The King Brothers Boxed Set

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

"The boy has evidence on you."

  "Not on me. Someone else."

  "The man threatened him in your name. A lawyer will use that in court. A lawyer can say that you asked him to do it or hired him to do it."

  "I thought there wasn't any audio. How would you know he did it in my name?"

  "Hardwick thinks you sent this man downstairs to hurt him."

  "I didn't even know he worked here!"

  "But you do know him?"

  "How many times do I have to tell you? Yes! I told you he's my sister's boyfriend."

  "And that's probably all true, Miss Pearson," the mediator jumps back in. "But it almost doesn't even matter. You two have a connection. You and the man in question have a connection. An assault did occur on tape. The common denominator is you.

  "This coupled with the fact that your performance here is at best lackluster, we thought it'd be in your best interest to offer you a nice package and a stellar reference so that you can move on."

  The soft and sweet "let's work this out" mediator has all of a sudden disappeared. Now she's playing hardball.

  "Are you a lawyer, Mrs. Rickard?"

  "I am a mediator."

  "With a law degree?"

  "Yes, if you want to be technical about it. I am a lawyer."

  "Then the next time we all speak, I'll be back with mine."

  Twenty-Six

  Sloan

  My parents are an American success story. My father comes from humble beginnings in rural Virginia, and became a popular championship point guard for the basketball team at a university in Kentucky. He met my mother there while they were both students. She was a beautiful, tall, thin golden goddess on campus. Long legs, long wavy blond hair, ice blue eyes and very popular across campus. She had dreams of becoming a professional model and definitely had the looks to actually make it happen, but her relationship with my father got in the way of that.

  My father is also a beautiful man, and looking back at old photographs of him, I realize just how handsome he was in his prime. He was a tall, muscular man, with closely shorn black hair, beautiful chestnut colored skin, and a killer smile. My mom fell hard for him in college, then followed him to the city of his first professional basketball team, married him, and then quickly became pregnant with me.

  While she didn't become the catwalk superstar she dreamt of, she ended up carving out a respectable career for herself as an agent. She ran the "parts" division (hand models, foot models, hair models) of one of the largest modeling agencies on the East Coast for many years, but has now settled into a life of service. Raising money for a variety of worthy charities important to residents and many politicians of Philadelphia. Much like Elizabeth's Aunt Juliette does for autism.

  While my parents have a lot of faults, I've always been grateful for how hard they both worked and the life of privilege that it afforded me. Yet unlike many of my contemporaries, I've always been adamant about forging my own path. I never wanted to be like some of the girls I grew up with.

  Some of them ended up fulfilling the path of our social circle by marrying well, popping out a couple of kids, and continuing the circle again. Some are strung out on pills. Some are sleeping around with half of Hollywood. Some are drunk at the ripe old age of twenty-six. Many ended up trying to salvage whatever fame they were desperately trying to hold onto by starring in low budget, low class, reality shows.

  But I was so supposed to be different. Special. Better.

  Yet am I?

  I ended up in pharmaceutical sales, because a professor I almost slept with at Penn advised me to try it. He said I looked the part, and that I'd probably have a very good run at convincing middle-aged doctors, like Clark, to purchase drugs from me.

  I was appalled and disgusted by the professor’s comments at first, but I knew that in his own twisted way he actually meant well. I was barely holding my head above water in his class, but he knew that what I lacked in actual comprehension of the subject matter, I made up for in determination to pass the class. Come hell or come high water I was going to succeed in this world. On my own. And have a good-ass damn time while doing it.

  Yet here I am.

  Swimming in a murky reality of my own.

  And I'm not having a good time at all.

  My best client, the one I was so proud of, never respected me. He just wanted me on his arm and in his bed. The job that I thought I'd earned, the one that defined me, turned out to be something I fell into and then something I forced. It wasn't really ever a natural fit, and now I'm being squeezed out. The boy that I thought was too dumb for my sister turned out to be a freakin' criminal mastermind that I totally underestimated. He's been one step ahead of me at every turn planning my demise.

  I thought I was right about all of these things, but I was mistaken. Pitifully mistaken. And so, the one thing I thought that I may have originally gotten wrong, the man who happens to be the common denominator in all of this, ended up being the one thing I had always been right about.

  He has been my biggest mistake of them all.

  I've become a squatter and a recluse.

  I haven't gone to work.

  I haven't checked my cell phone.

  I haven't showered.

  I haven't moved.

  It's been three days, and I've been staying at my parent's home on the mainline, because I've been too much of a chickenshit to go back to my apartment. It wouldn't be good for me to go back home.

  If I see Cutter, I'll run to him.

  I'll tell him about how horribly Clark treated me. I'll tell him all about the web of lies that demon Damien has caused. I'll tell him about the plot to get rid of me at work. I'll tell him all of this, because I'll know he'll try to fix it. He'll try to avenge me. He'll try to protect me. And then he'll try to fuck me senseless, and I'll let him.

  I'll let him because I miss him like crazy. I'll let him because I crave him like crack. I crave him, because he's the only man to make my body and my heart come alive simultaneously.

