Throw Down (The King Brothers Book 1)

by Teagan Kade

  Peyton laughs. It vibrates through his body, through my leg that’s scissored over his thigh. “Maybe you could send some of those purple beans my way so I don’t have to spend five days a week in the gym.”

  “I thought you guys loved that stuff, looking in the mirror, flexing…”

  His cock jumps against my knee. “Oh, how’s that for flexin’?”

  I reach down and take hold of it, lightly stroke and admire the way it feels in my hand, velvety and smooth. “I mean you can’t just spend all your time in the gym. What else do you do for fun?” I stop stroking and squeeze. “Besides the obvious.”

  He puts his arm behind his head. It bulges there, the skin around his bicep stretching. He looks up at the ceiling, looks completely content. “If I could, I wouldn’t leave this bed, but since you asked, I don’t know. I guess the usual things — music and movies and hanging out.”

  “You don’t knit like, uh, what’s his name, that football player?”

  The answer comes to him. “Baylor Torrence. The guy’s a fucking beast.”

  “Didn’t he release like a best-selling book of knitting patterns or something?”

  “When you’ve got the stats he does, you can do whatever the hell you want — knit, crochet, start a sewing circle. I’d pick up a pair of needles if I could have his stats.”

  I lift my leg higher, the top of my pubis brushing the thick trunk of Peyton’s thigh. “No feminine hobbies you want to tell me about — scrapbooking, baking cakes? I bet you make a mean cobbler.”

  His hand moves from my ass up my back, playing with the fine hairs on the nape of my neck. A quiet blanket of electric current runs under my skin at his touch. “None of the above, though I don’t mind a good musical.”

  I sit up, shocked. “Musical? Tell me more.”

  “My mother used to sneak me out of the house to see them. She thought my entire childhood shouldn’t just be football, BBQs, and lifting. She’d wait for Dad to go out of town, even snuck me out of bed once. The old man had no idea. To this day, my brothers have no idea. But I used to love it — the lights, the theatrics, the build-up, choc-tops, sitting on a cushion… God, we must have seen ten or more together. These days I have to go alone, incognito.”

  “What, you wear a wig?” I laugh, trying to picture the mighty Peyton King enjoying Mary Poppins or the Pirates of Penzance.

  “Not quite. I just make sure I’m fifty miles or more from Crestfall.”

  “People would understand. It’s not like you’re sneaking out in drag.”

  “It’s not far off.”

  “What’s your favorite then?” I ask.

  He looks to me and the power of his gaze cannot be understated. I wouldn’t be surprised if all the mysteries of the universe live inside those chocolate opal eyes, inside the deep cosmos of them. His lips pucker slightly. “Phantom of the Opera, of course. My man Andrew Lloyd is a fucking genius. The eighty synthesizers are the only thing that hasn’t aged well.”

  This is getting more surprising by the second. “Wow. Talk about revelations. Your brothers aren’t hiding anything, are they? No harems or family initiations I should know about? Or do they like to dress in drag?

  Peyton laughs strong and loud at this, hand on his chest trying to calm himself. “I just pictured Nolan in pumps, lipstick, and a little black dress, and it’s the worst fucking thing I’ve seen in my life. Where’s some brain bleach when you need it?”

  I return to stroking his cock, top to bottom — quite a distance, in truth. It hardens against my fingers, a snake starting its dance. “I think you’d look pretty good in a pair of Miu Mius, actually.”

  “I don’t know what that is, but no… just no. But as for my brothers, they’ve all got their own quirks and eccentricities. Everyone does, don’t they?”

  “You guys get along?”

  He takes a moment to consider it, eyes returning to the roof. “Yeah, we do. I mean, we fight and shit. It’s what siblings do, but yeah, we have each other’s backs. Titus, he’s got a bright future ahead of him, a couple of Major League teams already sniffing around. He’s pretty brash, cocky, but I guess he’s got a kind of sensitive side, too.”

  “He has a twin, doesn’t he?”

  “Phoenix. His gig’s basketball. He basically plays to keep Dad happy. I don’t think his heart’s really in it anymore, you know? He’s had offers from pro teams too, but he’s putting them off. And then there’s Nolan.”

