Reforming Kent: A Stand-Alone Angsty Bad Boy Romance (The Kennedy Boys Book 10)

by Siobhan Davis

  The music changes, and Elvis’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love” comes on. Kent grins, waggling his brows, as he spins me around, and I realize he must have planned this. My insides soften, and I smile at my boyfriend, all tension temporarily forgotten. He reels me into his arms, a quirky lopsided grin on his mouth, as he sings to me in his terribly bad yet terribly cute Elvis impersonation.

  He is loud, so damn loud, and his brothers move in closer to us, all of them dancing with their wives, grinning and laughing, as they watch Kent serenade me. At the very end, he dips me down so low my hair trails the ground, and then he whips me up into his arms, forcing my legs to go around his waist, holding me in his strong embrace while he kisses the shit out of me.

  In front of everyone.

  Catcalls and hollers ring out around us as Kent finally sets me down. I clutch him when he sways a little, keeping him steady. “I love you, Presley,” he says. “Love you so much, baby.” He buries his face in my neck, pressing his hot mouth to my ear. “I couldn’t have done this without you. You are my rock, baby. Don’t ever leave me. Please.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Presley

  Kent falls in the door of our cabin an hour later, and I lunge for him, grabbing the back of his shirt and stopping him from face-planting the floor. He laughs, rolling to the ground on his back, pulling me down on top of him. His leg juts out, and he slams the door shut with his foot. “Baby, I wanna sex you up,” he slurs, his hands fumbling under the hem of my dress. He’s been insatiable today, mauling me any chance he got. His brothers lost no opportunity to tease him over his grabby hands, and Mrs. Hayes sent disgusted looks in our direction whenever she noticed how amorous my boyfriend was.

  I attempt to climb off him, but he slaps my ass, holding me in place while he thrusts his hips up, ensuring I feel his rock-hard erection digging into my stomach. “Feel that, baby. That monster is all for you.”

  “Honey.” I smush his face in my hands. “I want that monster, but I also want to wear this gorgeous dress again, and if you don’t let me up, I know you’re going to rip it off my body, and that will make me mad.” I lightly slap his face. “So, if you want to put your cock in my pussy, let me up.” I drill him with a “don’t mess with me” look that works.

  He stumbles to his feet with me, and we strip out of our clothes, tossing them on the couch. Kent is a mess, falling on his butt as he tries to pull his pants off, and I crawl toward him, helping him to undress. Then he’s on me, grabbing at me like he can’t get enough, driving his tongue in my mouth while he pumps his fingers inside me. I’m already wet because he’s been working me into a frenzy today. “Sit on me,” he commands. “Reverse cowgirl. I wanna pull your hair.”

  I sit up and turn around with my back to his face, sitting on his lower stomach, stroking his erection. He hands me a condom, and I roll it down over his thick length before positioning myself over it and slowly lowering down. I like this position because he can fuck me and play with my tits and my clit, but I miss the intimacy of seeing his face.

  Kent wraps his hand around my hair as I use my legs to move up and down on him. He yanks my head back, using my hair like a leash, and his free hand wraps around my throat, squeezing. Kent likes it rough a lot, but I never complain, because every way we do it is orgasmic.

  Moans slip from my lips as I rock up and down on him, and he pivots his hips, thrusting up inside me while he tugs on my hair and presses in on my throat. I move my hands down my body, over the place where our bodies meet, reaching for his balls to play with them. Because I can’t look down, not with the way he has my hair pulled back, I miscalculate, and my fingers graze against his asshole instead.

  The response is immediate and terrifying.

  Kent roars, letting loose a string of expletives, as his hand tightens on my neck, squeezing and squeezing until it feels like I can’t breathe. Panic slaps me in the face as my air supply is constricted, and I stop moving on him, grabbing his arm with both my hands, trying to loosen his grip.

  His hand tightens further, and black spots mar my vision while the room spins. I sink my nails into his arm while choking sounds rip from my throat. I thrash around on top of him with tears leaking from my eyes. My eyelids close, and the pain in my chest is so tight. My hands drop from his arm, and my body sags as my vision flickers in and out.