  And then I'll curse him out.

  Because at the end of the day, Cutter is the cause of all of this.

  No client. No job. No sister. No home.

  I should have known better.

  The only way this thing was ever going to end was badly.

  My mother doesn't believe in stewing in your own juices for too long, so by day three she's had enough of my wallowing.

  "That's it, Sloan. If you don't take a shower that sweatshirt of yours is going to walk on its own back to Penn."

  "I'm exhausted, Mom."

  "From what? If you want your job back you're going to have to fight for it."

  I haven't told her everything. In fact, I've probably lied about mostly everything including why my face looks like this. If I told her the truth about Damien, she'd go straight to Marsha, and it wouldn't be for the right reasons.

  My mother looks for any reason to throw Marsha's bad parenting into her face, because out of all of my father's women, she hates Marsha the most. Dawn's mom is the only one that had a baby. Daily "in your face" proof of my father's infidelity. All the other women failed their paternity tests, so my mother can pretend that they were simply lying "gold diggers" looking for an easy payday. She can't do that with Marsha.

  "That's just it. I don't know if I want it back."

  "What would you do?"

  "I don't know."

  "What are your hobbies?"

  "I don't really have any."

  "Is there a social issue you're passionate about?"

  "Not really."

  She walks around my room as I look for something in my old dresser drawers that I could possibly wear. She happens to stumble upon an old sketch book of mine from high school and starts flipping through the pages. I used to carry that thing with me every day.

  "Mom, you should really switch this furniture out. It looks exactly like ten years ago."

  "I don't come in here that much, so it doesn't bother me. It's still your room."

 
She stops on one particular page of the book. A sketch I made of our attic before it was renovated. I used to love playing up there as a kid with my dolls.

  "Well you should update it, so it aesthetically goes with the rest of the house."

  I hit the jackpot and find an old Daughtry hoodie and a pair of jeans that still fit in one of the drawers.

  "Remember when I loved American Idol, Mom?"

  "Maybe that's it, Sloan," she says ignoring my question.

  "What?"

  "You can decorate homes for a living? Maybe even commercial spaces. Didn't you tell me that you were helping out with Elizabeth's nursery?"

  "Yeah, but I'd never charge her for that. I'm the godmother."

  "I know, but you could absolutely charge other people."

  "I don't know, Mom." I'm unconvinced.

  "You have a certain sense of style. A certain eye for pieces. People will pay for that. It took my friend Margie three years to decide on curtains for her living room. Three years! She would have gladly paid for you to have made the decision for her."

  "Well, I guess that's an idea. That just seems like a very hard career to get off of the ground."

  "I can think of seven people off of the top of my head who I could refer you to. Do a good job and word of mouth will spread. In the meantime, I don't mind giving you a little allowance to cover your bills for a while."

  We all have our connections and we shouldn't be afraid to use them.

  I remember the words I said to Gidget.

  "I'll think about it, Mom."

  "Good. Now that I've solved all of your problems, you can get dressed, so we can grab something to eat. I need a salad in my life."

  I laugh.

  The first laugh I've had in three days.

  "Okay, give me thirty minutes."

  My mother looks impeccably put together as usual. Her freshly dyed blond waves are perfectly coiffed, and she's wearing a pair of fashionable jeans, blouse, and pumps on her slender frame that most women her age couldn't possibly pull off.

  "I thought we were getting a salad?"

  "We are."

  "I'm in a hoodie and you're in . . . that."

  "My plan was to stop at Saks Fifth Avenue and grab you something else to wear. Wouldn't that make you feel better? Shopping always cheered you up when you were a horrible teenager, I mean a little girl."

  I roll my eyes. I forgot to mention that my mother thinks she's a comedian.

  "Forget it. I'll go in this."

  "You sure? I'm buying."

  "It's only been three days that I haven't been to work not three years. I have my own money, Mom. If I wanted to buy an outfit I would."

  "Okay, okay. You're so touchy."

  We arrive at Sambuca's. One of my mom's favorite Northern Italian restaurants. A small, laid back place with friendly staff where they serve really fresh salads and seafood. Back when my parents pretended that they were actually still a couple, we used to rent out the entire restaurant and come for her birthday every year. Now my parents live very separate lives.

  "Where's Dad?"

  "I think he's still in Boston?"

  "What's he doing there?"

  "He said it was a recruiting trip, but you know how that is. He probably has some pretty young thing up there."

  Since retiring from the NBA, my father has worked in various coaching positions for one of the local universities.

  "Can I ask you something?"

  "Sure."

  "Were you ever happy with Daddy?"

  "Definitely."

  "Was it ever hard being married to someone like him? The life you had? All those scandals. The violence. The hanger ons?"

  "Why would you ask about that?"

  "I just know someone a lot like him."

  "A ball player?"

  "No."

  "Hmm, well my life with your father was a whirlwind. He was my first love, and it was exciting and even magical at times. I'm sorry if our life was hard on you, but we both did the best we could. Like all men, your father has his weaknesses. He's terribly insecure, so he uses women to validate himself. I thought he'd grow out of it, but he never did.

