“Sure, if you like babysitting,” Amanda snorts as she walks away.
Shock leaves me immobilized. I can’t tear my eyes from his face. The face of a demon disguised as an angel. I don’t know why he did that, and I’m not sure I care. But, I know I must be a horrible person, because hearing Lucas unleash his demon on that bitch was epic.
Still gripping my arm, he slowly turns to face me again. “Now, where were we?”
What did he just do? Did he stick up for me?
I take in a deep breath. On the exhale, my body slowly relaxes muscle by muscle. Maybe he’s not vile, maybe he doesn’t really hate me. “You not giving two shits, and me being here to work.”
He releases me, and I feel the absence of his touch all over my body. “That’s right.” He leans back in his seat with that same bored expression he had on when I walked in. Inside I smirk, because, yeah, I think he did just stick up for me. “First thing you’re doing today is getting some new tires. There’s an appointment already made, and it’s been taken care of.”
I hold up a hand to stop him right there. “No. I can handle it.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Storm,” What the hell is it with that name? “I told you, it’s not for you. I need you reliable, and that means your ride as well. I can’t afford for my shit to be stuck on the side of the road because your car is a piece of crap.” Scratch that, he definitely was not sticking up for me, I don’t think he’s capable of being nice to another human being. He reaches to the space on the seat beside him, then sets a manila envelope on the table. “I want you to take this to this address,” he snatches a napkin from the dispenser and holds out his hand, “You got a pen?”
I fling open my bag to search for something to write with.
“Jesus, Storm, this century would be nice.” His tone drips annoyance.
“And the ass is back,” I mumble as I slap a pen into his palm.
“Always,” he comments as he writes an address on the white paper, there’s no name, then slides it across the table toward me.
I have to stop myself from running my fingers along the letters, his penmanship is strong and precise. And nice, very nice, too nice for a jerk like him. Lifting my eyes to meet his, I ask, “This isn’t a drug dealer, is it?”
Lucas laughs, it bursts from him loud and free, like an explosion of a flock of sea gulls, big and wide and beautiful. It’s genuine and surprised, and not at all what I’d expect from the rudeness that is him.
“No, it’s not a drug dealer. Does it look like there’s a stack of money in that envelope?”
I glance down at the innocuous flat paper sitting between us. “No.”
“Alright then, better get to it,” he turns his attention to the room and motions for a waitress, dismissing me.
Can he be any more of a jack ass?
One of the other girls immediately approaches our table. Good.
“Three eggs over easy, wheat toast no butter, juice and coffee,” Lucas rattles off. She looks to me. “She’s leaving,” he states flatly before I can answer.
Good God. I don’t know if Lucas King has a kind bone in his body.
“I think there’s something wrong with you,” I grumble as I snatch the envelope and my bag off the table as the waitress leaves.
“Were you lying when you said you were here to make money? If you were, there’s the door.”
I slide out of the booth. “Just shut up.”
“Text me when you’re done.”
If I don’t run you over first.
As I walk to the front of the restaurant, I hear him say, “Have a nice day.”
Approaching my car, I can’t stop the smile slowly growing on my face.
Lucas King may be an ass, he might gag with every moment he has to spend with me, but he approached me. Now I just have to find out why.
***
He had made an appointment for me to get four new tires, plus a wheel alignment, and an oil change. I wanted to hide under the chair while I sat in the waiting room. I felt like everyone was staring at me, whispering about me. My mind was filled with so many different thoughts. How many girls has Lucas done this for before? Does he have an account for his drug runners here? Do they think I’m screwing him? That one actually made me laugh, because the guy can barely tolerate my existence.
I hate taking things from people for free. It makes me feel indebted to them, like I’m using them. Which is the primary reason for the arrangement I made with my father.
Some people might think it’s no big deal, this agreement with my dad. To me, it is everything.
