King's Baby - A Bad Boy Romance (20 page)

Chapter Sixteen

King

I
refused to allow myself to think about it while driving. It’s just not safe.
No, that’s a cop out. I just can’t think about it because it hurts too fucking
much. I wish I could go to sleep and wake up with no memory of Holland and her
hot, wet skin against mine, her strong legs slinking around my waist while she
pushes her . . . fuck, stop. She’s a kid. I keep trying to wrap my brain around
that, but it’s not happening. I spent the entire flight home going over and
over every single moment of our time together. Yeah, a lot of it was spent
having sex, but she was so much more than a sexy fuck. She was the real deal.
My heart beat faster when I was with her, but I was never more at peace. With
her in my arms, the world felt right. That piece of me I’ve been looking for .
. . it was
her
.

The
darkness of the parking garage is a welcome relief from the blazing hot Houston
sun and my aching head. I’m prone to migraines, and I’ve got a whopper.

It’s
private here. No one else is allowed to park here except for Sebastián, and
he’s dealing with Carlos. The guy knew this business was cut
throat—literally—and he still insisted he was up for the job two
years ago when I promoted him. My father would roll over in his grave if I
didn’t allow Sebastián to do his job, so now I’m faced with finding a new head
of security for my gateway club in Miami. Fucking great.

I
cut the engine and recline the seat back. I lace my fingers behind my neck and
squeeze my head between my biceps. I have the urge to scream, just yell until
my nicotine-riddled lungs are sore to relieve some of this stress, but my
throbbing head keeps my screaming at bay. I’ve never been in a situation I
couldn’t buy, sell, trade or murder my way out of, until now.

Flopping
my elbows down, my left one makes contact with the metal handle of the door,
and for a second the sharp, shooting pain masks the pain of my headache.

“Fuck.”
I yell, and my headache pain takes the forefront again. I need a smoke. I pat
my chest pockets and then my pants before I remember I smoked my last one.
Figures. Wait, I keep a pack in here for emergencies. I flip open the center
console, and thank God, there’s half a pack of Newports begging to be
chain-smoked. I light one up with the cheap, disposable lighter that has a
picture of a pair of pink tits on the side of it. I suck hard and wait for the
familiar rush of cancer causing toxins to flood my lungs and calm my nerves.
Smoking usually helps, but after I met Holland, I started cutting back a
lot—until I took off for Miami. I’ve sizzled so many cancer sticks since
then that my lungs ache, but the need for something nags at me relentlessly.
It’s not cigarettes I need, though . . . it’s her.

I curse when the
fiberglass filter hits the inside of my fingers and the sulfurous smell of
burning flesh invades my nostrils. I fumble around until it’s smoldering in the
ashtray instead of between my fingers, and when I sit up, I have a nice head
rush.

Fucking great . . .
I’ve been spacing off between smokes for over an hour, my headache is worse
than ever, my hand is throbbing, and I still haven’t come to grips with having
to leave Holland. I’ve never been addicted to anything other than cigarettes,
but I am hooked on her. My skin crawls like a meth addict without a score, and
I can’t help seeing the irony in it all. I’m a drug lord who’s been sent to
rehab to suffer against his will, just like many of my customers.

“No,” I say aloud to
make it more real. If I hear myself say it, maybe I’ll listen. I slam the seat
back to its proper position and throw the door open, nearly scratching the Audi
in the stall next to me. It doesn’t matter if I leave a dent. It’s my fucking
car anyway. The slam of the Rover’s door echoes throughout the cavernous garage,
along with the sound of my pounding feet against the cement. I’m going up for a
drink. Maybe it will help me forget for a while. I need an escape, however
temporary it may be.

I squint in the
bright light of the elevator and feel my way over the buttons for the VIP club.
When it starts to lift, a wave of nausea rolls through me and a thin layer of
perspiration
covers
my face. No drink. I need my bed
and maybe a couple of sleeping pills instead. None of this pain is going away
anytime soon.

When the doors open,
I cross the empty club, and when I pass the bartender, I point to my penthouse
door. He buzzes me in, and I almost cry for the second time today. Fucking
headache, fucking Holland, fucking
drug empire
,
fucking Dad.

