by Teagan Kade
“You changed your name?”
“Yeah, I always liked the name Linnea, thought it was different and kind of quirky-cool.”
I’m curious what her birth name was, but I don’t want to push. “I take it you don’t want anything to do with him, Rex?”
Now she looks to me. I hate seeing her like this, on the backfoot. “I don’t trust him. It’s as simple as that.”
We eat, but it’s a far more solemn affair than the diner.
Afterwards, Linnea seems happy simply to lie in bed and talk. We don’t return to the subject of her father, but I try to make her feel comforted all the same, to let her know I’m not going anywhere.
Linnea slides her leg over me, hand reaching down to my crotch. She begins to stroke me through my pants. “You know what would really take my mind off things?”
I hold the side of her face with my hand. “A good book?”
She smiles, pumping the hard outline of my cock through my jeans. “I was thinking something a touch more stimulating.”
God, I want her so fucking bad, but I promised myself I would go slow, to see this through properly.
I kiss her, only stopping when she climbs on top of me and starts to pull off her sweater.
I pull it back into position, the taste of her on my lips fighting my powers of resistance, sexual frustration flanking me from both sides. “I want to, I really do, but I also want to take things slowly. I promised myself I’d do this differently, that I’d do it right, because I want this to be long term. Don’t you?”
She does. I see it in her eyes behind the obvious frustration.
She climbs off and returns to my side, cuddling into my chest. “If this is some grand King scheme to get me like super, super wet, head’s up, it’s working.”
I smile, stroking her hair. “I’ll stay if you want.”
“I’d like that.”
We stay in position until she falls asleep against my shoulder. I breathe her in and can’t seem to shake myself out of the sexual stupor I’ve created.
What is this really achieving? I ask myself.
I could take her pants off right now, lick her to life, but I don’t. I remain there, solemn, painfully erect, silently patting myself on the back for showing such restraint.
But wishing I could let it go just as easily.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LINNEA
“Jesus H, Linnea!” Coach yells from the sideline. “You actually going to sink something today?”
I’ve missed the last three out of four shots I’ve put up, which surely must be some kind of Academy record. It hasn’t gone unnoticed By Coach Henderson. She’s over there looking like a bull who just had his balls clipped off. I can’t blame her. I’m sucking major ass today.
I fire off another three, but it’s a foot wide of the ring.
I hear the sound of a clipboard hitting the boards. “Marsden! Get your ass over here. Now.”
The others stay silent while I make my way over. I front up to Henderson with my hands on my hips.
“Explain,” she says, barely holding herself back from a full-blown verbal assault.
“I have a headache, think I might be coming down with something, maybe?” I reach for my stomach to sell the lie, but I know it’s weak.
Henderson takes a step closer. “I don’t care if you just contracted the plague, you need to pick up your game. Are we clear?”
I wipe my mouth. “Yes, Coach.”
“Go.”
A marginal improvement follows, but it’s far from my A-game.
Carrie, my BFF and fellow baller, bails me up in the locker room. Wrapped in a towel, waving a razor around like it’s a baton, she’s her usual animated self. “You going to tell me what’s going on, babe, because I know that was far from a wholesome D-and-M you had with Henderson.”
I’ve got my top off but have otherwise been sitting here for the last minute staring at the wall, my head somewhere else entirely. I look to Carrie. “She had every right to go at me. I had no focus out there. I’ve seen high-schoolers play better ball.”
“Hey, even Jordan had his off days.”
“Rookie year, shot five-of-eighteen from the field and six-from-eleven from the free throw against the Knicks, I know.”
The razor mercifully goes back to shaving Carrie’s leg. “So give yourself a break for once and tell me what the hell’s going on so I can come up with the perfect place and alcoholic beverage to make you forget all about it.”
If Crestfall ever found out how much hooch Carrie has stashed in her dorm room I’m pretty sure she’d be out on her ass. It’s like prohibition in there. Doesn’t help she grew up with a Russian father who basically considered vodka water.
Most of the others are in the showers or gossiping in the corner. We’re alone. “It’s Nolan,” I confess.
And the razor’s back in flight. “What did he do? I’ll cut his fucking throat, I swear to God.”
I reach for her wrist and lower the razor back to her leg. “Easy, Hannibal. It’s nothing like that.”
“He’s not cheating on you?”
“No.”
“Addicted to porn?”
I screw up my face. “Not that I know of.”
The razor stops. “Shit. He’s not gay, is he?”
“Given the terminal case of lady blue balls I’ve got, I really don’t know.”
Carrie looks confused. “But I thought you guys already,” she humps at the air and almost loses her towel in the process. “Did the dirty?”
“‘Dirty’ is the appropriate word,” I tell her. “And it was incredible, but since then, nothing.”
“You can come on a bit strong.”
Only Carrie could get away with telling me that. I fold my arms. “So strong he hasn’t even tried to get into my pants since, not even a quick fingerbang behind the bleachers.”
Carrie shivers. “The bleachers. Ew. Bad memories.”
“Anyway,” I continue. “I have needs, you know.”