  And then the pressure is gone, and I’m falling forward, slumping against the floor as I suck in air, my chest heaving as I drag oxygen into my lungs. Tears leak from my eyes, and my heart is pounding as relief sluices through my veins.

  I’m lying motionless on the floor, on my stomach, sobbing, and laboring for breath. Pulling my knees up, I tuck them into my chest as I automatically curl into a fetal position. Behind me, Kent is mumbling and crying, none of the words distinguishable. A steady thumping sound accompanies his anguished cries, and I want to move, to turn around to see if he’s okay, but I think I’m in shock.

  “Presley,” Kent cries, his voice shaky as he crawls to my side. “Baby, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  His hand lands on my head, and I flinch, scooting away from him, sitting up against the wall in the main room, tucking my legs back into my chest, and wrapping my arms protectively around myself. Burying my face in my knees, I cry. Huge wracking sobs rip from my chest as if they’ve come straight from my soul. The pain spearing me on the inside reminds me of the pain I felt the day I lost my Tillie.

  “Presley, baby, please don’t cry. Please, baby, I’m begging you. Don’t cry. I will fix this. I will make it right. Just tell me what to do, Pres. Please, baby. Look at me,” Kent pleads.

  This time, when he touches me, his hand softly brushing against my leg, I don’t flinch. I lift my head, staring at the man I love—this broken, tormented stranger—through blurry eyes, wondering how the hell we ever could come back from this. “You could have killed me,” I whisper between sobs. “I couldn’t breathe, Kent. You weren’t stopping.”

  Tears pour down his face. “It wasn’t me, and it wasn’t you. I was lost to the rage, and I didn’t know what I was doing.” His chest heaves, and he wraps his arms around his body as he rocks back and forth. “I would never hurt you, Presley. I love you. You’re the only good thing in my life. Please don’t leave me, baby. Please don’t leave me. I didn’t know it was you. It was him. It was him I was killing. It was him. It’s always him.”

  He stops rocking and jumps to his feet. Grabbing a vase from the coffee table, he throws it down on the ground, roaring and shouting. It smashes into pieces, and I stop crying, watching in horror as Kent slams his head into the wall, repeatedly hitting his forehead, while he cries and screams.

  Finding strength from somewhere, I get to my feet and go to him, wrapping my arms around him from behind. He stops hurting himself, but he doesn’t move, resting his forehead against the wall while I cling to his back and cry. His hand threads through mine over his stomach, and the only sound in the room is his strangled breathing and my cries.

  Sometime later, I let him lead me to bed. He tucks me in, pressing a kiss to my cheek. His red-rimmed eyes are full of remorse when his gaze dips to my neck, and I’m guessing bruises are already forming. “For as long as I live, I will never forgive myself for this,” he says in a hoarse voice. “I’m so very sorry, Presley.”

  I’m exhausted. It’s been a draining day, and even if I wasn’t exhausted, I still wouldn’t know what to say.

  He pulls a blanket off the chair and grabs one of the pillows. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  I say nothing. I just close my eyes and wait for sleep to claim me. Maybe when I wake up, I’ll have some clue what to do.

  His lips brush against my temple. “I love you, Pres. I know it probably doesn’t seem like that now, but it’s true. It’s the only truth I fully believe in right now.”

  I keep my eyes closed and my lips sealed, and he leaves the room just as darkness welcomes me.

  I wake
to the smell of minty freshness, blinking my eyes open in the dark room. A hint of buttery sunshine creeps through a tiny gap in the curtains, casting scant light in the room, but it’s enough to see. Kent is sitting in the chair by the bed in nothing but sweatpants, staring at me as he holds a mug, little mists of steam cresting at the top of the drink.

  “What time is it?” I ask, cringing at how rough my voice sounds. I pull myself up in the bed, resting my tired body against the headrest.

  Kent closes his eyes, and his fingers grip the mug tight. “It’s after twelve,” he admits. “We both slept late.” His eyes open again, and he stares at me with a host of conflicting emotions. “Here.” He thrusts his arm out, offering me the mug. “I made you peppermint tea.”