I toe off my shoes
and un-tuck my shirt while I struggle to my bedroom. When I’m there, I don’t
even turn on the lights. I just finish stripping down, pop two pills from the
bottle on my dresser, and slip between the sheets.

I’m not there for two
seconds—in fact, my head doesn’t even make contact with the
pillow—before I feel a warm, soft leg curling over my hip.

“What the fuck.
Crystal, what are you doing here? How did you get in?” I shout. She doesn’t
even startle. I’m more affected by the sound of my voice than she is. I moan
and collapse onto my pillow.

“Get out.”

“But baby, it’s been
weeks. I miss you. Are you having another headache? Let me rub your shoulders.
Turn over and I’ll make it all better.”

“No. Crystal, get the
fuck out of my bed. You’ve never been invited in here. What makes you think I
want you here now?”

The hand that was
caressing my shoulder stops, and a tiny gasp escapes her lips. I’ve never been
blatantly cruel to Crystal, but she’s taken this too far.
I
go to
her
when I want
something,
not
the other way around. We
fuck at her place or a hotel. Whoever let her in here is going to be very
sorry. If I weren’t in so much pain, I’d
probably break
King’s rule number five
,
never hit a woman
.

“King, why have you
been avoiding me? Is it that little girl I walked in on you having dinner with?
You can’t be serious about her.”

That’s it. I was
going to let her slink away with her tail between her legs, but calling Holland
out as a child snaps the thin thread of control I’m working with. I bolt out of
bed and reach to turn on the light, but I end up grabbing it and throwing it
against the wall when my fingers fail to find the switch. Crystal crawls
backward to the opposite side of the bed, screaming.

“I said get the fuck
out of my house, Crystal. Don’t call me, don’t come to the club, and if I ever
catch you in my bed again, you’re dead! Do you understand me? Dead.” I can’t
see her, but I sense her scurrying around the room, probably grabbing her
clothes and pulling on what she dares to before running down the hall. Another
surge of adrenaline flows through my veins, and I find the remaining crystal
letter K bookend that Crystal cleverly gifted me and hurl it down the hall,
just missing her before it explodes into a thousand tiny fragments against a
wall.

“God damn it, King, what
the fuck is wrong with you? I was just trying to . . .” she says, hopping up
and down, trying to stuff her round ass into her tight jeans. Crystal dresses
too young for her age. I always hated that.

“Shut up and leave
now, Crystal. Seriously, before you get hurt.” Her eyes widen and she stops
dressing. With her shirt open and her jeans unbuttoned, she turns to stomp out
of the penthouse, slamming the door in her wake on purpose. She’s been witness
to several of my migraines, so she knows firsthand how miserable they make me.
The slam was her last dig, and it served its purpose. My head is wrecked now,
but nowhere as wrecked as my heart.

Chapter Sixteen

Holland

Practice is horrible.
I can’t concentrate, my fingers are all over the place, and nothing’s flowing.
For the first time in my life, music isn’t calming or soothing; it’s
exasperating. I want to be at home in my bed with the covers pulled over my
head so I can bawl my head off. If I can just be alone for a few hours, maybe I
could purge him from my system and get my life back on track.
Yeah right, Holland, you keep telling
yourself that.

Mama is sitting in
the waiting room while I practice, as if I need another thing to worry about
right now. If Shanna says anything about King being here yesterday, I’m dead
meat. As if she were reading my mind, Mama opens the door to the practice room
a crack.

“Okay if I come in?”

“Yeah, you may as
well. I’m not having a great day,” I say laying my bow across my legs with a
deep sigh.

“I noticed.” She
lowers her eyes to the floor, shaking her head. She’s disappointed. Oh my God.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mama disappointed in me.

“You should have
stayed home last night instead of staying up all night watching movies with
Savannah. I knew better than to let you spend the night before a practice day.”

As if there were any
non-practice days. I can’t remember a day that I didn’t play for a minimum of
three hours.

“It’s one off day.
Gosh, Mama can’t I ever just relax and have some fun?” As soon as the words
tumble from my lips, I regret them. I sounded whiney and ungrateful. I’ve never
complained about my lack of social life because I enjoy being at home, and I
love practicing. It’s never been a chore. But now that I’ve had a taste of
living on the edge a little, I’m interested.

