by May Sage
He went there every week, three or four times, to take care of the administrative side of things. His usual schedule on nights he was on duty was finishing work at Kings and Knights by six, then heading back to his place to eat and relax before going to The Tower by eight o'clock. The manager in charge made him aware of any issues he needed to address, and he worked for three or four hours—running through applications from new members, for instance. Desmond also personally took care of the renewal of any memberships, particularly the few members who attended for free.
Their club functioned well because he and his brothers were very careful about who they let in. There were a few rich and influential members, who were admitted regardless of their appearance, the notorious actors, singers, sportsmen, and businessmen, of course. A lifestyle BDSM club where everyone could fuck everyone without judgement, or fear of being outed to the press, had a considerable appeal to that crowd. But The Tower International Club wouldn't have been half as popular if they hadn’t included a third kind of attendee. Beautiful people. Point-blank gorgeous men and women that the rich and famous could lust after. Desmond let them in free of charge after ensuring that they could keep their mouths shut about what went on between those walls. These people were always referred from someone already in, someone who could vouch for them, and then Desmond ran a thorough background check on them. They had to sign an ironclad NDA before seeing anything other than the meet and greet bar.
Sorting through their applications was time consuming. There were only about a couple of hundred places he could give to freeloaders in New York, and he had to make sure that there were men and women of all shapes and forms admitted through that program. It wouldn't do to just have a bunch of tall, blonde model-types. Some of the pro bonos were voluptuous, others were short, and he also did his best to include exotic people to cater to all tastes.
By one in the morning, he was normally tired, so he rarely played when he was on duty.
Desmond attended The Tower on his nights off when he intended to fuck.
Each member had a mobile device specially crafted for the use of The Tower members, with a full catalog of all members present and all activities happening at any given time. When he felt like it, Desmond scrolled through the night's pickings until he found what he was after, one or two people worth his time. He just messaged them with an invitation to play. No one had ever refused him.
He usually played once a week or so, but Hester’s words had just made him aware of the fact that it had been over four weeks since the last time he'd fucked anyone.
Four fucking weeks.
Had he ever been celibate for half as long since his teens? It made no sense. No wonder he was so distracted.
Desmond didn’t ask himself why he hadn’t felt like having sex in a month. He refused to go there. It didn’t take a genius to realize that his dry spell had started the moment he’d taken Ryn to his place.
He wasn’t going to attempt to justify it. Instead, Desmond checked his calendar.
He was scheduled to work at The Tower for the next three days, but Callum was taking the Friday shift. Good. He'd have some fun this weekend.
15
The End of the Beginning
Four weeks ago
Desmond King's place was creepy.
Almost everything was white, with a few touches of silver where it couldn't be helped. Even the art on the wall was immaculate; angry white brushstrokes on a canvas, with the slightest hint of gray or light blue. Who bought white paintings? Ryn bet that he’d paid a fortune for it, too.
It didn't look like a place where someone actually lived; it was too clean, without so much as a dirty cup left on a table.
The space was huge, with an expansive living room that offered an incredible view of the city skyline, like he'd said. To her right, there was an open-concept kitchen fit for a chef, next to a spiral staircase leading upstairs. To her left, a grand piano. The keyboard was closed, of course, no doubt to hide the inharmonious black keys.
There was only one splash of color. Between the living room and the piano, there was a small round glass table with two Chesterfield armchairs. The only colorful thing in the entire room was in the middle of the table.
A chessboard.
Kathryn gravitated to it like a moth to a flame. Her fingertip touched the marble board. Damn, it was the good stuff. The chess pieces were red on one side, and black on the other. It somehow seemed out of character, and at the same time, not at all. Kathryn felt like everything else in the room was just for show, an image of what the calm, collected Desmond King liked to pretend he was. The chess set was the opposite. Black and red. Pain and violence?
She had so many questions. None passed her lips. She was just a nobody, with too many issues of her own to pretend she was in a position to analyze anyone else.
"Do you play?"
She turned to find Desmond right behind her.
While she'd been nosily fondling his game board, he'd poured two glasses of wine; he was handing her one. She took it gratefully.
"No, I can’t play chess. Red wine, in that getup?" Ryn pointed to his clothing.
He'd shed his white jacket and now stood in his shirt. White, obviously. Pristine.
The corners of his lips hiked up. "I live dangerously."
She didn’t doubt that.
“Whenever I wear white, I end up with some red sauce or coffee on my sleeve by the end of the day,” Ryn confessed.
She was talking nonsense because she knew what was coming. Questions she didn’t want to answer.
"That's why washing machines have been invented," he replied with a shrug.
She had to laugh. “Your suits need to be dry cleaned."
Desmond tilted his head. "Your point?"
Of course, it wouldn't matter to someone like him, who made her yearly salary per hour.
"I guess I don't have one. It’s called small talk. Or perhaps, avoiding the issue at hand, in my case. You want me to talk about Wallace."
He corrected her, "I don't. Not now. You're scared. Right now, I want you to drink your wine, sit down, and come to terms with one simple fact: it's over now. You're safe."
