Throw Down (The King Brothers Book 1)

by Teagan Kade

  “Story?”

  She tilts her head. “Come on now. There’s no need to be modest, and yeah, I know we’ve had our differences, the big bet and all that, and I’ll pay, that’s cool, but thought you should know. It was ballsy stuff.”

  I piece it together. “You’ve read the article?”

  She checks her glittery Gucci watch. “Uh, it’s almost ten. I’d say everyone on campus has read it by now. Thing’s going to spread like wildfire.”

  I was sure Lewis told me the article would be out tomorrow. That’s what he said, wasn’t it? The day after tomorrow. He must have pushed it through — almost unheard of given the one speed of our printers (read: super-duper slow).

  “Anyhow,” Amanda smiles. “Those look heavy.”

  I back out of my head, still trying to process everything. “Yes, thanks.”

  Amanda starts to jog on the spot. “Again, great article.”

  I walk away smiling.

  Holy hell.

  That was… weird, but if Amanda gave the article her tick of approval…

  A guy I recognize from the Steam Room stops when he sees me. “Hey, you’re that reporter, right? Erin, isn’t it?”

  I nod.

  He puts his hands on his hips nodding. “Congratulations. That was a serious read.”

  “Thanks?” I reply.

  He puts his hands out. “No, no, I mean it. Shit’s going to get people talking.” He goes to look between my legs. “You must have some serious balls, sister. Laying out the King himself… Damn. Damn,” he repeats, shaking his leg like he’s just stepped into ice water.

  He puts his fist out and I swivel the best I can to meet it with my own.

  He goes off laughing, but he’s not the only person who approaches me on my way back to the apartment. Hell, people I hardly even know stop and tell me they’ve read the article. It’s no surprise given my headshot would be right next to the byline, plain for all to see.

  Amanda was right. It’s spreading and getting people talking — exactly the kind of effect I was hoping for, what any journalist hopes for.

  I’m on cloud nine when I get home. Even the stairs seem like nothing today. I feel like I could float up them.

  The door’s unlocked. I push through and place the bags on the counter.

  “Mindy, you here?” I shout.

  But it’s not Mindy who emerges from the hallway.

  It’s Peyton.

  And I can tell something is very, very wrong.

  His arms are crossed, his entire stance defensive, brow furrowed. “How fucking could you?”

  I’m not sure what I’ve walked into here.

  I approach him, but he takes a step back. “Don’t you even come near me right now. How do I know you’re not going to stab me in the fucking back again?”

  I’m not used so such vitriol, the acidic tone he’s levelling at me. “Why don’t we sit?” I offer.

  “Fuck sitting. You need to start talking, and fast.”

  “If this is about the article…”

  “You’re damn right it’s about the article.”

  “I thought it was going to come out tomorrow,” I plead.

  He looks around the room, shaking his head. “Like that’s going to make any fucking difference. I’m ruined. You know that, right? The shit you said in there, personal shit… You’ve fucked up everything: my career, my future, my fucking reputation. I’m done at Crestfall.”

  “But…”

  “But what?” he spits. “I can’t wait to hear how you’re going to justify this. You think putting that stuff about me and Lorna in your story is going to help me, all that shit about my relationship with dad, my brothers…”

  My stomach drops through the floor. What he’s talking about? The blackmail? That was in the article I told Lewis not to run.

  It dawns.

  Lewis has screwed me over.

  Peyton sees my look of confusion. “What? You forgot what you wrote?”

  He reaches to the sofa and picks up a copy of the Crimson, throwing it at me.

  Somehow, I catch it, flipping it over and knowing as soon as I see the front page the wrong article has run. The very first sentence says it all: Peyton King might be Crestfall’s finest, but it’s often those in the brightest spotlight who hide the darkest truths.

  Oh, hell.

  I keep reading, but I know the words by heart. It’s more a case of being unable to make eye contact with Peyton, to see how much he is hurting by my hand. What did I think was going to happen? Did I really trust Lewis to do the right thing?

