Keeping King

by Anne Jolin

  Keeping King

  Copyright © 2015 Anne Jolin

  Cover Design: MG Book Covers

  Cover Photo: Scott Hoover

  Cover Model: Micah Truitt

  Editor: Mickey Reed

  Formatting: Stacey Blake, Champagne Formats

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Other Books

  Dedication

  Quote

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Hell on Heels - Prologue

  Change Rein - Prologue

  Also by Anne Jolin

  Rock Falls Series

  Chasing Rhodes, Book 1

  Choosing Henley, Book 2

  Breaking Bennett, Book 3

  “EXCUSE ME, MISS?”

  I pry my eyes open at the sound of her voice.

  “We’ll be landing shortly. Could you please put your seat in the upright position and put on your seat belt?”

  She stares at me, all blond hair and Quebec French accent, her perfectly poised body facing me, waiting on a cue to signal that I’ve understood her. I’m a little slow on the draw, but eventually, I manage a half nod, half yawn and press the incline button on my coach seat. Her pouty mouth grins at my compliance before she continues down the aisle.

  It’s the Sunday morning flight from Montreal to Vancouver, and I would imagine I wasn’t the only one catching a little shut-eye on the plane, although I hadn’t meant to. Lately when I wake up, it’s to the sound of screaming voices—two, in fact. The one in my head and the one barreling from my lungs.

  I count my blessings at the avoided potential embarrassment and turn my attention to the sky outside my window seat.

  As we come in over the water, the city’s skyline is on display. With tower windows playfully bouncing the morning light off each other, the city looks beautiful and full of promise. Like I imagine all fresh starts must look like for those who come with wounded souls, luggage on their backs, and scars in their hearts.

  I’d not be in the city long though—only hours—for the new beginning I fell in love with was a mere hour’s drive from Vancouver. It came alive splashed across the pages of all the magazines in the hospital. The glossy paper advertised so many things—a romantic getaway for two with trips to the spa and some of the best ski slopes Canada had to offer among them—but that’s not why I chose it.

  No, I fell in love with it for two reasons. It reminded me of where I’d once considered home, yet not a single person there would recoil in disgust or shift uncomfortably in shame when they heard my name.

  This will be the place I breath life back into my future, and when the timing is right, I’ll look at someone new to town and proudly say, “I’m Peyton Callaghan, and Rock Falls is my home.”

  That is my dream.

  And you can quote me on this: When I find my dream, I’m keeping it.

  Two Years Later

  “WELL, YOU’RE HITTING like a girl this morning.”

  Growling, I circle the ugly, blue mat, wiping the sweat off my forehead with the back of my glove. “I am a girl.”

  “I should hope so,” Colt teases, “but you usually don’t fight like one.”

  He swings a lazy punch at me, and I duck with ease, landing a punch to his abdomen.

  “You’re not even trying.”

  I rush him quickly, shoving him in the chest and catching him off guard.

  “It’s like sparring with a hungover teddy bear.”

  Turning away in a huff, I bend over, snatching my pink water bottle off the mat. Before I can touch the container to my lips, solid arms wrap around me from behind, pinning my arms against my sides.

  “What was the first rule I ever taught you?” Colt asks.

  The confinement causes my heart rate to pick up, and I consciously fight the urge to squirm in his hold. Squeezing my eyes shut, I center my focus.

  “Never turn your back on your opponent,” I state.

  Putting one of his legs between mine, he knocks me off-balance. “Very good.”

  The adrenaline pulsing under my petite frame begs me to fight, but I don’t. Colt weighs nearly double my one hundred and twenty pounds. He’s six foot four and built like a brick shithouse.

  “What’s the second rule?”

  “Never panic.”

  Spinning me quickly, he slams my small body against the gym wall, wrapping his hand around my throat. Colt nods, and that’s all the permission I need. Slowly stretching my right arm above my head, I turn my neck within the grip of his hand while simultaneously bringing my right elbow down onto his forearm.

  “Methodical, Peyton,” he instructs. “Slow, not sloppy.”

  Completing my twist and effectively releasing his hold, I swing up with my elbow, using my entire body to create momentum in the attack. Colt catches it before I collide with my intended target—the side of his face.

  “There she is,” he grins. “Show me some glove love, baby.”

  Rolling my eyes, I tap my gloves on his outstretched fists. “You went easy on me.”

  “I never go easy on you.” He picks up the mat, dragging it towards the storage locker. “Not once in two years.”

  After taking my pink gloves off, I toss them into my gym bag.

  “As a matter of fact, maybe you should hit like a girl more often. It’s embarrassing explaining to the guys at the precinct why I have so many bruises.”

  Picking my water bottle back up from its discarded place on the floor, I chuckle.

  “You shouldn’t laugh. It’s not funny. I’m running out of ways to explain them—fell down the stairs, walked into a door, slipped in the driveway… Seriously. They’d eat me alive if they knew I was getting beat up by a girl five times a week.”

