by L. J. Woods
Damien’s already sitting on the concrete counter as if he knew this is where we’d go. “Stop fucking my aunt,” he says, tossing me a cloth from the oven’s stainless steel handle.
Wrapping the ice-pack in the cloth, I lean Isaac against the counter. On the other side from Damien that is. Taking his hand, I press it to the pack I have against his head. “Thanks,” he says. “Sorry you had to see that.”
“That’s your fault, isn’t it?” Damien scoffs. Then he repeats, “Stop fucking my aunt.”
There’s tension in the air when Isaac doesn’t answer. So I try to ease it. “That sounds like a great idea! Right, Isaac?” The kitchen smells cleaner than a hotel and it wouldn’t surprise me if Isaac didn’t do any cooking either.
Isaac drops the ice-pack, head falling against the cupboard. His head reaches the top shelf, even when he’s slouching. “I can’t.”
“What the fuck do you mean ‘you can’t’?” Damien stands, fist banging on the counter. “So much for fucking loyalty, Johnson.”
“I’m in love with her.”
“You what?” I ask.
“You’re fucked,” Damien scoffs, his hands already in balls like he’s ready to wail again.
“Man, I knew you guys wouldn’t get it.” Isaac pushes off the counter, walking into the living room, hand to his head.
Damien calls him, “Get the fuck back here, Johnson!”
Rolling my eyes at Damien’s demand I follow Isaac onto one of the yellow sofas in the living room. He’s laying on his back, ice-pack against his head, eyes to the ceiling as he lets out a groan.
“You’re in love with her?” Taking my time, I sit down beside him, the stiff cushion in the sofa hardly moving under me. “Like, real love?”
“Yes, really.” He sounds annoyed.
“Hey, I’m just asking.” Leaning back, I cross my arms. “Because right now Marion doesn’t sound any different than Mr. Trout.”
Damien stands by the entrance, keeping himself back so he doesn’t go at it again. But he doesn’t look at Isaac the same way he looked at Zane or Luca. There’s a brothership there, something that makes Damien stop his mania.
“Because she is, Jo,” Isaac groans. He’s not ready to talk about it, and that I understand.
“When did this even start?” The question slips out anyway, curiosity getting the better of me.
“After the funeral.”
“What?!” Damien’s voice booms.
“I was only flirting with her to be a little shit, but when she returned it, there was no way in hell I was gonna say no,” he explains. Glancing at his friend, he leans up on the sofa, wincing. “But then she started spending time with me here. Hanging out. Making dinner. It was nice to have someone to come home to.”
“So you’re fucking my aunt because you have mommy issues?”
“Nah, dude!” Isaac’s fist hits the cushion. “I’m in love with Marion.”
That gets a scoffing snort from Damien, “Definitely not.” I shoot him a look but he doesn’t seem to care. “She can smell your dad’s platinum record dick from Paris.”
“What?” Isaac sits up, his long face tensing. “She’s not like that. It’s not like she’s from the fucking Gr—” I arch an eyebrow that Isaac seems to catch. At least it gets him to take a breath. “It’s not like she’s poor.”
“Did you even do your due diligence before you stuck your dick in a gold-digging whore?” Damien takes his phone out of his pocket, swiping on the screen before tossing it to Isaac. He catches it with ease, fortunately for his face. He looks at the screen while Damien continues, “She wants to take my dad’s company and move the operations to Paris. It’s all there. And she took my coin.”
“Where’d you get that?” I ask, Isaac leaning the phone to me so I can look at the screen with him. It’s a picture of a document detailing the plans Damien explained. Marion’s signature sits next to another I don’t recognize. Cindy’s is on there too.
“That’s where I went the night you chose to shack up with my best friend,” Damien says, his eyes boring into mine like he was hanging onto this ammo.
Fuck. Why does that make me feel bad?
Isaac takes a second to read whatever’s on the screen while Damien keeps talking, “She wants me out of the way so she can run my dad’s business into the ground. My business. And she’s manipulating you. Help me get her out of Eden and I won’t put my foot through your face.”