  Don’t displace the blame, I tell myself. You did this.

  I fold the paper in half and place it carefully on the counter, straightening up and forcing myself to look at Peyton. But the look of hurt on his face is so defined, so real, it breaks my heart. “This version wasn’t supposed to run.”

  He takes a step forward and I’m frightened by the look in his eye, the cold front that’s swept across his entire body. “But you wrote it, didn’t you? Whatever the intention, you wrote it. You fucking used me, for what?”

  I know I shouldn’t argue, but he at least deserves to know why. “Because I want a future, okay, and an article like this…”

  He loses composure. “It’s my life, Erin! It’s my fucking life you’re screwing with here. I mean… fuck, you really reeled me in, you know? You actually had me caring about you, thinking this could be more.” He brings his hands to his head, then a forefinger and thumb into his eyes, exhaling hard. “Was it all a ruse, just a way to get me to talk?”

  I go forward, but he steps back again, hand out. My eyes are hot, wet. “It wasn’t, I promise.”

  “Bullshit,” he shouts, umber eyes equally glassy. I realize in that moment I have broken him. Whatever I thought Peyton King was, I now realize he’s a human, just like anyone else.

  I’m angry with Lewis, of course. I intend to rip strips off him when I see him next, but I’m angrier with myself for writing that version in the first place, for simply putting it out there into the universe. I knew in my heart Lewis would go with the more salacious version. I left it to him to alleviate my guilt.

  It isn’t working.

  Peyton seems to calm, breathing out through his nostrils. “Maybe, if I really force myself, I can admire it, the player being played and all that.” He claps his hands together. “Very fucking clever, and yeah, maybe this will be the big break you’re looking for, because it is a good story. But it’s mine and it should never have seen the light of day.”

  He walks past me, and I almost wish he’d shouted more, been angrier with me, but there’s nothing but dejection and bitterness.

  I reach for him, but he pulls his arm away, opening the front door and pausing there in the doorway.

  “Peyton…” I plead.

  “We’re done,” he says, the door slamming closed a pretty fucking clear full stop.

  I consider if I should run after him.

  And say what? I’m sorry? It’s not going to do any good.

  He’s gone.

  But you have the article. It will make your career. Lewis said so himself. Whatever Peyton says, you can simply deny it. Who’s the public going to believe?

  The voice inside me is right, but is it really who I have become, this two-faced being so willing to destroy others for their own gain? That’s not how I was brought up.

  I sigh, collapsing against the wall and sliding down to the carpet, wiping away tears that don’t seem to be stopping.

  What now? I ask myself.

  How in the world can I possibly repair this?

  You can’t, comes the answer.

  And the weight of that truth is almost too much to bear.

  I think about the time I’ve spent with Peyton, and not just the sex, as incredible as it has been. I think about the casual conversation, the way he opened up to me about his childhood and parents. He told me things he’s never told anyone else, and what do I do? They’ll probably be splashed over every c
ollege paper and website from here to Kentucky. He’s going to be a household name.

  I may have dethroned the king of Crestfall, finally bought my fame, but in doing so I’ve damned myself. I’ve brought him down only to lift my career.

  And it sucks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  PEYTON

  All I want to do is get home and crash, do anything to push aside this whole shitstorm.

  I’m walking up the driveway when I notice Dad’s Porsche parked in the driveaway, my brothers’ rides nowhere to be seen.

  I stop on the spot. “Fuck me.”

  I consider heading somewhere, finding a nice black hole of a bar somewhere I can drown myself in, but I know sooner or later I’m going to have to face up to the old man.

  So I push on, making it to the front door and unlocking it, stepping right into the trap.

  I find him in the living room. Alissa, soon-to-be wife six, is sitting at the breakfast bar with a glass of wine and I’m wondering where the hell she got it from considering we don’t drink wine nor have the required glasses for it. I can see she’s had more work done, her lips basically a hot dog bun by now. She’s wearing a silky slip of some sort, the slit running right up her thigh. It’s hardly daywear.

