Broken By A King

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  "What's up, Stone."

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Checking in on my client. Do you have my money yet?"

  "Not yet."

  "Are you close to getting my money?"

  "What's the rush?"

  "Rush? You've owed me my money for five fucking years. I think I've been pretty patient about things if you ask me."

  The tone of Bucky's voice garners us a bit of unwanted attention. Usually I wouldn't care about shit like that, but I've found myself giving a shit about what people think more than I think I ever have. Particularly what one person thinks.

  "I've been working for Nate for over a month now–"

  "Correction–living and working."

  So, he does have eyes on me.

  "Right–living and working and I don't see any evidence of any money. His house is modest. His car is modest. No other properties. In fact, so far it looks to me as if his bike shop is barely breaking even year to year."

  Bucky turns his lips up to one side.

  "Now who would keep a shop open that's just breaking even for thirty damn years. That doesn't make any common sense, and if there's one thing I know about Nate Carter it's that he isn't dumb."

  "He's may not be stupid, but he definitely is sentimental. I definitely think he might be holding onto the shop, because it means something to his family. It's his legacy."

  "All that family shit doesn't matter. He can keep that bike shop for the next millennium. That doesn't negate the fact that I want my money. So, find it or move to plan B. You've got four months left."

  I nod my head in understanding, as I look anxiously through the glass pane of the store. I don't want to let on to Bucky, but there's a very specific reason why I've come to the juice bar today. Ariana is going to be here in about ten minutes.

  Even though Nate and Ariana live in a nicely sized house, you can hear a lot through those walls, especially when she gets on the phone. She probably doesn't realize how much I can hear downstairs, because she's never lived with anyone but her father, and he never talks on the phone.

  She probably also doesn't realize that when she's talking to a man, except for me, that she uses a certain tone of voice. A gentler voice. Like she's trying to pretend that she's some sort of delicate flower. I hate it. She doesn't use that voice with me. With me it's either all business or she says practically nothing at all.

  It's in this muted little voice, I overheard her agreeing to meet the man here today. I don't know who it is, but until I see otherwise, I can only assume it was the douchebag biker whose lungs I almost kicked into next week that time at the shop. If it is him there's going to be some shit that goes down in this juice bar today, and I can't have Bucky seeing any of that.

  "Are we done?"

  He squints his one good eye at me suspiciously, grabs his order from angry guy, and motions to leave.

  "Done for now."

  I wait until Bucky is out of view and then I take a seat in the farthest corner of the store that I can. The place is almost packed with people, so I'm hoping that once my hoodie is up she won't notice that I'm here.

  "Is anyone sitting here?" A woman with short blond hair and a yoga outfit on asks.

  "No, you want the chair?"

  "I thought I'd sit with you. You look like you could use the company."

  Sometimes I feel like I've been in jail for fifty not five years. I didn't realize that women were so forward these days. I mean I definitely was never hurting for female attention, but lately they seem to be coming at me left and right.

  "You can sit. Not interested in talking though."

  You'd think that would be enough to send her on her way, but the woman sits down anyway with her drink and some sort of disgusting looking brown muffin and starts rambling.

  "I'm Patricia."

  I give her a head nod and then look back at my phone. I've been spending the last few weeks playing around with apps and on social media sites. Getting familiar with online jargon and laughing at fight videos. These kids are stupid posting videos of themselves fighting and robbing people, and they're not even good at it.

  "What kind of drink is that you have?"

  I sigh and look back up from my phone. Is she really going to talk me to death?

  "Carrot and spinach bomb."

  "Oh, that one's healthy. I've got a fruity one. A little more natural sugar in it than yours. I was in the mood for mangos today."

  Out of the corner of my eye I see her.

  And my body starts to vibrate simply because she is in the building.

  She's meeting the guy here after having already worked an overnight shift and is dressed in a pair of purple scrubs, work clogs, and all of her tightly coiled curls are pushed back with some sort of thin gold headband then swept up in a ponytail. When she peels off her parka and places it on the back of her chair, I can't help but salivate at the curves trying to burst their way through her scrubs.

  She looks like a snack.

  I throw the hood of my Target brand navy blue hoodie up and take another sip of my juice. My table mate continues to ramble on about something. The price of gas or the new construction on the corner of Chestnut Street. I'm not really sure, and it doesn't even fucking matter, because I can't keep my eyes off of Ariana.

  She keeps looking out the front window for what I suppose is dickhead biker, but am proven wrong when a man in different colored scrubs and a white jacket sits down at the table with her. Obviously, a doctor. For a split second, I assumed that this was a business meeting, but that crooked grin spread across his face when he sits down directly opposite her tells me everything that I need to know. Predators know they're own kind.

  This is not business.

  This is monkey business.

  I can feel the insides of my body vibrating as I watch him. The way I imagine Bottle feels when she's stalking the neighbor's cat through the living room window. The prey drive in her is undeniable. She wants to get to that cat. She wants to chase him. Catch him. Shake him. Kill him. But she can't. She's stuck in the house with us. A prison of sorts. Stopping her from doing what her ancestral code is compelling her to do.