When Isaac hands the phone to me, Damien takes it out of my hand. “What are you gonna do?” Isaac groans, his back hitting the sofa again.
“Tell her to leave and if she does, you won’t tell everyone what’s been going on between you two.” It fires out like he’s thought this through.
“You want me to threaten her?”
“If that’s what you want to call it,” Damien says, kicking his boot up against the wall. “But she’s the one exploring criminal activity.”
“I’ll be eighteen in four months. I’m already an adult.”
“You’re not eighteen now,” Damien counters.
“That wouldn’t make it much better, would it?” I wince.
“If you don’t, I will, Johnson,” Damien cautions.
Isaac groans, “Why don’t you pay her off or some shit? This all can’t be worth it. Wouldn’t it be nice to have family around?”
“So you can be my uncle?” Damien sneers. “No chance. You think someone like her only wants a slice when she can have the whole pie? I’m not taking that risk. Not like you.”
“Yeah, we know you’re not about taking risks,” Isaac says with a glance at me.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Damien’s voice is deeper.
“You know what I mean.” Isaac sits up. “You’ve got all these twisted reasons to try to stay close to Jo but you won’t make it a thing. You say she’s off-limits but let her slip away. Every. Single. Time. And when someone else steps up, you hate that even more. So don’t talk to me about not taking risks. If we’re comparing pussy sizes you’re the biggest pussy of them all.”
SLAM!
Another wall gets the Damien King treatment before he storms for the door. He’ll have hell to pay if he leaves me again because he’s too wrapped up in whatever the fuck is going on in that head. On the way out, he grabs a black puffy jacket from the wooden rack before a cold gust of wind comes through the room.
Looking back at Isaac he looks defeated. Worried. With a glance at the entrance, he takes my hand. It’s cold from the ice-pack but soft like he dipped it in oil. “Don’t let him do anything stupid. He’ll listen to you.”
What? He never listens to me. “Isaac, I—”
“Please, Jo,” Isaac begs like it means the world and I know it’s not every day a King makes a plea. Shit, he does think he’s in love. Usually, he’s all suave and “baby” this and “sexy spy” that, but now, he looks like a heart struck boy.
When I get outside, the car’s still in the driveway. Damien’s leaning against the little bridge, joint hanging from his lips as he stares into the pond. Even when he’s being a diva he looks delicious, like he’s posing for Bad Boy Weekly.
“You’re still here,” I say when I’m next to him.
Pulling the joint from his lips he keeps his eyes forward when he holds it out to me. “Don’t trust me?”
“Seems we have something else in common,” I put the joint to my lips. “Trust issues.”
“Isaac’s the one with issues,” he scoffs.
“We all have issues.” A puff of smoke escapes me when I speak before I nudge him so he takes the joint, and so he hears himself. “Isaac’s your best friend. Your fellow King, or whatever stupid thing you’re calling yourselves these days.” That gets me a bit of a smirk, and I try to drive this thing home. “So don’t be a dick and do something that’ll hurt him. You hurt him enough with those fists.”
“Did he ask you to ask me that? To keep her safe?”
“I’m asking you,” I say. “I’m
trusting you not to.”
He puts out the joint on the railing, turning to me. His eyes shimmer in the light, a moony gaze that makes me shiver when our eyes connect. “Isaac has nothing to worry about.” He starts walking to his car and I’m not too far behind him before he says, “Clear your schedule tomorrow night. We’re going on a date.”
Fourteen
“Like … an actual date?”
Willow stands in front of me in a leather skirt and sweater, arms crossed, perfect eyebrow arched. She’s as surprised as I am when I tell her my plans the next evening.
Pulling my hands from my hair, I stop twirling it like a basic bitch and shrug. “At least he says it is.”
“That box on your bed looks like it is,” Willow points her chin towards the black box on my white sheets. It has a shiny purple ribbon, ‘JO’ in cursive. Vincent or Holly must have left it on my bed and I’ve been pacing my room the minute I saw it. I didn’t hear Willow calling me from the other end of our shared bathroom until she appeared in my room and asked if I’m okay.