  Our fingers brush in the exchange, and his touch sends the usual fiery tingles shooting up my arm. My lower lip wobbles, and tears immediately pool in my eyes.

  “Presley, I’m so sorry,” he chokes out, resting his head in his hands. “I know I’ve fucked everything up. I knew I would because that’s what I do.”

  I sip my tea, as emotions and thoughts crowd my mind, so many conflicting sentiments confusing me. “What happened to you, Kent?” I ask, ignoring my scratchy throat, because I need to understand this if I’m to find some way of forgiving him for last night.

  I believe he didn’t deliberately hurt me.

  I know that.

  I know him.

  He wouldn’t consciously hurt me.

  He was drunk and high, and it was already an emotional day, and me touching his ass triggered him.

  Since Keaton and I spoke a few weeks ago, I have been compiling theories, and I think I know what it is. But I need Kent to tell me. There is no way we can survive last night if he doesn’t give me something. I need to understand what drove the man I love to strangle me. “Who hurt you? Was it a man?” I ask.

  “Don’t, Pres. Please don’t.” Tears roll down his cheeks, and deep-seated pain is etched upon his face.

  I climb out of bed and kneel between his legs, taking his hands in mine. He holds on to me tight as he cries, and my heart breaks all over again. Stretching up, I hug him, and he falls into me, his arms going around me as he sobs. I cry too, and even though I have no details, I know some man hurt him. He was either assaulted or raped, and I am not giving up on him until I find out what happened and help him get the support he needs.

  He clings to me as he cries, and his pain is visceral. It infiltrates the air, swirling around us, locking us in an anguished cage where all hope seems gone and there is only suffering. I close my eyes as I squeeze him tight, pouring my love into him, hoping he can feel it.

  Gradually, his sobs die out, but we stay locked in our embrace, just holding one another, both lost, both in pain, both clueless as to how we go on from here, where we go from here.

  He moves his mouth to my ear, and his rapid breaths tickle my eardrum. “Yes,” he whispers, and something inherent dies inside me at his admission.

  Gently, I ease back just enough so I can see his face. “Look at me,” I whisper, keeping one hand behind his back while my other hand tilts his face up. His eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, he has a lump on his forehead, and his skin is torn and grazed where he hit his head on the wall. I imagine I look equally ghastly. “Can you tell me when it happened? Who it was?”

  His Adam’s apple jumps in his throat, and he slowly shakes his head. “I want to,” he croaks. “And I will, but I can’t right now.” He bites on his lip as his eyes fill up again. “You are the first person I have ever admitted that to,” he adds, and that admission saddens me as much as it reassures me. If he can talk to me, even if it is in stages, it means he’s ready to deal with what happened to him, and that is a big step forward.

  “It’s okay.” I smooth my hand over his hair. “You’ve taken this first step, and that’s huge.”

  “I’m so ashamed,” he whispers, averting his eyes, and pain mingles with rage inside me.

  I am going to annihilate whoever hurt him. I don’t know how, but I will find a way to get justice for my love. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Kent. If someone hurt you, that is not your fault.”

  “I hurt you, Pres, because I thought you were him. That’s what I saw in my head. How does that make me any better?” His fingers brush lightly against my neck. “You have finger-sized bruising all over your neck, and your voice is hoarse. I’m a disgusting piece of shit who doesn’t deserve your compassion.” He tries to remove my hands from his body, but I hold tight, not letting him push me away.

  “It’s not the same, Kent. You weren’t present when you were hurting me. I don’t need details to know that, and we’ll get through this, but you’ve got to get help. If you love me, love yourself, you will get professional help.”

  He nods. “I’ve been thinking of doing it for weeks, and I’ll do it. I swear. I never want to hurt you again.”

  A cell vibrates, and I glance over my shoulder, realizing Kent left my phone by the bed for me, along with a glass of water and some painkillers. I ignore the incessant vibrating, refocusing on Kent. “We can’t go to the barbecue looking like this.”

  Today is another family event. The plan was to meet at noon outside the front of the castle, to say goodbye to most of the guests, and then convene by the pool with the kids for the afternoon before enjoying an early evening feast. We aren’t due to leave until tomorrow morning, but there is no way I can sit by a pool in a bikini wearing a scarf without drawing attention to my neck. And how would we explain the injuries to Kent’s forehead?