  “He’s different?” I ask, my hand tightening around Peyton’s cock.

  His hand shifts away from my neck, finger pads tiptoeing down my spine. “Well, I guess he’s quieter than the rest of us. He comes alive on the ice, no doubt, but off it? I guess you’d say he hasn’t slept his way through Crestfall like some of us. Sorry,” he adds. “It’s not something to be proud of. I don’t keep a ledger if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “It’s fine.” I smile, happy that he’s opening up. He’s getting personal and it’s a wonderful thing.

  Exactly what you wanted, right?

  But the more he opens up, the more he becomes his true self, the more guilt I feel about the article, about my decision to add him in. It’s not fair. We’re having a normal conversation here without all that jock bravado and I got to admit it’s drawing me closer to him — more than that, if I’m really honest with myself. I haven’t felt this way about a guy before, wanting to know every intimate detail of his life, giggly and tingly and just acting plain fucking weird. And what am I going to do? Send his deepest, darkest secrets out to the world? Ruin his life?

  Put short, I’m worried I can’t go through with this story now I’ve seen behind the curtain and realized it’s not, in fact, the Wizard there, but a simple man, flawed like any other.

  Beautifully flawed.

  He senses something’s off, lifting himself and holding the side of my face, directing it to him. “What is it?”

  I’ve let go of him with my hand. It sits idly against his thigh. “Nothing.”

  “You sure? You can tell me. I’m basically a certified psychologist,” he says.

  “How’s that?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve had to suffer through my fair share of pillow talk.”

  “You have to ‘suffer’ through what I’m saying?”

  “No, no, no, shit,” he says, “that’s not what I—”

  I place a finger on his lips, those perfect, talented lips. “Shut up. I’m screwing with you.”

  He reaches over and grabs me by the hips, lifting me over the top of him with ease, his cock resting against my pussy. “Are you?”

  I reach between my legs and lift myself up, guiding his cock into place before slowly, deliberately settling myself upon it until there’s not an inch to be seen and I’m completely, blissfully, filled. “How about now?”

  He smiles back at me, hands squeezing my hips. “Better.”

  *

  Everything is restored walking to the office the following morning. The air feels fresher, the sun brighter… I’m pretty sure nothing Lewis could say can bring me down. There is an actual spring in my step as I navigate to my desk.

  I stop by Lewis’s office on the way through, keen to tell him I’m going to refocus the story away from Peyton and back to party culture, that I’ll find a new angle, but Lewis hasn’t arrived yet. As they say, you make your own working hours when you’re the Big Man.

  Still, I’m smiling as I seat myself at my desk and start up my PC, arranging my laptop to one side and making sure all my squishies are facing the right way. Pedantic, I know. I never used to be such a neat freak, but after Mom…

  “How’s the story going?”

  I whip around to find Amanda standing there. She’s in a hot green, totally-inappropriate-for-work pencil skirt whose waistband is hovering somewhere around her belly button, her blouse so tight I’m pretty sure those perky nipples of hers are going to break through at any moment.

  Anywhere else and she’d get a stern talking to, but Lewis
will let it be, because, well, he’s Lewis. He has a penis for a brain and whatever Amanda does seems to get him hard. She could literally murder someone in the office kitchen and he’d show up to help clean the scene and bury the body.

  I’m not going to let her get to me. I keep my eyes above neck level, act cool. “It’s going well. I think I’m really onto something.”

  “Are you?” she smirks, lips moving to one side. “Onto something, or on top of something?”

  I resist the urge to scissor kick her. “Very funny, but really, whatever angle I settle on, I think it’s going to make for good reading.”

  Amanda leans on the partition, eyes narrowing. “Are we talking a deep, biting political intrigue here or something more,” she pauses with a finger on her chin for dramatic effect, “Anastasia Steele?”

  How she got through college I’ll never know. I’m pretty sure Lewis hired her because she’s far prettier to look at than a potted plant. “It’s going to be intelligent and thought-provoking. You know, actual journalism.”

  Which you know nothing about, I want to add, until I remember she’s got a pretty good story of her own she’s piecing together, hurt porn or some-such.