“This isn’t the first time he’s sent a gift,” I remind her. Butt plugs and nipple clamps come to mind. “Some of them, a lot more,” I pause. “Adventurous than others.”
“Don’t remind me,” Willow winces. “So, what does he have in mind?”
I shrug. “No clue. I didn’t see him all day.” Which doesn’t help to solidify that this is a date.
“We’ll know what he’s planning if you open the box.” She skips over to it, pulling it to the edge of the bed. “C’mon, don’t you wanna rip it open?”
“Clearly, I like suspense,” I mutter, but she has a point. Whatever’s inside will clue me in to what’s going on in Damien’s twisted mind. “Fine.” Plopping on the bed beside it, I push it over to my sister. “You open it.”
She’s quick to agree, pulling the top off like it’s Christmas but when I see what’s inside, I regret my decision. “So it’s that kinda date.”
My cheeks grow warm as I grab the lid out of her hand, slamming it on top. “Seems like that’s the only kinda date he wants,” I groan.
“Are you guys doing the dirty again?”
“Get out.”
She doesn’t. “Wait, have you and Christian—?”
“Out!” Now I’m pushing her towards the door.
“Okay, but let me know if you need help getting ready,” Willow says, unfazed that I’m her personal escort to her room. “Because if it’s that kind of date, you’ll need some help.”
SLAM!
Closing the door on my sister’s rambling clears the air for me to think. Walking back to the bed, I open the box again and stare at what’s inside. It’s a strappy piece, like the one I nabbed from Nancy, except in red. Leather with gold buckles and accents. It reminds me of the homecoming game, Damien trapping me in that locker room. While it makes my skin prickle with heat, I’m a little disappointed.
He says this is a date, yet he sends me lingerie to wear. Am I supposed to trust that we’re anything other than two people who have amazing sex? Amazing, twisted, mind-blowing sex?
Reaching for a red strap, I pick up the delicate lingerie from the box before my eyebrows raise. There’s a note underneath, something red poking through the layer of white tissues lining the box.
Wear it all - Your One True King
Rolling my eyes at his signoff, I lift the layer of tissue paper to reveal a silky, red gown. A smile pulls at my lips. Looks like I was quick to judge. Holding the dress against my body, I’m happy it’s not too fussy. Damien knows me better than he lets on. The dress hits my knees, like a sexy little slip and yeah, I’m pairing this with my boots.
“Low!” I call and my sister’s quick to answer, appearing in my room like a flash of lighting with a whiff of perfume.
“Change your—Woah,” Willow pauses, a huge smile on her face when she sees the dress in my hand. Seeing the excitement in those big brown eyes makes me all the more amped for this night. “So you do need my help.”
If I want to prove that I can trust him. I should at least give him a chance. Right? Smiling at my sister I nod. “Let’s get me ready for a date!”
* * *
This seems normal.
Too normal.
I’m holding my breath. Both literally and figuratively. “Last Caress” by the Misfits blare on his speakers and I’m starting to think we’re music soulmates. It helps calm my nerves and clear my head of suspicion. At least for a bit.
Damien was on time, arriving in a dark red sweater under his leather jacket. He compliments my dress, his black slacks clean and crisp, his hair in place. This is the first I’ve seen him so cleaned up since the dance and it’s hard not to stare. He even smells more delicious than usual. A hint of spice to go along with that minty herbal musk.
As he drives, he leans his elbow on his door. His fingers still move as if he has his lost coin, and his mind always seems like it’s elsewhere. As if he reads my thoughts, he glances over at me, like he’s blasting back to reality. A small smile tugs at those soft lips before his hand comes over to my lap. It’s cold as usual, but my thigh feels warm. When he takes my hand, intertwining our fingers, I can’t ignore how perfect we fit, how good it feels.
We’re pulling up to The Palace valet and I’m reminded of the last time we were here. The party where I got arrested. My jaw clenches, my hands going tense. When I squeeze his hand, he looks over at me, his eyes moving around my face.