Carrie places the razor down and takes a seat beside me, bumps my shoulder with her own. “Maybe you just need to change your perspective a weensy bit, huh?”
“How?”
“Appreciate maybe he’s trying to take his time. Maybe he’s not like his brothers with their dicks out fucking the first thing they see.”
“You do know the other King brothers are spoken for now, right?”
Carrie waves it off. “Miracles will never cease, blah-blah-blah, but we’re talking about Nolan here. You said it yourself, he’s not like the others. He clearly wants more than sex. The question is, do you?”
And there it is, Carrie laying it out in legible black and white.
I nod firmly. “I do.”
Carrie stands and places her foot up on the bench, going back to shaving the Amazon forest that is her right calf. “My work is done.”
“Hmm,” I muse, looking back to the wall and thinking through this new so-called perspective. I do want more. I think I want more with him, and it’s there, in that newfound appreciation of his approach, I start to see the light.
“He’s not like the others,” I repeat to myself.
“What was that?” asks Carrie.
“Nothing,” I reply, smiling now and reaching for the back of my bra.
*
I send Nolan an eggplant emoji followed by a question mark.
He replies with a peach.
It would seem we’re both ready for another roll in the hay then. God knows I need it.
It’s Wednesday evening and I’m supposed to be meeting him at the Athenium for a movie. Offerings are thin in Crestfall. We’re usually running a month or two behind the mainstream releases in the US, though I wasn’t planning to do much watching, per se.
Practice has thrown me, though. Has seeing Nolan made my game suffer? It’s hard to tell. I should be behind that by now, a psychological concrete wall, impenetrable and impervious to external influence.
Should, I think, linge
ring on the thought.
I decide to double practice hours, spend extra time in the gym making up for it. The best cure for feeling sorry for yourself is action. My mother came up with that one, has always had that go-get-’em attitude of endless positivity. Fuck knows how she came to be with my father. The guy’s basically a black hole, sucking all life into it, feeding and feeding until there’s nothing left.
I shake my head and swipe my jacket from the back of the door, smiling to myself in the knowledge Nolan’s going to find something scant and lacy if his fingers do go fishing tonight.
I write Mom a note and leave it on the kitchen table, closing the front door behind myself and pulling in a deep breath. The weather’s welcome outside. It’s warm and fresh, the kind of world where even the wind seems full of possibility.
My car’s parked on the street. I’m halfway to it when I hear doors opening on the other side of the street. My eyes go to the black Mercedes four-wheel-drive parked there, two goons emerging from the back seat and powering their way over. They’re suited up and I don’t imagine it’s because they’re headed to the opera.
They run over to me, scanning the street for witnesses.
Fucking Dad, I think.
But they’re not getting their grubby hands on me.
I turn and prepare to sprint…only to collide straight into the brick wall that is goon number three. I hadn’t even seen him approach. Asshole was probably hiding in the bushes.
He grabs my wrist and twists my arm high behind my back, but not before I’ve swung my leg back into his shin. He barely moves, a short grumble before the others arrive and take hold of my legs.
I scream but only manage to get out “Hel—” before my mouth is covered. I try to bite down, but it’s useless.
How can no one be seeing this? I wonder. It’s broad daylight for crying out loud.
They carry me across the street and bundle me into the back of the Merc most unceremoniously.
“Fuck you!” I shout, wedged between two of them as the doors close.
“If he wants to see me so bad,” I continue. “He should have kidnapped me his-fucking-self.”
The goon in the passenger seats turns to show me he’s holding a pistol, placing his finger to his lips.
I laugh. “You think that piece of dick compensation scares me?”
He goes back to staring out the front window, the driver pulling away with a screech of tires.
It’s a long and painful trip to my father’s. I’ve never been here before, but I pay special attention to the street and house number, filing it away for later. These goons might be big, but they’re not very bright. They should have patted me down at the very least. Clearly, they haven’t been watching enough NCIS.
I get out reluctantly not willing to be manhandled again. One goes to reach for me, but I put up my fist. “Touch me again and I swear to god I’ll knock your teeth so far down your throat you’ll have to stick a toothbrush up your ass to brush them.”
That gets something of a smile. He nods and ushers me towards the front door. Damn house looks like a mausoleum, completely cold and over the top. Suits my father to a T, really.
The front doors are gold, probably ten foot high. I’m led through, the air cool from all the marble.
I stop, the goon who smiled nodding me on. “They’re waiting. Move.”
“I’ve got to go,” I tell him, squeezing my legs together. “Number one, I promise.”
I almost see his eyes rolling behind those cut-price mafia shades. He jerks his head to the left. “Follow me.”
I’m led down a small hall and into a bathroom.
“You going to give me some privacy or you get off on golden showers?” I ask.
He breathes out and closes the door.
As soon as it’s closed, I pull out my cell and start to text Nolan. How stupid are these guys? Funnily enough, I’m more concerned about him thinking I’ve stood him up than being dragged here against my will. Don’t call back, I finish.
The fuck? he replies. You okay?
Yes, I text.
Address?
There’s a split second of hesitation before I reply, texting it out and adding, He’s got bodyguards. Don’t do anything stupid.