After my mom died, I kind of assumed the mother position with Jackson. He needed it, and I needed it just as much. It helped us get through, it allowed us to heal by needing one another in our own individual ways. But as time passed, my father began to worry that I wasn’t leading my own life, that I wasn’t allowing myself to just be a teenager. I insisted that I was doing exactly what I wanted to do, and to prove my point I told him that I wanted to go out of state for college, and I also insisted that I’d make enough money to support myself while I was gone. If not, I wouldn’t go. Initially he’d refused my terms, but I wouldn’t budge, it was either that, or I wouldn’t go. He had no choice but to agree. If he hadn’t, he'd basically deny me the opportunity of going to college. The deal had been made in a heated moment, but it was done, and I wasn’t going to back out of it. No matter what.
Which led me to where I’m at right now, heading to some unknown destination as Lucas King’s messenger girl, delivering only God knows what. Who knows, maybe my hardheadedness is going to eliminate the college thing, it was all on me, and I won’t have to worry about it. Or I might end up in jail, then I wouldn’t have to worry about anything.
I’d studied the map on my GPS while I’d waited for my car to be finished, memorizing every detail. It appeared to be a private residence, and it’s in the most exclusive area of South Harbor Island. I’d had mixed feelings about this.
Honestly, I was scared to death.
WhatthehellamIdoing?WhatthehellamIdoing? What. The. Hell. Am. I. Doing?!
The words played on repeat in my head as I signaled to turn onto the private cul de sac, Google maps notifying me that the destination is on my right.
The driveway is the first, and maybe the only one on this side of the street. It’d have to be. From the looks of it from the street, the place is massive.
There are locked black iron gates blocking the entrance to the estate, because it’s definitely not just a house, adorned with a huge metal H. There’s a surrounding brick wall that runs along the street, and on its column is an electronic box with a keypad. “Oh, shit.” He didn’t give me a code. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, suddenly feeling extremely out of my element. Of course he didn’t give me a code. Strange people can’t randomly have access into a place like this. Staring at the box, I see a call button, so I depress it. At the top of the wall I notice a camera, and I do what any other person would do: wave. Surely they won’t think I’m a psycho murderer if I try to look nice.
“May I help you?” comes a man’s voice, sounding all kinds of annoyed.
“Um, yes. Lucas King sent me with a delivery.” My fingers are moving a mile a minute on the steering wheel like I was playing Chopsticks on the piano. The sound of a click, then an electronic whir snaps my attention to the gate in front of me, now slowly opening. It creeps open, so I edge my way up the circular drive. When the massive two story colonial style mansion comes into view, I gape at it in shock. What kind of people is Lucas affiliated with? I follow the red bricked drive to the front steps that lead up to the porch lined with massive white columns that run its length. After turning off the car, I stare at the huge ten-foot-high double doors as a new wave of fear ripples through me. Don’t be a chicken, you’re just delivering an envelope. Snatching the package from the seat beside me, I exit the car and walk up the steps. When the front door opens, the face staring back at me is the last one I expecte
d to see.
“Evie? What are you doing here?”
Preston Hollowell is standing in the open doorway, hair a mess, wearing sweatpants and a plain white sleeveless t-shirt, looking all kinds of good looking. The aroma of wealth practically floats out onto the porch, thick and polished and surrounding him in all his cockiness.
This place isn’t just fancy, it’s sick money with a side of pedigree. I’ve never been to this part of the island before, I never had a reason to. This isn’t the kind of community you’d pass on the way to the local Walmart. My family is comfortable, but this is the kind of well-to-do you only hear about on television.
I turn to face the gate. “The H stands for Hollowell,” I mumble.
He chuckles, “Yeah, last time I checked,” and leans against the doorframe as he folds his arms across his chest. I turn back to face him, my face flaming for the second time today. “Not that it isn’t a nice surprise to see you, but what are you doing here?” his eyes travel up and down my body leisurely, obviously not caring it’s rude.
A flutter floats inside my chest, it’s nice, calm, and not the wrecking ball that smashes every organ inside me every time Lucas looks in my direction. “I brought this,” I wave the envelope I was hired to bring. “It’s from Lucas.”
His eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “You’re working for Lucas?”
When Preston says it, it makes this whole situation real and concrete. And sounds completely insane. But I already knew that. “Yep,” I reply, popping the p, because, yeah, I can’t believe it myself. I shove the package toward Preston. “Here you go.”
He stares down at it, but doesn’t take it. “That’s not for me.”
My whole body goes cold. “What?”
He shakes his head slowly. “I’m not expecting anything, and knowing Lucas, I don’t want to be responsible for that,” a slow smirk curves his lips.
I knew it, I just knew it. It’s bad, it’s got to be if his friend doesn’t want anything to do with it.
“I’ll take that,” a deep baritone voice comes from inside the house behind Preston. He just winks at me as his smirk grows even more devious. A well-dressed middle aged man comes from somewhere inside, and Preston’s resemblance to him is obvious. It must be his father, dressed to the nines in a Brooks Brothers suit and expensive Italian shoes, with as much prestige and affluence as his accessories. “Good afternoon, young lady, do you have something for me?”
“Y-yes, sir,” this time my hand shakes as I hand it to him. “Mr. Hollowell I presume. There’s no name on it, sir, my apologies,” I practically stammer because his presence is intimidating.
“Judge Hollowell,” Preston corrects me.
My eyes widen at the man’s title. Of course it is. Preston chuckles again. Things keep getting weirder and weirder.
“No need to apologize. Lucas can be a bit…challenging,” he grins, and it’s the same charming smile as his sons. “And you are?”
“Evelyn Monroe, but everyone calls me Evie. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Monroe, the name is very familiar. Is your father with the District Attorney’s office?”
“One and the same,” I reply.
Small world.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Evie. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” and just like that, Judge Hollowell turns and walks away, the envelope I brought clutched in his hand. Now I’m dying to know what Lucas could be delivering to a man like him. What kind of business does a guy like Lucas King have with a reputable judge?
My gaze finds Preston’s again, only to find he’s staring at me.
“This is interesting,” he murmurs, the smirk still etched on his face.
Suddenly, I have a very strange feeling that Lucas didn’t send me here for random reasons. My being here is intentional. Very intentional. I only hope it isn’t going to bite me in the ass later on.
“Yes, I’d have to agree.”
He pushes from the door frame and comes closer. “A good interesting,” he murmurs again, his eyes locked on mine. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been wanting to ask you out for a while.”
Color me shocked. I was not expecting that. “Oh?” I want to cringe at the sound of my voice, high-pitched and squeaky.
“Yeah. Go out with me. Friday night. I’ll pick you up at eight.” He takes another step closer.
I take a step back. “You don’t even know where I live.” Funny how I don’t turn him down.
“My father’s a judge. I know everything.”
Creep much, dude.
But he’s cute, and has always been nice to me. And no one talks about him murdering anyone. He seems safe. “Okay,” I accept.
“Good,” he looks at me like there was never a question about it, and I’m not sure what to think about that.
“I’ve got to go,” I thumb in the direction of my car behind me.
“Yeah. See you Friday, Evie.” He’s still smirking at me, like he knows a secret I’m not sure I want to be privy to.
I nod. “Friday,” I mumble, then turn and walk quickly down the steps, and get in my car. I can’t get out of here fast enough.
As I circle around the driveway, I glance in the rear view mirror. Preston is nowhere to be seen. Ahead of me, the gate is slowly opening back up.
As I head back the way I came, my heart beat begins to settle, and I feel like I can breathe again. The strangeness of the entire situation rattles around inside my head, but I can’t make sense of any of it.
Nothing that happened was bad or scary.
Then why do I have a strange feeling about this?