  Colt’s exaggerating. I don’t actually beat up him daily. For the first six months of our sessions together, I could barely stay on my feet for thirty seconds let alone take his solid frame down. However, now, I’m much more likely to land a hit or two. I met the thirty-three-year-old narcotics detective at a meeting during my second month in Rock Falls. We bonded over the one thing people as different as we are don’t normally bond over: death.

  After slipping on my hoodie, I zip it up over my sports bra. “See you tomorrow?” I ask, pulling the bag over my shoulder a
s he locks up behind us.

  “Come hell or high water.”

  Smiling, I unlock the door to my shitty, green Sunfire and slide into the driver’s seat. I ask him the same thing every morning, and he answers with the same sentence. And he always waits until I’ve safely pulled away in my vehicle before he leaves in his. Colt is the only person in my life who knows me, all of me. Being around him has saved me, more than once, from turning the lights off and crawling into the dark recesses of my own mind. Whether it be to wallow in self-pity or torture myself, it’s nowhere I want to be on my own.

  It’s a summer morning and hotter than heck in the Falls. Pulling into the driveway of the condo I share with Beth, I can’t help but snicker when I notice that the fancy, black car is gone. As I was leaving this morning, I let in her very handsome, very protective boss inside, and he’d insisted on being the one to wake her up. I imagined she’d forgive me for the surprise when she saw the way he looked in a suit at six o’clock in the morning.

  After locking the door and turning the alarm on behind me, I strip off my sweaty clothes and head into the kitchen for a coffee. I like being naked, but having lived with roommates for so many years, I don’t get many opportunities to “let it all hang out,” for lack of a better phrase. That and I’d be worried they’d see the scars—the reason I wear a full-piece bathing suit despite the fact that I’m in the best shape of my life.

  Once I’ve poured myself a cup, I make my way into the bathroom and start running the water for a bath. The plus side of not sleeping in is that I have endless time in the mornings. I don’t start work until ten o’clock, and I’m always home from training by seven thirty. It’s relaxing. I shake some vanilla bath salts into the running water and set off in search of my Kindle. It takes me a minute to find the damn thing because I leave it all over the house. Setting my ironic One Tree Hill mug—yes, Lennon thought it would be a very funny birthday gift—on the side of the tub, I turn off the water and then settle under the bubbles, making sure to keep my hands dry. Lying back, I flip my reader open to Obligation by Aurora Rose Reynolds and lose myself in the romantic suspense, backdropped by the gorgeous Islands of Hawaii.

  Yes, my quiet mornings—I do quite like them, indeed.

  “Your client’s here,” Lennon singsongs past me as she heads towards the sink with one of her regulars.

  I have to bite back the urge to make fun of the lopsided grin that’s permanently been attached to my old roommate’s face this past year. It was all entirely because of her fiancé, and if you had known Lennon pre–Jamison Henley, you’d know full well that “singsonging” is not something she used to do.

  When I make it to reception, I look down at the appointment book, scanning for the name next to mine—Axel. Then I scan the waiting area of the small salon and see a man not much older than I am flipping through a women’s Cosmopolitan magazine, looking terribly confused. Even I have to admit that the puzzled look on his face is rather adorable.

  “Axel?”

  As he lifts his head, I lock gazes with dark-green eyes. Intensely, they regard me, taking in my heeled ankle boots, my skinny jeans, and my oversized, knit sweater. Fighting the urge to shrink under his stare, I clear my throat. Snapping his attention back to my eyes, he smiles as I suppress a shiver. I recognize those…

  “That’s me.”

  Hmm. Maybe not. “Hi. I’m Peyton.” I extend my hand to him. “I’ll be doing your hair today.”

  Enveloping my hand in his large one, he lifts it to his lips. “Lucky me.”

  He holds my hand there, two seconds too long, and I yank it back, laughing awkwardly to cover my rudeness.

  “If you’d follow me to the sink, we’ll get you shampooed,” I advise and lead him towards the back.

  Lennon sees us coming, and I pray that Axel doesn’t see the way she’s waggling her eyebrows in our direction. After wrapping a fresh cape around his neck, I guide his head to lie in the black sink. Once I’ve turned the water on, I test it with my fingers first before moving it over his scalp.

  “Is the temperature okay?” I ask.

  He doesn’t say anything, just nods. Okay then.

  Lathering up the shampoo in my hands, I then start to massage it into his hair.

  “You’re good with your hands.”

  My eyes fly to the man’s face, and instead of closed eyelids, I find green orbs staring at me intently. He’s incredibly unnerving, and I wouldn’t say in a good way. Something about the aura coming off him has me rinsing the shampoo out much quicker than usual.

  “All set,” I chirp, annoyed at the way my voice has jumped an octave just from being nervous.