Pretty words.
Pretty words she couldn't believe.
Not from a man in his position. She wasn't a naïve young girl anymore. She'd gone through too much for that.
Ryn watched the glass in her hand suspiciously, tentatively sniffing it.
Desmond took a sip of his and reached out to take her glass, exchanging it for his. He didn't even seem pissed that she'd checked hers for drugs.
Without a word, he went to sit on his sofa, putting distance between them. He didn't call her, didn't even look at her.
He treated her like a scaredy-cat who'd spook and run if he made the wrong move.
And he wasn't far off base.
She sat at the edge of the sofa, as far as she could from him.
"Wallace—” she paused. "He has something that would destroy me."
"I figured. The thing is, men like him are too arrogant to realize that those they use can turn the tables and destroy them. He believes he owns you, and therefore, I’m willing to bet that he’s been entirely careless in front of you. We have plenty of evidence against him. You could be the nail in his coffin."
Ryn glanced away from Desmond, unwilling to let his charisma, charm, and confidence get to her.
“Kathryn?”
She continued staring out the window, watching the city lights.
“I’m not forcing you to get involved. Hell, I can even promise that I’ll do everything in my power to keep you out of it, regardless of whether you want to help. But with you, we may be able to beat him tomorrow, not in a month or two. And you’d be free.”
You’d be free.
She lifted her head. Those words. Words she hadn't dared dream off. She wasn't surprised to feel tears on her cheeks. Ryn dried them with the back of her hands, and sniffed. Fuck. When was the last time she'd cried? Let al
one cried in public.
"Sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me," she said, finding more tears followed the first ones. Fuck, now she was bawling her eyes out.
Hope was such a strange thing. It practically hurt to think that she might slither out of the monster's grip.
Desmond was suddenly so very close, right next to her. She could smell his fresh scent, light, clean, and spicy, with a faint perfume wrapping it up. The man pulled a red handkerchief out of his breast pocket and somehow it only ended up making her cry harder. She laughed as well, asking, "Who the hell carries handkerchiefs these days?"
He ignored her.
“I’ve seen you with him before, at The Tower, years ago. I don’t know if you remember. I do.”
That he recalled the incident surprised her.
"I wondered what you were doing with him, when it seemed clear that you weren't attracted to him. And I figured you were a gold digger trying to get your claws into him. Steal him from his wife." Her eyes widened. "I'm sorry, Kathryn. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
He repeated the words softly, over and over. She couldn't tell how much time had passed when she realized that a warm, strong hand had been softly rubbing her back. Desmond looked awkward, uncomfortable as fuck as he did his best to soothe the open wound he hadn't caused. She buried her head in his shirt, and in time, her frantic crying slowed down. The rhythm of his heart was somehow incredibly calming. Eventually, she stopped crying. She tensed, realizing that it was probably the right time to move her head, too. She'd finally convinced herself to let go when Desmond's other arm circled her. He shifted her onto his lap and tucked her head under his chin, holding her close.
“It wasn't your fault. It wasn't my fault.” Saying that out loud both broke and healed something in her all at once. “It's him. It's all him. What he did to me….”
He cut her off. "Tomorrow. We'll talk about that scum in the morning, Kathryn. Just relax."
“It’s Ryn. People call me Ryn.”
“Ryn,” he repeated.
He didn't let go until she fell asleep.
16
Another King
Peace. It had been so long, she'd entirely forgotten how it felt. Without a thought about the result, not aiming for perfection or even anything remotely pretty, she let her brush run across the thick sheet of white paper, flying in angry black strikes, exploding in reds, yellows, and blues. At least an hour had passed by the time she came down from the high, and took the time to actually look at what she'd created.
She frowned.
It wasn't bad. At all. In fact, the drawing was potentially better than whatever she'd come up with back when she'd still been in school, working on abstract art.
It had never been her thing. Ryn had been all for drawing dark forests, magical creatures, fae and knights in shining armor. Her abstract drawing had been "without direction," according to her reports. She'd shrugged. What did it even mean? No abstract had ever seemed to have an actual direction to her. The few she liked were entirely open to interpretation; she saw one thing, any other student in her class might have come up with another definition.
She wished she could send this drawing to Professor Whyte. She was pretty certain it had direction. She wasn't sure what she saw, but it seemed purposeful. Light progressively coming out of the darkness, fighting its way out. Without so much as a thought about it, Ryn took a picture of the piece and named the shot "A New Dawn."
It was too small to think about doing anything with it; people who paid commissions asked for A3 size at least. The paper Desmond had sent was A4, perfect for practice, but that was about it. Still. She should get some blank canvas. Maybe someday she'd have enough decent paintings to set up a website, and put them on sale. Who knew?
She glanced at the clock. Two in the morning. Ryn sighed. Of course her painting looked good at two in the morning, before drying out, while she was exhausted and exhilarated. That was the excitement of painting for the first time in years talking, nothing more.
She signed the painting and left it out to dry, before dragging herself to bed.