  Take out the enemy.

  Am I just like Bottle? Is this all about some primitive part of me that is driving my decision making? I'm not really sure. Some of it probably has to do with the fact that after living with Ariana for weeks, I still don't know that much about her and that shit bothers me. She routinely avoids me. Only talking to me when it's necessary. Do I need anything from the store? Am I eating dinner? Do I have any clothes that need to be washed?

  At first, I thought this purposeful distance she was putting between us was a blessing. I don't need to form any attachments to her. I don't need to get to know her. Just on the off chance that I'd have to move to plan B, I don't want some sort of personal fondness for her to become a barricade to the main objective.

  Saving my ass.

  * * *

  Twenty-Two

  TINY

  "Why did you want to meet in person, Bill?"

  "I talked to my sister and she has some good assignments available, but there's one in Rhode Island that I think would be the perfect match. You're going to like this assignment a lot. It's in a small town. You'd have a permanent bed in the local bed and breakfast that the hospital would pay for. And this is no half-assed mom-and-pop B and B. This place has been in Town & Country Magazine."

  "How nice for them, but why would you think I'd like it there?"

  "This B and B is known for their cuisine."

  I raise my eyebrows.

  "You're interested now, aren't you? The daughter of one of the owners ended up marrying a world renown chef from Portugal, and he cooks there on the weekends. There's a waiting list to eat there on weekends. Just for this guy. But you'd get to eat it all the time, because you'd be living there. Meals are part of the boarding arrangement. Sweet, right?"

  "I have to admit, Bill. I'm impressed. This actually does sound like it may
be a good fit for me. Room and board. Not too far from home but far enough. Thank you. But why couldn't I just talk to your sister about this position? She never responded to my email or my call."

  Bill squirms a little in his chair.

  Then he places a hand on top of mine.

  "Because I told her not to."

  Huh?

  "And why would you do that, Bill?"

  "I'm going to be honest with you, Tiny. I'm part owner in the B and B. A small investment I made years ago that ended up being a great one. If you took the assignment there, I could come see you on the weekends when I'm not working in Philly. I could show you Rhode Island. I've been vacationing there all my life. In fact, we could explore the entire New England Coast if you want."

  "When did you buy into a B and B?"

  "It's part of my retirement plan. That's where I want to end up retiring. I love it there."

  "Oh, I see."

  "Doesn't it sound amazing?"

  Yeah, for a married couple.

  "We broke up, Bill."

  "I know, but that wasn't something I wanted. That was all you. I've been thinking about it a lot lately and I think I know why you ended things."

  Because there was nothing to end.

  Because you're a selfish jerk.

  Because you're a narcissistic workaholic.

  "I played a part in that." That you did. "And the weirdness for us at the hospital didn't make matters any better. But the great thing about Rhode Island is that nobody really knows us there. We can be who we want to be. I'll be working here. You'll be working there. It's perfect."

  It's interesting to me how he thinks that he has come up with such an amazing plan for us to be together, and it does nothing but make feel even worse than I did before. He wants to date me in a place where no one knows us? Oh yeah, that makes me feel real wanted.

  "Why do you want to get back together with me?"

  "Because we'd make a great power couple. If things work out, and if you decided to relocate to Rhode Island, in a couple of years I could open a small private practice and you could be my supervising nurse."

  I try sliding my hand from under his. This whole conversation is making me ill. I was an idiot for reaching out to him in the first place. This is no longer about helping me find a traveling placement. Some kind of way this has been twisted around and made about him. Bill always finds a way to make any situation about Bill.

  "No, Bill."

  "No?"

  "I have zero interest in continuing a romantic relationship with you."

  "What? Why?"

  "I'm just not interested."

  "I need more than that, Tiny. Use your words."

  This condescending bastard.

  "What the hell did you just say to me?"

  "You're an educated woman. I'm asking for you to explain to me why you're still saying no, and I'm giving you everything you want. I'm offering you the world and it's still not enough."

  At this point he's holding on to my arm and keeping it on the table. I try again to yank my arm from out of his grip but he grabs my wrist.

  "Don't run from me, Tiny."

  "Bill, let go."

  "I don't want to let you go. Can't you see that? I'm fighting for us. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"

  Before I can tell him to take his warped version of fighting for me and shoving it up his butthole, I can feel a huge shadow hovering behind me. And that smell. It's familiar. A spicy blend of bergamot, musk and vanilla.

  "Get your hands off of her."

  Stone.

  I'd know that angry, raspy voice anywhere.

  And now my anxiety level has ratcheted from zero to one hundred in ten seconds flat.

  "Excuse me?" Bill responds.

  "I said take your hands off of Ariana, or I'll do it for you."

  Bill looks visibly shook as he lifts his hands off of my wrist.

  "Settle down," I say to Stone. "We were just talking. There's no problem here."

  I try scooting my chair back, so that I can stand up and talk to Stone on the side, but he walks up closer to me. Caging me in against the table. I can't move.