“I made reservations at Boudoir,” he says. “It’s the restaurant inside.” He pulls up to the man in a black vest, waving him over. At least we’re not heading back to where it all went down. “Don’t ask about dessert. You’re the only thing on the menu for that.” When he winks I can’t help but smile, the valet opening the door. He blinks at my boots as they hit the floor.
Welcome to Eden, where even the valet judges my decisions.
“Winston,” Damen greets, tossing the valet his keys.
“Evening, Mr. King,” the valet says with an eager nod and a smile.
Damien looks amazing tonight. Like the dark king he is, the red and black combo making him look like a decadent devil. I keep reminding myself that if I’m going to have a good time tonight, I need to trust him. If I want more, I have to show that I trust him so he can trust me.
The lobby looks as I remember, sparkling clean and glamorous. The girls at the front desk greet Damien and this time, they smile at me too. Damien takes me down a long marble hallway before he leads me into a lavish gold and red dining room.
Everyone’s dressed as if they’re in a movie, laughing and chatting with one another. It’s easy to feel out of place as the host leads us between round tables with white tablecloths, my boots thudding against the carpet. This place isn’t my style. Tufted chairs, rose walls and a cherub fountain might be the idea of romance to these rich asses. But it makes me feel awkward and on display.
“Damien,” I lean into him. “I don’t know about this.” My eyes widen as we pass a table with the detectives. They seem to be on some sort of double date with their wives, two ladies their age sitting on either side. Branson looks up and when I look towards Damien he nods their way.
“Detectives,” Damien greets. “I’ll have a bottle of their finest sent your way.”
The fuck? Damien is awfully chummy with these two. Too chummy. What happened to that hostility? My eyes narrow but Branson doesn’t even look at me when he smiles, tilting his head towards Damien like they’re friendly colleagues.
“What the fuck was that?” I whisper. It’s hard not to look back when we pass them but their attention is already back on their plates. “Are you working with them?”
“So you don’t trust me,” he replies, a hand on the small of my back.
“I—”
“Right through here, Mr. King.” The host opens the swinging metal door to the kitchen, clinks and clatters welcoming us. People in white and chef hats move around us as we’re escorted to a table at the side. It has
a simple setup, a small square table, a couple of plates, a bottle of whiskey.
Glancing at Damien, he smirks. “Didn’t think you’d want to eat in a place like this, but these guys have the best Portobello burgers.” He pulls out a chair, something not even Zane used to do. “So I got us the chef’s table.”
God damn him.
“King, hey!” A blonde man in a chef’s jacket comes over, wiping his hands on a white cloth he throws over his shoulder. He has a British accent when it dawns on me. It’s the fucking guy from that reality show. “It’s good to see you again, and please, accept my condolences.”
“Thanks, Keith,” Damien nods, reaching out to shake the man’s hand. “Two of the usual, but make it a veggie for her.”
“You got it, kid,” he says, walking away and yelling the order to his crew of workers.
The kitchen is bigger and more glamorous than the ones at the fast-food joints back in The Grove. But I’m happy we’re not sitting in that stuffy dining room. At this small table, it’s like we’re in our own little world. One with a bunch of rowdy kitchen workers. He’s trying to make an effort to mend things, and of course, I’m falling for it.
Damien drags his chair beside me and when he sits down, even the touch of his shoulder on mine is enough to make my heart melt. “You know,” I say, shrugging my jacket off my shoulders. He watches me as I do, eyes wandering from my face to my neckline. “It would make things a lot easier if you just told me your plans,” I say.
“Thought you liked it hard.” He leans closer, a hand on my thigh, his fingers cold on my skin as he reaches for the bottle with his free hand. Damien gives me a wink that tells me he’s playing nice. “Don’t you like it hard, Medusa?”
“Yeah, as hard as your head,” I say, grabbing the bottle from his hand and uncorking it. Tipping it to my lips, I’m hoping it gives me my extra spunk. I won’t admit Damien King makes me nervous and I won’t let him see it.
He chuckles, lip curling under his teeth when he tips the bottle higher with that long finger. “Nervous?” He doesn’t keep it there long, moving that finger to my cheek, a spark bursting into warmth.