Within an instant, her heavy eyes were closing. Her last thought was that she should thank Desmond, some way. Then she was out for the count.
She blinked in confusion when she woke up, feeling heavy and strange. Her hand felt her bedsheet until it hit a cold, solid object. She dragged her phone in front of her eyes and sat up, gasping.
Ten. Ten in the morning. She'd slept for eight fucking hours. Which meant that she was late for work. Shit. There were two missed calls from Callum.
“Dammit!” Ryn cursed, hitting the call back button, getting up and running to her bathroom. “I'm so, so sorry, Cal. I don't know what happened, I crashed without putting my alarm on, and—”
"Don't sweat it," her boss replied. She could practically see him shrug. "It's the first time in six weeks, and you're here early most days. As long as you don't make it a habit, we won't have a problem."
"It won't happen again," she promised. "I'll be there in twenty."
"Take an hour, I'm on my way to Connecticut. Just forward last year's data when you get to the office; I couldn't find the figures this morning."
He had an appointment with a manufacturer today, if memory served. The good news was, she hadn't been supposed to accompany him anyway.
"I got the email from finances just yesterday, hang on, I can probably forward it to you from this phone."
"You're the best. And I mean it. Don't sweat it. Everyone oversleeps eventually. I work you too hard."
Thirty minutes later, she was at work, still running the conversation through her mind.
Whatever way she thought about it, he had gone easy on her. And that was probably because of what happened to her.
She bit her lip, a little voice at the back of her mind whispering a fact she'd done her best to ignore for weeks now.
She'd taken a shortcut. The easy path. The perfect job had landed in her lap when she'd needed it and she'd grabbed it like the lifeline it was. But working for the Kings was a mistake. They didn't treat her like a normal employee. How could they?
She'd done her best at this job, aiming to prove to Callum that she could be just as efficient as any other assistant out there. Wanting to prove something, to herself and to them. But the moment she messed up, he'd cushioned her fall instead of barking at her and telling her to get her shit together like just about any other executive would have.
She bit her lip. What now?
There was a pile of work to do, first of all. By the time she'd caught up with the two hours of work she should have done earlier, and worked her way through the rest of her to-do list, Callum had made it back. Surprised, she glanced at her clock. It was just three.
"You're back already?"
He nodded. "I flew out. It's just a two-hour round-trip in the jet, and the meeting didn't take long."
"You have a private jet?"
Callum shrugged.
Sometimes she forgot who she was talking to.
In her short career, she'd met plenty of executives. Most of them were comfortable, financially, and could order the best champagne without checking the price of the bottle. The Kings were on another level. It was easy to forget, as Callum didn't act like a self-centered dick, flashing his money at the first occasion, but they owned dozens of hotels, and apartment complexes, as well as a handful of highly successful businesses landing them on every run of the Forbes list.
"Don't look at me like that. I don't condone waste of fuel. I would have driven down if I didn't have a meeting this afternoon."
She nodded. "Besides, it wouldn't do to keep the pilot idle," she guessed, barely hiding her amusement.
"Exactly. We wouldn't want poor Carl to be out of a job, now would we?"
She shook her head. "I can't imagine having that much money. But if I did, I'd like to think I'd also try to develop businesses and employ the Carls of the world. And the Kathryns, too."
"Don't think we're doing it fo
r the good of the Carls, or the Kathryns, for that matter. My brothers and I are just driven. We had a highly successful father who was respected. That typically results in two different types of offspring. Entitled brats or men who do their best to live up to their name. I was the brat."
She laughed. "No way."
"Oh, I assure you, I was a complete and utter brat. I expected the world handed to me. I was going to lie back, work as little as possible, and roll in it, so to speak. My brother was shadowing our dad, being groomed as the next CEO. No one cared what I did."
"And then?" Ryn prompted, leaning forward, dying to hear more.
Callum smiled. There was something a little sad about that smile. He sat on the corner of her desk and told her, "When I was eighteen, my mother died. My father was devastated. He couldn't deal with the world for months, years, maybe. I don't think he ever recovered. I watched my older brother, at just twenty-three, become the head of the family. It seemed almost effortless for Perfect Desmond. I watched Maverick, age sixteen, accumulate the knowledge of an average Wall Street trader in finances, taking every minute outside of school to help Desmond. And I did nothing. Carried on partying. Two years later, I met a girl. In hindsight, it could have been anyone, but it was that girl who changed my life. I was obsessed with her for some reason. She didn't seem interested at all. I didn't get why. I mean, look at me." Callum winked playfully.
He was hot, by anyone's standard.
"I ended up going to a party with her. She was pretty tipsy. Here's my chance, I thought. But not everyone gets horny when they're tipsy. Some people are honest instead."
Ryn wrinkled her nose. "Ouch," she said, anticipating the hit.
"Yeah, you could say that. She told me I was a waste of space, sucking up my family's time and energy like a parasite. Worse, that people like me were everything that was wrong in the universe. The reason why some children live in the street. She practically accused me of drowning puppies."