  Dad’s sitting on the edge of the sofa. He stands when I enter the room. “Peyton.”

  I pull up. “Dad, what brings you up here to the hills slumming? Where are the others?”

  “I sent them away, thought it best we talk alone.”

  I glance over to Alissa. She’s drinking that wine like it’s going out of fashion — a fair trade for having to fuck my father on a regular basis, I suppose.

  Stone looks to her. It takes her a moment or two in the silence before working out what’s going on. She stands, bit wobbly in those stripper heels. “It’s nice to see you again, Peyton,” she says, before drifting away to the back of the house.

  It’s just Dad and me now. “If you’ve come here to wail on me, trust me, I don’t need it.”

  My father takes a cautious step forward. I’ve seen him in negotiation mode like this before, which tells me perhaps I’m not about to be reamed inside-out after all.

  “Look, son,” he begins, his tone softer than usual, “I get I haven’t always been father of the year. I haven’t been close.” He places a hand over his heart. “I get it. I really do, but I am here to help.”

  I was fully expecting him to follow through on his promise not to bail me out, to bring fire and brimstone, but this new and improved father figure is seriously freaking me the fuck out. It’s far scarier.

  “I read the story this morning. I want to talk about this teacher that’s been blackmailing you.”

  And there it is.

  All those family revelations and he settled on that?

  It’s unexpected, I’ll give him that, though maybe he’s here to save his own ass, to keep the family name squeaky clean, or polish it, at least. “Dad…”

  “No,” he says, firmer, coming closer, “what she did to you was sick. It makes me sick to my fucking stomach thinking about it, about that,” I can see him struggling to continue, “pedophile.”

  I have to look away, but my eyes can’t settle, my head buzzing. Hearing it aloud, the word, is bringing it all to the fore when I’ve worked so hard to push it the fuck away, to lock it out and get on with my life.

  “I knew what I was getting into, Dad.”

  He shakes his head. “No, you didn’t. She took advantage of you and I’m here to say we are going to fix this, all of it. You have my word on that.”

  “You can’t fix it, Dad. It’s done.”

  He looks pained, staring at his feet before lifting his eyes again. They’re glassy when he does. “Yes, maybe, but that doesn’t mean justice can’t be served. We’re going to fix this and we’re going to get this Lorna woman while we’re at it.”

  “Didn’t you read the story, Dad? You were in there.”

  “If you think I give a fuck about that, son, maybe you don’t know me as well as you think I do.”

  “I told her those things, Dad. I let her get in and screw with my head.”

  “I’ve been there,” he laughs. “Too many times, but it doesn’t matter because that’s all going to be forgotten in a week, but this thing with this teacher… I can’t let that stand.”

  He places his hand on my shoulder. It’s awkward, the movement, alien, but it’s the closest thing to affection I think my father’s ever shown me. He squeezes. “We will get through this, son. We’re in it together and I’ve got your back, no matter what.”

  I close my eyes for a moment and allow myself to exhale, to purge myself. “It’s all so fucked up.”

  He takes me by the back of the head and brings me against his chest, his heart, steady and strong, beating below. I want to give in, to let the emotion take me completely, but I hold it back — barely.

  Dad sniffs, holding me with two hands before him, smiling. “They say a father shouldn’t have a favorite, but…”

  “…It’s Nolan, isn’t it?” I joke.

  Dad lets go, perhaps realizing the moment has passed. We had our bonding moment and now it’s back to business. “Enough about the story. How’s the ball? I saw your last game. You’re still going places.”

  “Maybe,” I reply.

  Dad checks his watch. “Guess we should be going. Alissa wants to go shopping.” He leans close to me. “I’d rather peel off my fingernails one by one, but as they say, happy wife…”

  “…Happy life,” I finish.

  “You’d think your father would have this marriage thing down by now, but let me tell you, I’m far from perfect, son.”

  “You don’t say,” I jest.

  “Alissa!” he shouts, the human apparition appearing. “We’re going.”