“Holland. What’s
gotten into you?”

I shrug one shoulder
and pick up my bow, running it across the strings in a horrible screech just to
annoy her. I don’t know who I am lately, and what’s worse is that I don’t think
I want to go back to the person I used to be.

“I’m going to ignore
that and chalk it up to sleep deprivation. But I’ll tell ya
what,
there will be no more staying the night at Savannah’s if you have a practice
room reserved the next day. We can’t afford to do this if you aren’t going to
take it seriously and give it one hundred percent, Holland. This is your
future—”

“Mama, God, I get it.
I’m off my game for one day and you think I’m throwing my future away.”

I’m on my feet and
packing my violin in its case before she’s able to process the fact that I have
just raised my voice to her for the first time ever. I’m so emotionally tired
that I just want to go home. Squeezing past her in the doorway, I mumble
something about having to be perfect all the time and stomp down the hall and
into the street.

It’s so hot already,
and the smell of tacos from the Mexican restaurant next door mixed with car
exhaust is nauseating. Beads of sweat are forming on my forehead when Mama
catches up with me.

“Are you sick,
honey?” She presses the back of her hand against my cheek and I brush her away.

“I’m fine. It’s just
hot out here. Can we please just go home?”

Her arm drops to her
side and she narrows her eyes to look at me . . . hard. She’s off balance. My
attitude sucks right now, and for once I wish I hadn’t always been so damn
good. If I had thrown in an occasional hissy fit or misbehaved a few times,
this wouldn’t be so hard.

“Yes, okay. Let's
go.” She pinches her lips together and stalks down the hill to our car. I
follow and watch her as she robotically gets into the driver’s seat while I put
my violin in the back. She’s really pissed, but I’ve got too much on my plate
right now to worry about out apologizing, and I
sorta
don’t want to anyway.

***

At home, I trudge
upstairs to my room and Mama goes in the opposite direction to the kitchen to
start dinner. When I close the door and lean my back against it, the tears I’ve
been holding back for hours fill my eyes. I wrap my arms around my waist,
trying to hold myself together. The scene in the bathroom this morning with
King engulfs my mind. His angry face and stern voice saying we need to talk,
the pain in his eyes when he pulled back the shower curtain, and finally the
way his body shook in my arms when he broke down and cried.

It’s like a modern
day
Romeo and Juliet
, except it’s not
our
families
keeping us apart; it’s our age difference
and drugs.

I stumble across the
room and climb in bed, burying my face in my pillow. The more I cry, the worse
I feel. Isn’t crying supposed to help relieve the pain, heal the heart? Well if
it is, I’m doing it wrong, because after a solid hour of sobbing like somebody
just died, all I feel is exhausted. My head hurts, and my eyes are so swollen
that I can hardly see when I roll onto my back and stare at my ceiling fan
circling slowly overhead. I single out one blade and follow it around and
around with my eyes and remember how cool I used to think that was. One blade
can look so clear and obvious when it’s the only thing you’re looking at, but
when you lose track of it, they all blend together again. I’ve taken my eyes
off of my dream of becoming a professional violinist, and now it’s spinning out
of control, lost like that damn blade.

A soft knock on the
door pulls me from my fan metaphor. Shit, Mama can’t see me like this. But she
never knocks. Maybe it’s Savannah. I can’t risk it, so I very quietly slip from
the bed and pad across the floor into the bathroom and close the door before
saying ‘come in’.

“Honey? I’ve got
sweet tea and Lorna Doones.”

Sweet
tea and Lorna Doones cookies.
She’s trying to make up. Time to pack
my bags, because I’m going on a guilt trip.

“I was just going to
shower.” My face is pressed against the door, and I squeeze my swollen eyes
shut and grit my teeth while I wait for her to decide if she’s going to let me
have my space or be stubborn and stand her ground until I come out.

“Okay . . . I’ll
leave them right here. I have to run an errand. I’ll be home in a half hour.
Are you okay?”

Thank God, she chose
space. I’m spent, and I don’t think I could handle guilt on top of heartbreak
today.

