.

  There it is again. When I stumble to the light switch in my room, realization floods over me just as the light does.

  The screams are coming from Peyton’s room.

  Yanking open my door, I nearly rip it right off its hinges before I run across the hall to her room. The door’s still closed the way I left it.

  Screaming.

  Turning the handle, I nearly fall into her room, and nothing could have prepared me for what I’d see.

  Her small body is thrashing around in the middle of the bed, her face contorting in pain between each blood-curdling scream. A thin sheen of sweat covers her soft skin, and I don’t have to be an animal to smell the fear radiating off her.

  Climbing onto the bed, I grip her shoulders with my hands. Recoiling at my touch, she screams louder this time and I feel the sting of it deep in my heart.

  “Peyton, wake up!” I shout in her face, shaking her shoulders.

  Nothing.

  More screaming.

  “What the fuck?”

  I glance over my shoulder to see Jackson standing in his sweatpants looking bewildered as fuck. “She won’t wake up.” I’m panicked, shifting my gaze back to her. “Help me please!” I beg him.

  Every time she wails, I feel like my knees are going to give out from the sound
.

  “I’ll start the shower. Pick her up,” he tells me.

  She thrashes around in my arms as I try to hold her. By the time I’ve made it to the bathroom, I’ve taken two elbows to the gut and a head-butt to the face. My biggest worry is her injuries. Moving like this can’t be good for them and I pray to God that she doesn’t reinjure herself.

  “I need a bag!” I shout. “For her cast!”

  After disappearing from the bathroom, he reappears later with a bag. Wrapping it around her flailing arm is anything but an easy task, but we manage to complete it successfully.

  Holding her body tight against mine so I don’t drop her, I step into the shower, moving us under the cold spray. Her eyelids fly open, and the fear behind her stare startles me. It only lasts a moment before the tears rain down from her violet eyes and her body starts to violently shake in my arms.

  “Peyton?” I whisper. “Can you hear me?”

  She nods, her eyes hollow and vacant now, nothing but sobs racking her body.

  “Do you want me to . . .” Jackson trails off, gesturing towards the door.

  I nod. “I’ll be good. Thanks.”

  Closing the door behind him, he leaves us alone under the cold water, our clothes soaked and plastered against our skin.

  Turning the handle, I switch the water from cold to warm and then sit down on the floor of the bathtub with her in my lap. Pulling her hair off her face, I tuck her head under my chin and hold her tight.

  Minutes pass—how many, I’m not sure. But eventually, she stops shaking and the sobbing gives way to small hiccups. Her bruised skin looks pale against the drenched, yellow dress, and she wraps her arms around my neck, burrowing herself as close to me as possible.

  “I’ve got you, sugar,” I whisper into her hair. “I’ve got you.”

  Satisfied that she won’t slip back into her nightmare, I stand with her in my arms and step out of the shower. Then I turn off the spray, set her down on the counter, and rest my hands on her hips.

  “Can you stand?” I ask, watching her teeth start to chatter.

  She nods once, so I hold her steady as she slides down onto her feet.

  “I’m going to take off your dress now, Pey.” I look into her dead eyes. “Then we’ll get you into some warm clothes, okay?”

  The only acknowledgement that she’s heard me is the brief fluttering of her eyes and another nod.

  Upon curling my fingers around the hem of her dress, I peel it off her body before tossing it onto the floor. Her sweet breasts lie bare, having not been encased in a bra, and I will myself not to look at her. Not like this. Hooking my fingers into the sides of her panties, I slide them down her legs. Then I help her step out of them before they too join the discarded clothing on the floor.

  After grabbing my towel, the closest one to me, I wrap it around her body. Using one arm to steady her, I reach for another towel to dry off her hair. Her eyelids start to flutter as I run her hair brush through her honey locks, and I press my body against hers to keep her upright.

  “Almost there, sugar,” I whisper, kicking off my wet boxers.

  Once I’ve wrapped her arms behind my neck, I lift her up, cradling her small body in my arms. I’m stark naked, but I couldn’t give a shit as I walk across the hall and into my room.

  I set her body down on the edge of my bed and then move to step towards my dresser, but her small hand curls around my wrist.

  “Don’t go,” she pleads with me for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

  Kneeling down in front of her, I place a kiss on the top of both of her bare knees. “I’m not going anywhere,” I reassure her. “I’m just going to get you a shirt to sleep in, okay?”

  She nods, releasing my wrist.

  After hurrying over to the dresser, I pull out an old King’s Mistress shirt for her and a pair of boxers for me. Once I’ve slid my own clothes on, I walk back over to her.

  “Arms up,” I instruct, and she obliges weakly. Using both hands, I maneuver the shirt over her head and eventually fit both arms into their appropriate sleeves.

  Placing my hands under her arms, I position her so she’s standing and then tug the towel out from under the shirt. She’s so small that it comes halfway down her thighs, the fabric swallowing up her tiny frame.