  She wastes no time reminding me of it. “You know, I’m really onto something myself. I think it could go national.”

  “Do you?” It’s hard keeping the bite out of my tone.

  “Yes, I do. I think it’s clear who’s going to have the better article here. Unless, of course, you’re going real deep with Peyton King.”

  I know she’s taunting me, dangling the carrot, but I can’t help myself. “We can wager on it if you like.”

  Amanda stands up straight. “And the stakes?”

  I stand myself, even though I’m a good foot shorter without heels. “To be decided.”

  She smiles and god, I’d give anything to wipe it off her smug, admittedly well defined, face. She extends her hand. “Sure. It’s not like I’m going to lose.”

  We shake, the mass of jewelry hanging off Amanda’s wrist jangling.

  “That’s what I like to see, ladies. Good, old-fashioned teamwork.”

  It’s Lewis. He’s finally appeared with a stack of folders under one arm, a coffee in hand. He steps between us, has no idea what we’ve actually been doing. The idiot, bless his cotton socks, thinks we’re forming some kind of partnership.

  Far from it, Michael Scott.

  He looks to Amanda first. “How are the articles coming along?”

  She pushes her chest out, smiling and fluttering her fake-ass eyelashes. “Excellent. I’m making big progress.”

  Lewis pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Great.” He turns to me. “And Erin, how are we coming along with the party boy piece?”

  Cringe factor ten-thousand.

  This is it. I should tell him I’ve dropped Peyton from the article, that I’m going back to keeping it party-centric, but I look at Amanda’s face and cannot do it. I might need Peyton after all to pull this off.

  “Great,” I beam.

  Lewis smiles back. “Carry on then.”

  I eyeball Amanda as she turns to leave. She’s not going to get the better of me this time. No, sir. I’m angry enough now I’m determined to see this through.

  Whatever the cost.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  PEYTON

  It’s a good thing Coach is helping keep my mind off Erin. It’s drill after drill, endless pushups… My entire body burns from the effort, calves so tight and hard they’re basically cement.

  Thanks to Coach’s no-phone policy, day two comes and goes and still I haven’t been in touch with Erin. I know I should send her something — other than a dick pic — but all this girlfriend-boyfriend stuff is new to me, provided that is what we actually are here.

  Whatever it is, it’s more than fuck buddies. I’m certain of that much because when I think about her I’m not just thinking about sex, as great as it is. I’m thinking about the way she slightly tilts her head when she’s confused, the way she shovels food into her mouth when she’s hungry, pulls hair behind her ear, her laugh, her quirky conversation, her interest in everything other than herself, in me. No one has dug that deep before, really seen the mask I put up for the world. She’s the first.

  Maybe she can be the last, too?

  It’s an odd concept, imagining the future with her like that.

  I’m standing at the water table on the edge of the field, sweat growing cold on my skin, the Gatorade I’m guzzling leaving a dry, chemical taste on my tongue.

  Something collides into me from behind, half the contents of my cup ending up back on the table.

  Tony starts pouring. “How’s your unicorn?”

  “Fine,” I reply, too tired to delve into the subject right now, especially with Tony of all people.

  He downs his first cup, turning to pour another. “She’s in your head, man.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  He faces me, breathing in. “You’re out there running the drills and sucking Coach’s cock, but,” he taps the side of his head, “you’re doing it like a robot, a Tom Brady T1000, man. Your body is playing ball,” he throws his arm up, “but your head’s in the clouds, brother, swimming around in sex land up there.”

  I shudder to think what kind of ‘sex land’ lives in Tony’s head.

  I scrunch the cup up and toss it into the trashcan at the corner of the table. “All right, but I’m still here, aren’t I? I’m still kicking your ass out there.”

  I am, which is why Tony’s so keen to change the subject. “We’re hitting town after practice, that place with the mousy brunette behind the bar — Melinda, Mandy? Some shit.”

  I vaguely remember her, just how uncomfortable it was trying to hold her in place against a stack of kegs in the back room of said bar. She left scratch marks on my back a mile long.

  Tony grabs me shaking. “Earth to Peyton, come, get wasted, and forget about this girl. Go to her after if you want. What difference is an hour going to make?”