  While leading him to my chair, I try to pinpoint where the odd feeling is coming from. Is it because he’s so good-looking? Is it because I’ve met him before and don’t remember? Is it because I’m a social recluse and I no longer know how to interact with people of the opposite sex unless they are married, engaged, or dating one of my friends? Sighing inwardly, I decide that it’s likely the latter. I’m not what one would call a social butterfly, I suppose.

  “Are you from here originally?” he wonders aloud, watching me in the mirror.

  Startled by his inquisition, I dish out my rehearsed line. “No, actually. I came out this way for my career.”

  Again, he doesn’t say anything, simply eyes my movements in the mirror. Swallowing hard, I busy myself with cutting his barely there hair. It couldn’t have been more than a few weeks since his last cut.

  “Do you date?”

  “Ow,” I wince after nicking myself with the scissors. My client has me so on edge that I can barely cut his damn hair. Pausing to wrap a towel around my finger, I mentally kick myself for being such a social loser sometimes.

  “Do you?” Axel asks again. He always speaks slowly, like he chooses each word and says it methodically. It only adds to his weirdness.

  Smiling with false bravado, I toss my honey-colored hair over my shoulder and laugh. “Not my clients.” The laugh and the tone of my voice are fake—so fake. Faker than Lennon’s fiancé’s ex–Barbie doll.

  The gesture was supposed to appease him, but instead, he looks annoyed—angry, even. I take the opportunity to turn the blow dryer on and work it over his hair. At least Axel, the stage-five clinger, won’t be able to talk to me if I can’t hear him. Unluckily for me, his hair takes less than a few minutes to dry.

  Unsnapping the cape from around his neck, I flash another fake smile his way. “You’re all set. Michelle at the front desk will finish you up.”

  Standing, he towers over me. “Call me,” he flirts, and I suddenly feel the urge to vomit when he reaches forward, tucking something into my front pocket. “Soon.”

  Then he tosses cash onto the front desk and exits the salon.

  Weird.

  “Are you going to call him?”

  The close proximity of the voice causes me to nearly jump out of my skin, and I turn sharply.

  “Easy. Skittish much?” Lennon raises her hands in the air. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Sagging in relief, I lean against my chair, “He was weird.”

  “Bad weird?”

  Nodding, I reach into my pocket, retrieving the piece of paper with his phone number on it. “Bad weird.”

  “Well”—Lennon snatches it from my hands—“then call we will not,” she declares, tossing it into the trash can.

  “Were you watching Star Wars with Jami again?” I laugh.

  She feigns horror and rolls her eyes at me. “Sometimes, I wonder why I agreed to marry him or why Hannah’s even friends with him—that boy has awful taste in movies.”

  “It’s a classic,” I defend.

  “I take that back. Why am I friends with any of you people? Bloody movie junkies,” she pouts in annoyance, waving me off as she walks away.

  I thank god for Lennon Montgomery.

  I’d never had girlfriends before.

  I’d never been accepted before.

  Until her.


  I owe every friend I have in this town, besides Colt, to her.

  She welcomed me into her world, and I am immensely grateful.

  “YOUR FIVE-O’CLOCK CANCELLED,” Lucy announces as I lean up against the reception desk.

  “On a Friday night? You must have horseshoes shoved up your ass,” Lennon whines. “I want to go home early.”

  “I can take your client,” I offer. “I have no plans. I’ll just be—”

  She cuts me off. “You’re so sweet you give me a toothache sometimes. Go home, butthead. Besides, if I work late, Jami cooks for me.”

  “All right. Well, I’ll see you guys in the morning.” I smile, excitedly slinging my purse over my shoulder.

  I know exactly what I want to do.

  I walk into town, searching the little shops in the village. I know I’ve seen one around here; I just have to find it. After spending nearly thirty minutes looking, I turn the corner and see the words I’ve been wanting to see: Tattoo Parlour.

  Opening the doors, I stumble a little in awe of the beautiful room before me. Hardwood floors run the length of the shop, and exposed wood beams encase the ceilings. The walls are painted a dark purple, and displayed on them are dozens of framed sketches.

  “Welcome to The King’s Mistress, love.”

  Dragging my doe-eyed look towards the voice, I see a slender but handsome man sitting behind a desk in the front of the room. The desk is a rich, black wood, and sure enough, painted in purple on the front is the silhouette of a pinup girl.

  “Hi.” I smile shyly, suddenly finding myself shifting my weight and fidgeting with my hands.

  When he stands up, his height surprises me. As he moves across the room, the artwork on his skin moves with him and his muscles dance under his black T-shirt.

  “First tattoo?” he asks knowingly.

  I nod, still fidgeting.

  “Foster,” he says, holding his hand out to me.

  Smiling, I slip mine into his. “Peyton.”

  “It’s no worries, love. Nice to meet you. Come on back and we’ll discuss what you’re looking to get.”