  Once I’ve scooped her up, I slide her under the covers and turn the lights off before crawling in behind her. Trying not to jostle her ribs more than all the movement already has, I lay an arm around her midsection and draw her cold body flush against mine.

  She hums in comfort, resting her small hand over mine and then mumbling incoherently again. Only this time, I manage to make out the last of what she says.

  “Can I keep you?”

  WHEN I WAKE up, I inhale sharply at the pain in my ribs.

  Fuck.

  I must have forgotten to take my painkillers.

  Reaching down to feel where the pain is coming from, my hand slides over something warm.

  “Are you okay?” a deep voice breathes against my neck.

  I nod, my eyes flying around the room as I beg my groggy mind to catch up and remind me what the hell happened last night.

  As if on cue, the light bulb goes off in my head. I had a nightmare.

  It has been months since I’ve had one, and even longer since I’ve had one that bad. Yesterday’s events have proven to have been far too much for my subconscious to withstand.

  But Jayden. God, he’d been wonderful.

  My memory of afterward is vague at best, which is not uncommon for my state after a nightmare of that magnitude. I briefly remember the shower and him tucking me into bed—his bed. He was incredibly gentle with me, but it wasn’t out of pity. It was out of something else entirely. I hoped desperately that it could be love—or even like.

  Moving to roll over, I gasp again at the pain and bury my head into the pillow to hide my tears.

  “Peyton,” he coos, “tell me what you need.”

  Gritting my teeth, I mumble, “Painkillers,” into the sheets.

  “I’ll be right back,” he whispers, his breath moving across the backside of my neck.

  My ribs feel like they’re on fire, and I ruthlessly curse my subconscious. I have always figured I moved around a lot during my nightmares because I’d always wake up with the blankets in disarray and soaked with sweat. This time, I am righteously pissed off about it. My nightmare likely caused me to reinjure my ribs, gathering from the severity of the pain, and that would likely put off my returning to work for light duties this week.

  When I feel the bed dip down again behind me, his hand brushes the hair off my neck. “Let me help you sit up.”

  I start to argue, but he cuts me off.

  “It wasn’t a question, sugar.”

  Giving in, I let him use his strength to reposition me so I’m sitting upright and leaning against a pillow. “Why do you call me that?” I inquire. Something about the intimate setting has me acting somewhat boldly.

  Chucking, he hands me two pills. “Take these.” He waits for me to put them in my mouth. “And swallow with this,” he says, handing me a glass of water.

  After washing them down, I open my mouth and stick my tongue out like patients at the hospital have to do. “All gone.”

  “Cheeky,” he says, setting the glass down on his nightstand.

  “Why do you call me that?” I ask again.

  Settling next to me, against the headboard, he furrows his brow. “Call you what? Cheeky?” He looks adorable in his confusion.

  “No.” I fight the urge to giggle at him like a sixteen-year-old. “Sugar.”

  “Ahh.” He runs his hand over the stumble on his chin. “That.”

  “Yes, that.” I pause, waiting on his explanation.

  Leaning his head backwards, he turns it slightly to face me. “Everything about you is sweet.” He smiles playfully. “Like sugar.”

  Scrunching my face up, I debate whether I like being referred to like that. I mean, I�
�m nice, sure. Quiet, yes. But no one wants to be someone who gives people a toothache.

  Reading my facial expressions, he turns my chin towards him and shakes his head. “Slow down the wheels, Pey,” he urges. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

  I look down, trying to avoid his eye contact, and nod.

  “It’s your hair.” He twirls a strand of it around his finger. “It looks like honey and caramel swirled together.”

  A blush stains my cheeks at what I assume is a compliment.

  “And your eyes”—he tilts my chin up so I’m looking at him—“are violet, like plums.”

  I roll said eyes at him, and he chuckles.

  “And that smile . . . They’re all sweet as can be.” He winks at me. “Just like sugar.”

  Shaking my head, I pull away from whatever game we’re playing and move to slide off the bed.

  “Wait,” he says, grabbing my hand.

  Looking over at his concerned face, I sigh inwardly. I know what he’s going to ask, and I’m not ready to tell him. In a way, I’ve never been ready to tell anyone. Colt only knows because I shared at our meeting, and that was before I knew him. I’ve never had to tell anyone I care about what happened to me, but most of all, the thought of it making him look at me any differently than he does now is too much to bear.

  “I’m not ready,” I murmur, not even sure I said it out loud until he answers me.

  Upon lifting our joined hands up to his lips, he kisses each of my knuckles. “I know,” he whispers against my skin, “but I want you to tell me, Pey. Someday.”

  “Someday,” I echo after him.

  Content with my answer, he stands from the bed and bends over to pick me up. “Your chariot, milady,” he proclaims before standing with me in his arms.

  “I’m not an invalid, Jayden,” I protest. “I am capable of walking, you know.”

  As he traces my body with his eyes, heat flares behind them. “You need to change,” he huffs, his playful mood having been replaced by something much more carnal.