  I give in. “Fuck, fine.”

  Tony slaps me on the back, scrunching up his cup and letting it drop to the grass. “First round’s on me.”

  *

  The Ace of Clubs is your typical small-town bar. There’s a dancefloor the size of a double bed, a horrific red and black color scheme that makes you feel like you’re at the hotel from the Shining. Mercifully, the mousy brunette is gone, replaced with a Sons of Anarchy stand-in with a beard so long it touches the bar. But hell, it’s the best we’ve got off campus.

  Usually the place is full of old guys looking to get laid and young ladies looking for free drinks, but it’s been taken over tonight by a different kind of patron. I recognize the blue and grey jerseys, the TSU Titans. Of course they’re here. We’re playing them this weekend and this is the only place to get a drink short of the liquor store down the road. It makes sense.

  It seems the Titans are well into the swing of things. They’ve spread out across the place, trays of empty beer glasses littering the ten or so tables.

  Even the music, Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me, seems to grow quieter, the tension in the air building as we approach the bar in a throng. We’re in bright red Thunder jerseys and jackets, couldn’t be any clearer who we are.

  They’re watching us, every single eyeball.

  Tony arrives at the bar and orders. I come up beside him and recognize the Titan’s quarterback standing a few feet away, ogling us. He had seven interceptions in his sophomore year, equaling all-American greats like Eric Berry. He’s good.

  But I’m better.

  He makes eye contact with me. “Better drink up. Might dull the pain a bit when we kick your ass on the field.”

  Tony’s the first to turn, but I hold him back with a hand, the rest of the team pulling in behind us.

  I eyeball the Titan QB. “If it’s an ass-kicking you’re looking for, you’ve come to the right place.”

  He laughs at that, nodding
to his teammates, who have also started to gather around him, slinking from the corners and shadows of the club. “You’ve lost your last two games, right? Your back line’s a fucking joke, and your tight end’s an actual homo. Champ, we’re going to beat you so deep into the ground you’ll need a shovel to find your way out.”

  Tony moves, but I hold him at bay.

  I take a step towards this Titan prick, fucking hate being called ‘champ.’ “You’ve got a big fucking mouth, you know that?”

  “Hey now, I don’t need no trouble here tonight,” says the Sons of Anarchy extra, but he’s ignored — kind of outnumbered, too.

  The Titans have crept forward, all of us coming together, testosterone heavy in the air, Def Leppard turning to Led Zep in the tinny speakers mounted above the bar.

  The Titans QB blows me a kiss. “Big mouth and big balls, which is why I can tell you, to your ugly fucking face, we’re going to fuck up your scoreboard and then fuck all your dirty bitches too, double-bagged, of course. Wouldn’t want to pick up any diseases from their sloppy little holes now, would we, boys?”

  A chorus of agreement from the Titans, a few unsure.

  I feel the guys tighten behind me, eager for blood, but we can’t engage.

  Then the Titan QB says something I simply can’t forgive.

  He points directly at me, only a few feet away now. “And you, asshole, I’m going to fuck your bitch first.”

  I think of Erin and see absolute red. I know this guy is talking shit, only wants to wind us up, probably doesn’t even know her name, but I snap. I rush forward and collect him around the waist, driving him through his team and over a table, the two of us spilling over onto the dancefloor.

  It’s a fucking disaster after that.

  The place descends into chaos. Tony’s clashing with two guys back at the bar, a glass smashing against the wall as a Titan goes flying. I hear the crunch of knuckles against bone and realize it’s my own hand belting this mouthy fucker in the jaw. His head snaps, but he takes the punch well and fires back a hard left I manage to duck, trying to get to my feet.

  I’m winded as someone else tackles me back to the floor. It’s wet and sticky against the side of my face. “Fuck you!” I scream, and snap upwards, kicking some guy in the chest and tossing over a table, picking up the QB by the collar of his jersey and smashing him square in the face. He mutters something, blood flowing in two red rivers from his nose, the same color as the walls of the club. I drop him and spin around, shocked at how quickly all hell has broken loose but feeling the welcome flood of endorphins a good fight brings.