CHAPTER 5
I’d just come down Mrs. Stevenson’s throat when Evie texted me she’d delivered the envelope to the Hollowell mansion. To Preston’s house. I grinned lasciviously as I glanced at my watch while the thirty-five-year-old woman licked the last drops from the head of my dick. My head, the one on top of my shoulders, had already left the fuck session we’d been having. Honestly, it hadn’t been in it the whole time, I’d been tracking Storm in my mind since she left me earlier, and while I’d been buried balls deep in Caroline, and sucked inside her mouth.
Caroline Stevenson, the hottest wife on the island. We’ve been screwing each other’s brains out since I was seventeen. It took me a year to wear her down, and what a hell of a year it’s been since then. Although I see my fair share of random pussy, Caroline is my steady lay. It’s perfect for the both of us, no strings, no attachments, it’s just sex, like a membership at the gym, only better. We use each other. She’s not getting the kind of dick she needs from her sixty-year-old husband, even though he is a twisted son-of-a-bitch, and she showed me how to fuck like a rock star. Besides, we’ve done everything short of covering our bodies in feathers and pretending we’re chickens. Today was the first time someone else’s face had demanded my attention while we exchanged bodily fluids. It pissed me off, so I fucked Caroline extra hard, trying to pound Storm out of my head.
It hadn’t worked.
Falling back onto her heels, Caroline looks up at me, her perfect, and newly plumped, tits swaying in front of her. “Someone has anger issues today,” she smirks as she wipes my residue from her mouth.
“Sorry,” I mumble, not meaning it. At. All. I bend over and place a quick kiss on her lips, the ones on her face, not between her legs, before I turn to grab my shorts.
“Is something wrong?” she asks as she stands and stretches her well-toned body she works hard for.
“No.” I don’t want to be curt with Caroline, because she’s not the one I’ve got a problem with, but it’s my nature. I’m a dick. To everyone. Sue me.
“Really?” She walks to the mirror to check her makeup, cleaning up the black smudges around her eyes. “Could have fooled me.”
I check the time again; a whole minute has passed since the last time. “New flash, I don’t care.”
Caroline is gorgeous, arm candy to an old man. She knows it, she could give a shit about it,
and she wears it proudly with the Dolce & Gabana dresses and Gucci handbags. If she were Russian, she’d be a mail order bride. What she is, is a girl from the sticks who stepped into a pile of shit. Golden shit. She’s an opportunist, I guess a lot like me, which is most likely why we get along so well. Her husband, Randall Stevenson, spends most of his time out of town, probably banging some other poor girl – and I mean that in the literal sense – while his wife rolls around in the sheets with me. The guy’s a big wig in the pharmaceutical company most every working Joe in town is employed at, IPI, International Pharmaceutical Industries. He’s in charge of new product trials, and makes millions. The mansion he and his young wife live in is proof, the one closest to its grandeur is the Hollowells, and even that one looks like a shack compared to Randall and Caroline Stevenson’s spread.
I met Caroline when I did my first job for her husband. I was sixteen years old, still a punk who thought he had it all figured out, and dumb as fuck. I must have been to think I was smarter than Randall Stevenson.
That hadn’t been too long after I’d really started making money doing deals on the streets, establishing connections, and getting my name out there. I thought I was hot shit riding around town on my dirt bike, that thing was illegal as fuck on the streets, but the cops didn’t give me a hard time as long as there was no drag racing and all the bad shit was kept confined to the outskirts of town. We’d made some kind of silent deal, I followed their rules, operated things the way they wanted it done, and they allowed me to do my thing.
This little unspoken arrangement worked in my favor as things progressed. We all kept South Harbor Island nice and rich and shiny and plastic as fuck. It was like the eighties all over again, the rich were partying, but not with the people they got their shit from, whether it was a hooker or a male prostitute (or three), or ecstasy and weed, or for the hard core, heroin.
Randall Stevenson practically plucked me from my bike one day, told me he was throwing a party and asked if I could help him ‘organize’ it. I naturally told him sure, cocky little bastard that I was. In my head, I imagined a bunch of old farts talking golf.
The Making Of A King: The King Duet, Book 1 Page 5