  "He also feels guilty about his success. Most of the guys he grew up with are out of work, in jail, or are barely scraping by. So that's why he would hire all those guys that were security. They needed the work, and he needed them. They meant well, but they didn't really know what they were doing. So they made a couple of mistakes that resulted in a lot of people paying a high price including your father. This life isn't easy."

  "So why are you and Dad still together?"

  "It's complicated, Sloan. People aren't perfect. Love is hard. Nobody ever tells you that."

  Twenty-Seven

  Cutter

  It's day three and I've had just about all I can take. The only reason why I haven't ripped this entire city fucking apart, is because Elizabeth sent me a text letting me know that Sloan is alive and breathing.

  I use my key and enter the carriage house hoping I'll find Camden. He's never where he's supposed to be, but hopefully he's home with his head buried in a computer this time. I need his help.

  "Cam!"

  "Back here."

  "Where's Jade?"

  "Welcome home, dickwad. She's at the restaurant. What the hell is wrong with you?"

  "I need an address for Dan Pearson."

  "Sloan's father?"

  "Yeah. It's not listed."

  "Well, yeah. He probably pays a lot of money to hide that information from the average crazy Joe." He gives me the side-eye.

  "I need to find her."

  "Is she in trouble?"

  "I don't know. She hasn't been home in days. This isn't like her."

  "This isn't like her? Now you're an expert on the glamazon?"

  "We've been spending some time together. A lot of time. So no, this isn't like her."

  "Did you talk to Elizabeth about it?"

  "Yes, she heard from her, but she claims she doesn't know where she is. A boldface lie, and I can't even grill her about it, because she's all pregnant and that wouldn't be polite."

  Camden chuckles and continues scrolling through a web page.

  "So the glamazon's fine then."

  "Until I put my eyeballs on her myself she's not fine."

  "This is messy, Cut." He looks back up at me. "You're getting real messy. This is her parent's home you're trying to just stroll up to, and you seem real emotional now. Maybe you should wait until you calm down. Both you and I know all about your itchy trigger finger."

  I squint my eyes at him. I know Camden like I know myself. He knows more than he's saying. He's being way too argumentative.

  "What do you know? Any other time you would have given me the ride over there yourself. Why are you trying to stop me from handling this?"

  "I'm just saying, Cut."

  "You're saying what?"

  "Roman is pissed at you."

  "I don't give a shit about Roman right now!"

  "He told you to leave the kid to him for exactly this reason. He could tell without any confirmation from me that you were catching feelings for Sloan eons ago and now look. You've made a mess."

  That's what's going on.

  "Did that Damien fucker touch Sloan?"

  "Nothing like that. I would have told you that."

  "The sister?"

  "No."

  "Then what?!"

  Camden sighs.

  "Sloan's job has you on tape. Yanking the boy's throat. Tapping his ribs a little with your fists. They're blaming the glamazon for it all. They don't want to prosecute because they don't want the press. They just want her to leave quickly and quietly. Hoping that she'll take her "drama" aka you with her. The kid set her up lovely. Made it look like she asked you to do that shit to him."

  I scrub my face a couple times out of frustration. This is a clusterfuck. I should have never gone there. I should have gotten the security footage. I shouldn't have kept her in the dark about it
either. She wasn't prepared. She must be furious. There's so much shit I should have done differently. No wonder she hates me.

  "I'm going to kill him."

  "One of the best handlers in the game can't convince a twenty-one-year-old loser to fall back? You could only be this sloppy because of a woman. You see what I'm talking about, little brother? It happens to the best of us. Love can cause you to make mistakes, but it's also a hell of a motivator to get you to fix them. Banging on her door and demanding that she talk to you won't work. Do what you do best and fix this shit. Make this right. That will bring your girl home, Cut. That's if she's your girl."

  "I'd hoped to never see you again, Cutter King."

  I look around the office at all of Newman's achievements. Graduate of Penn State. Graduate of Temple Law. City of Philadelphia Man Of The Year. District Attorney Of Philadelphia Plaque. Pictures of his kids on his desk. A girl and a boy. He could have lost it all if it weren't for me. All of this is worth way more than the money he paid. Even more than the information that he gave us about Stone. If you think about it, a man would pay almost any price to protect everything he holds dear. Everything he loves.

  "How have you been faring, Newman?"

  "I've been good. Got myself busy with work. Going to Paris next year with the family. I'm getting my shit together, King."

  "Glad to hear it."

  "I'm not sure what you said to my brother-in-law to keep him quiet about being shoved into the trunk of a car, but he hasn't said a word."

  I don't know what Roman did to fix that situation, but I suppose everyone has their price or their secrets. I'm hoping that's the case. That's why I'm here.

  "So, what brings you to my office?"

  "I need your help."

  "My help?" he asks as if he has no intentions of going down that road with me.

  "Remember I told you that you owed me one for putting your ass up those couple of nights. Wifey thought you were away. That was extra."

  He bows his head.

  "Yes, now I remember. Tell me what you need."

  Twenty-Eight