“Thanks, Mama. I’m
just going to study for a while. Love you,” I call through the door. When I
hear her leave, I slide down into a heap on the floor. I don’t want a shower. I
may never shower again without having traumatic flashbacks. I’m too weak to get
up, so I curl up into a ball on the floor and try to think about nothing, like
a blank white wall, empty space, eternal nothingness.

“Holland?” I feel the
door gently nudge against my back, and I open my eyes. When I blink and see the
furry fibers of the rug from my bathroom floor up close and personal, my heart
accelerates and I sit up. Mama. Shit.

“You like never
pass
up sweet tea and Lorna Doones, woman. What are you
doing in here?” I hear Savannah say and slump against the door.

“Hey, you’re smashing
me here.”

“Sorry.” I scoot away
so she can open the door. Her eyes pop when she sees me, but for once, she
doesn’t comment on my lack of makeup, sad looking hair, and puffy eyes. Taking
a seat on the toilet, she hands me the tepid glass of sweet tea, but I shake my
head. I’m not sure it would stay down if I drank it.

“Well
I’m
not wasting a perfectly good glass
of sweet tea,” she says, taking a big gulp and setting it on the vanity.

“I saw your mom leave
and tried to call you. When you didn’t answer after like fifty calls and a
hundred texts, I decided to come over here and make sure you were okay. So I
guess you’re not okay, huh?” I shake my head again.

“I was a bitch to my
mama at practice today, you know . . . just to make sure I was completely
miserable.”

“Ah, hence the tea
and cookies.” Savannah narrows her eyes at the tea.

“Yep.”

“Can I do anything?”
She reaches out to put her hand on my shoulder, and the warmth of her hand
brings the water works again. When a sob catches in my throat, she kneels down
on the floor and wraps her arms around me, shushing and smoothing my crazy bird
nest hair against my back.

“Come on, let’s get
you back to bed.” Savannah guides me to my feet and back to my room. When she
tucks the blanket under my chin like a toddler, I make a twisted sort of
laugh/cry sound and she giggles.

“You’re such a baby.”
She rolls her eyes, but I know she’s teasing. Anyone can see I’m suffering.

“I know. Pathetic,
huh?” I swipe the tears that are about to trickle into my ears off of my face
and crack a smile. Only Savannah could make me smile right now. She knows what
to say and how to say it like nobody else.

“So we need to make a
plan. Let’s make a list of things that will help you feel better and forget ol’
what’s his name.”

“I think I’ve had
just about enough of your lists, and King is pretty hard to forget.”

Savannah sits on the
bed, tucking her leg under her butt, and chews her thumbnail—a nasty
habit I’ve tried to get her to quit forever. I look at her thumb with raised
brows, and she shoves her hands into her lap. With one nervous habit under
control, another surfaces, and her knee begins bouncing up and down.

“You’re
gonna
make me sea sick,” I say. She jumps up with a huff and
starts pacing back and forth at the foot of my bed.

“I can’t help it. I
feel responsible for this whole thing, and I can’t figure out how to fix it.”

“It’s not your fault.
I told you I had choices, and I made the wrong ones. There’s no fixing this,
it’s over no matter what we feel. We’re six years apart in age, and more
importantly, what he does for a living is incredibly illegal.” It sounds so
logical when I say it out loud, so simple and straightforward, but inside my
heart it’s anything but.

“Okay, so what do we
do?” she asks.

“Homework.”

“Homework?”

“Yeah, normal old
regular homework. Go home and get your computer and your backpack. We need to
study for finals.”

 
She stops pacing and scratches the top of
her head with one finger.

“Okay, I’ll be right
back.”

And the first of
hopefully many normal, boring evenings begins when she returns. We spread out
our binders and folders full of papers from our last year of high school.
Savannah and I started kindergarten late. We have always been the oldest in our
class, and we are the only two graduating at nineteen, going on twenty.

Savannah starts off
strong studying, but she ends up scrolling through Facebook and Pinterest,
stopping every minute or so to laugh and show me a funny meme or quote. I roll
my puffy eyes and try to cram a million facts and figures into my head in hopes
that it will shove out the memories of King. As soon as she’s packed up and
gone, he creeps back in like a thief, stealing the relief I was starting to
feel, and the raw, open hole in my heart is exposed and bleeding again.