  She walks past me still with wine glass in hand, miraculously refilled. If she can turn water into wine, fuck knows what she’s doing with my father. She smiles as she goes.

  Dad waits a beat and takes my shoulder again. “Whatever you need, Peyton, I’m here. Don’t let this get to you.”

  I swallow down a lump in my throat. “Thanks Dad, I appreciate it.”

  He slaps my shoulder and nods. “My people will be in touch.”

  He walks towards the front door, spinning around when he gets there. “And tell your brothers to clean this place up a bit. Smells like a dog’s ass in here.”

  I can’t argue with that.

  The house is unnaturally quiet when he’s gone. The TV’s not on, Titus isn’t singing in the shower, no Phoenix watching porn upstairs. It’s eerie.

  I sit down on the back of the sofa, the space still warm from my father.

  “What the actual fuck,” I say to myself, smiling, surprised at his appearance here, and words. I’m happy to have him on my side, over the moon, really, but I’m still pissed. I’ve been betrayed by the one person I thought I could trust the most, completely blindsided… gutted. The hurt only builds the more I try to compartmentalize it.

  I reach up to my head, rocking on the spot. “Fuck. You!” I scream, looking for something to throw but finding only a stuffed cushion, heaving it at the wall.

  Lorna might get what’s coming to her, but my thoughts are fixated solely on Erin. She’s ripped out my heart and stomped it flat, pissed our entire relationship away for what? A bit of campus fame? A byline? I thought I meant more to her than that.

  You weren’t thinking at all, clearly.

  “Shut the hell up,” I tell my head, aware I’m talking to myself and falling deeper into madness here. Soon I’ll be stripping down and jerking off in the hedges. Might even be better comatose than having to think about her twenty-four seven.

  I close my eyes and try to settle my brain, but it’s runaway train leading to a sole destination.

  I stand. “Fuck you.” I repeat.

  “Fuck you.”

  *

  Over the coming days I embrace the lethargy. I don’t do much of anything. I
don’t feel much of anything. I live only to exist in that lucid space between life and death. Put simply, I’m numb — to everything and everyone.

  It doesn’t go unnoticed by my brothers, who try to cajole me out of the house at every moment, beg me to be their wingman or come get ribs. I resist and then soon tire, leaving me to my own devices.

  They didn’t seem to care they were in the story, either. Titus actually seemed kind of pleased about it all.

  I skip practice for three days straight, switch my phone off early on to stop the flood of texts and calls. I’m a husk of the person I once was.

  Dad uses the landline to detail me on the situation with Lorna. I have to hand it to the old man. He wasn’t lying. He’s hired an attorney, an investigator to dig into Lorna, even a PR agency to help out with public image, to ‘control the narrative,’ as he told me. He could have been a damn good politician if his private life wasn’t such a disaster. He talks me through it all with daily updates and questions. I answer robotically, but I’m far from myself, still caught in that web of detachment I can’t seem to crawl my way out of.

  Coach must be shitting a brick. He’s been around, as has the whole team more or less, but so far I’ve done a pretty good job of getting my brothers to keep them at bay. A few more days and I’ll bet they’ll just kick the damn door down, but until then I’m free to wallow in my own self-inflicted misery.

  I know Erin’s been trying to call. She’s tried Titus and Nolan, who both told her to fuck off. Titus was especially rude, conjuring up seemingly every swear word in the English language, and some borrowed from other tongues. I felt a twinge of guilt then, a drop of empathy, but it was swept away fast when I thought back to what she wrote, exposed there for the entire world to see, my deepest feelings and desires slathered out in ink for the masses.

  At least she hasn’t tried showing up here. She doesn’t have the balls to show her face around here.

  No, fuck her and fuck the Crestfall Crimson.

  Let them have their moment in the spotlight.

  Let them dig their own graves.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ERIN

  I’ve become a permanent fixture at the King residence. I’m actually surprised no one has called the cops on me yet. I’ve tried to text, call, knock on the damn door — everything short of throwing rocks at the window.