There’s a knock on the door. “Let’s go.”
“Give me a fucking second!” I bellow, as dramatically as I can.
I delete the conversation and turn off my cell, slipping it into my ass crack. Let Vin Diesel out there find it now.
I reach over and flush the toilet, opening the door and emerging looking refreshed. “Ah, that’s better.”
“Move,” the goon repeats, shifting behind me.
I’m led to a large open space at the back of the house. My father’s seated there with someone who I assume is that Harry idiot beside him. They’re both wearing the same, smug expression, smiles like oil slicks all ’round. Both have tumblers of whiskey in front of them. Do they think they’re gangsters or something? Not with a pink flamingo floating in the pool outside.
I take a seat. Or rather, I’m seated, two goons standing at my back to make sure I don’t leave the table. I feel like I’m four years old.
My father smiles at me from the opposite side of the table. “Linnea, darling. So nice of you to join us.”
I give him the finger.
He doesn’t falter, gesturing to the corporate pin-up boy beside him. “This is Harry, who I was telling you about. He’s excited to meet you.”
“Charmed,” the human robot chirps, with about as much enthusiasm as a lump of coal.
I give him the finger too, share the love.
My father smiles. “As you can see, Harry, my daughter’s a little… rough around the edges, shall we say, but with time, the right man to guide her, I’m confident she’ll come around.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce yourself to our guest, Linnea?”
I’ve got a few zingers for that, but I know the silent treatment will work best, absolutely cut my father up.
So, I give him the finger again.
He sighs, his jaw setting. That’s how I know I’m hitting the spot.
He stands, the chair he was seated in pushed back as he paces the length of the table, swiping a finger across its glass surface and bringing it up for inspection.
“Your mother didn’t know about decorum either, Linnea, but I showed her and I will show you.”
It takes all my restraint not to launch myself over there and strangle him with that stupid houndstooth tie he’s wearing.
Instead, he gets the finger again.
I sense the goons getting itchy behind me. Let them.
I can’t believe my father’s acting like this is perfectly normal, his bodyguards keeping me at the table while he talks to himself. It’s pathetic.
I half jump when a speaker in the middle of the table starts to squawk. “Everything okay there, Rex?”
Harry leans over to speak. “Perfectly fine, Dad. We’re really hitting it off,” he says, winking at me.
Vom.
So it’s Daddy listening in. Even better.
My father pauses his pacing, speaking louder. “Everything’s under control, Benjamin. The mic’s a bit hard to hear. That’s all.”
I smile and give him the finger.
He’s starting to rage all right.
But that’s perfectly fine. All I have to do is sit here and wait for Nolan, because regardless of what I said I know he’ll take action.
I doubt even the mighty Rex Marsden is ready for what happens when you fuck with a King.
CHAPTER NINE
NOLAN
I find Phoenix and Peyton in the media room playing UFC on the PlayStation.
Peyton tosses his controller across the sofa, pointing at the screen. “Clean fight, my ass. What was that?”
Phoenix, smiling away, simply shrugs. “It’s the Ultimate Fighting Championship, not Wrestlemania, bro. A little dirty elbow to the groin never hurt anyone.”
Pey
ton leaps onto Phoenix, wrangling him to the floor trying to dig his elbow into his nuts. “Is that so? Never hurt anyone, huh?”
I stand at the back of the room shaking my head. If a stranger was to walk in here, they’d either think it was strange for two grown-ass men to be acting like ten-year-olds, or some weird sexual ritual.
“Oi, assholes,” I call out.
They stop. Phoenix popping his head up to spot me, his arm around Peyton’s neck. “Nol, you want in on this?”
“On the love-in you’ve got going on? No, thanks, but if you are looking to expend a bit of physical aggression, perhaps I can help.”
Phoenix releases his arm, Peyton falling forward and coughing. “What did you have in mind?”
I take out my car keys and rattle them in the air. “Road trip.”
*
We pull up on the other side of the street. I thought my father was top of the pile when it came to ugly, over-the-top houses, but the white-washed abomination on the other side of the road belonging to one Rex Marsden would argue otherwise.
Peyton’s looking out the window of my car. “You’re saying they’ve got Linnea, in there?”
I nod. “It’s up to us to get her out. What do you say?”
Phoenix leans over Peyton for a better look. “I say it’s a suicide mission.”
“So you’re in?”
“Fuck yeah,” he replies, elbowing Peyton. “And you, superstar? You only good on the field or can you actually put that muscle to use in the real world?”
I see Peyton smile in the rear-view. “Just point me in the right direction. Cops?” he queries.
I watch the house. “No, we can handle this.”
“You know how many guys are inside?” asks Phoenix.
“Three or four, I’d imagine, but it’s hard to know for sure.”
Phoenix puffs his cheeks out and exhales, drumming the window with his knuckles. “Titus is going to be pissed he missed this.”
“It’s likely to be a good, old-fashioned brawl—nothing we haven’t been through at Crestfall before.”
Phoenix picks up two baseball bats from the footwell, handing one to Peyton. “Understood. Let’s go break something.”