  My cell chimes again as Kent says, “I know.” He looks over at my ringing phone. “Maybe you should get that.”

  I stand, plucking my cell up to see who is calling me. I have one missed call from Ford and one from Mo. I toss it down on the bed. “It’s work. Not important.”

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I pat the space beside me for Kent as I drink some more of my tea. It’s only lukewarm now, but it’s still soothing on my raw throat.

  Kent sits beside me, knotting and unknotting his hands. “I won’t blame you if you walk away, Presley. It’s what you should do.”

  I press a kiss to his cheek. “I’m not walking away, Kent.” I scowl at my cell as it vibrates again. “But only if you promise to get help, to get clean, and you follow through. If you don’t, I will leave you.”

  “I promise,” he says, peering deep into my eyes. “I can’t lose you over this because then it’s something else that’s been taken from me.”

  A thousand tiny pinpricks stab me through the heart, decimating the organ in my chest. I snatch my cell up, answering Ford’s call, because it’s clear they won’t stop calling until I pick up. “This had better be good.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we thought you’d want to know.”

  Alarm bells ring in my ears, and all the tiny hairs lift on the back of my neck as an ominous sense of dread washes over me. “What is it?”

  “Mikey was in here a short while ago looking for you. It’s Chris. He says he’s at the drug house and he’s not in good shape.”

  “Fuck.” I close my eyes. I do not need this today, but at least it gives us a viable reason for leaving early. “I’ll call Clay, and we’ll leave immediately.”

  I haven’t heard from Clay in weeks, which is strange since he usually calls at least every couple weeks even when away on business. If I reach him, he’s unlikely to help anyway. He is probably still in New York, and I can’t see him going out of his way to come back to help Chris. They fell out years ago, and they don’t have any contact except through me.

  It’s not like this is the first time I’ve had to drag Chris’s ass out of the drug house, but it’s a cesspit for hardcore junkies, and I can’t just ignore the intel. The last time Chris overdosed was in that place.

  Ford hangs up, and I explain the situation to Kent. He stands, shaking his shoulders out, the tension easing a bit from his face. “I’ll make excuses with my family while you pack
our shit. Then we’ll hit the road.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Kent

  We are quiet as Presley drives us back to Boston. She insisted on driving, and I didn’t raise any argument. She pointed out she was largely sober yesterday and I was trashed before ripping into me. I let her vent, accepting everything she threw at me. She is right to be pissed, and I didn’t even attempt to defend myself. I hate I broke my promise to her, and I hate I’ve disappointed her, so I didn’t argue, willingly handing her the car keys. I won’t deliberately do anything to jeopardize her safety or try to justify my actions when there is nothing I can say that excuses my behavior.

  Pressing my head to the side of the window, I close my eyes, trying to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. My chest tightens with a fresh wave of pain as I remember how close I came to strangling the woman I love. Tears stab the backs of my eyes, and I couldn’t hate myself any more than I do. That Presley hasn’t dumped my weak ass is a fucking miracle. I have never been worthy of her, and it has never been so obviously true.

  “Goddamn it.” Presley sighs, and I open my eyes and straighten up.

  “What’s wrong?” Besides the obvious—like your boyfriend is a worthless piece of shit and your worthless piece-of-shit ex is now encroaching on your headspace too.

  “I can’t get a hold of Clay. I’ve called him several times, and I must’ve left at least ten messages.”

  “We’re only an hour out now anyway,” I remind her. “And I’m sure he’ll call you back when he can.” She hasn’t spoken much to me about her foster brother except to say he saved her from a nightmare situation as a child and he protected her growing up. I got the sense they were close, but that doesn’t really seem to be the case. In all the time we have been together, she hasn’t talked with him or met him in person. Not for the first time, I wonder if Presley has a romantic rosy memory of the past that isn’t quite true. Not that I’m criticizing or faulting her for wanting to cling to happy memories, but I know how easy it is to hide the truth behind lies. Especially to yourself.