  "Stone, I can't get up."

  "Stay where you are then."

  "Let me up."

  "No."

  "I'm calling the police," Bill says as he pulls out his phone.

  "No!" I plead. "Everything's fine. Put your phone down."

  "Am I missing something, Tiny? I can't touch your arm but this guy can hold you hostage. Who is this jackass?"

  "Don't call her that."

  "I called you the jackass. Not her."

  "You called her Tiny."

  "That's her name, genius," Bill says sarcastically.

  "Her name is Ariana Carter. You can call her Miss Carter, or you can never call her anything again after I shove those oversized white veneers of yours down your chicken shit throat."

  * * *

  Twenty-Three

  TINY

  "Stone!"

  Why is he so off of the rails today?

  "Please go back to wherever you came from and mind your business. You're embarrassing me."

  "No."

  "I'm not asking, son of Jack."

  "When he goes, then I'll go."

  "This is ridiculous, Tiny. If you don't explain to me who this is in ten seconds, I'm calling the cops."

  "I live with her," Stone says with a smirk. "Can't you tell?" He's purposely trying to give Bill the wrong idea about us.

  I shove back with all my might. I just want to turn around and throttle him, but he doesn't budge. In fact, he bends over and brushes his lips against the side of my face. Dangerously brushing them close to the valley between my shoulder and my neck.

  "You're not going anywhere," he growls with authority in my ear.

  Goose bumps start to rise on the back of my neck, and the vibration of his threat goes straight to my core. My throat feels too parched to allow me to speak.

  "I'm sorry, Bill, but do you mind if we continue this conversation later."

  Bill looks at me, then Stone, then me again.

  "Are you serious? I'm talking about a future with you, and you're just going to let this overdeveloped thug interrupt us."

  "A future, huh? l thought you didn't have a man," Stone says to me.

  I try whipping my head around, but it's hard with two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle holding my body in one place.

  "I never said that."

  "I distinctly remember you saying at breakfast that you weren't seeing the biker. That you weren't seeing anyone."

  "Breakfast? And what biker?!"

  "She never told you about the biker?"

  "Stone Barringer, you are acting completely out of pocket right now. I'm going to kill you when I finally get out of this chair."

  "Ariana evidently has men interested in her by the dozens. Also, I made a promise to her father that I'd look out for her best interest, and you don't seem to be it. It would probably be best for you to let this go. She's not the one for you."

  Stone leans back over.

  "Don't ever tell anyone my last name again," he whispers.

  I slam my hand on the table, because I don't have enough room to turn around and slap him with it.

  "Go. Away. Convict."

  I know that was kind of a low blow, but at this point the entire juice bar is looking at us. People come here for the laid back vibe and nutritious smoothies, and we're giving them a show worthy of a reality show award. If those even exist. I've had enough.

  Bill gains his composure and takes a look at all the glances from around the room. He doesn't like negative attention. It doesn't mesh well with his sensibilities. He stands up and begins to smooth the sides of his white lab coat. Something he does when he's trying to calm himself.

  "We'll talk about this later, Tiny."

  "Bye." Stone facetiously waves.

  I don't think I've ever seen his face or heard his voice so animated in the short time that I'
ve known him. He actually is getting some sort of sick enjoyment out of this.

  Of course, he is, you idiot, he's a criminal.

  As soon as Bill exits the bar, Stone slides into the seat opposite me, with some sort of look on his face that I've never seen before. Just like I don't know what he's thinking when he's wearing one of his frozen, expressionless faces, I damn sure don't know what he's thinking now that there's some movement. It's quite peculiar.

  "You can do better than him," he states as if he's actually giving me some gems and jewels on how to pick men.

  "Are you on drugs?"

  "Wouldn't you be able to tell if I was?"

  "That was a rhetorical question."

  "I'm not used to rhetorical questions. Don't use them with me. I'm used to actual questions that people want actual answers to."

  "It's apparent that you're used to prison life. In the real world, there is more than black and white. There are many shades of gray, and that's where sarcasm lives. If you want to have a conversation with me, you're going to have to get used to it. I try not to pass judgment on you because you've done time, but you were a terrible bully today. We're not in the freakin' penitentiary mess hall. Don't act like that again."

  "I heard you say the word no, and then I saw his hand still on you. You were pulling away. He wouldn't let go. If there was anyone being a bully in here this morning it was him."

  "Last time I checked I didn't have a secret service detail."

  "You should. You've got men coming after you left and right. I can't keep up with them all."

  "Then don't keep up! Mind your business."

  "How was your shift today?"

  "Really? You're making small talk now."

  "You seem tired."

  I counter like I'm in a debate with a five-year-old.

  "Shut up. You seem tired."

  And at that response Stone laughs.

  I mean an actual cackle comes out of his gargantuan body.

  A big belly laugh.

  It puts a smile on almost everyone in the bar as they watch him.

  "Shut up," I say through some stilted laughter of my own. "Shut up."

  He quiets down, but there's still a huge grin on his face.