The King Brothers Boxed Set

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  "You're in the wrong profession. You should have been a romance novelist, not a freaking coder. And I don't drink lemon drops anymore for your information."

  "What would be so awful about one night with him?"

  "There's a slew of reasons. For one, I might catch something."

  Elizabeth laughs. "I know what it must look like. All the women that chase after him, especially those girls at the club. It makes you think that there's no way that he isn't sleeping with a different woman every night, but believe it or not, Cutter is not a whore. He likes to look, like every man on earth, but I don't think he lays down with just anyone."

  "Can we change the subject, because this one is dead and stinking in the water. The best he and I are ever going to be are strictly friends. Supporting our mutual friends as they marry and have a baby. Nothing more."

  "Fine, crazy girl. Whatever you say. So tell me . . . how's your face looking?"

  "Horrible," I admit while staring at my purple bruises in a handheld mirror. "There's no way I can take sales calls looking like this. They won't want to buy drugs from me, they'll want to prescribe them."

  "You better come up with some sort of stay busy plan, because you're going to go stir crazy sitting in the house all day. Maybe you could help me decorate the nursery."

  "I'm not coming out of the house looking like this. I've decided to drown my sorrows in bad carbs and bad television. We've got plenty of time to decorate my godchild's nursery. You know I'm going to hook it up."

  "Are you going to press charges against Dawn's boyfriend? You probably should.”

  "No, I think the scrawny jerk is way more afraid of caveman Cutter than he is of any jail cell I could put him in."

  "Really?!"

  "Yeah, I'm pretty sure that the caveman scared him straight. Plus, he physically assaulted Damien too. If I report Damien to the police, it’s going to open a whole other can of worms.”

  “True.”

  “I hate to say it, and I'll never admit it to anyone outside of this phone call, but I think that I'm going to owe Cutter big time for this. Dawn’s boyfriend had crazy in his eyes. He probably would have hit me again if Cutter hadn't stepped in."

  "So I'm wondering if this whole thing may have changed your bad opinion of our Mr. King?"

  "Bitsy, be serious. While I am soooo grateful that he was there to help, the guy came to my aid already drenched in blood. I don't even know if it was his blood or someone else's. Of course Dawn's boyfriend was scared of him. So was I. Any sane person would have been."

  "You couldn't have been that afraid. You let him carry you around like you two were shooting a scene in An Officer And A Gentleman."

  Before I can retort with a snarky comeback, there's a heavy knock at my door. A man's knock. It has to be my neighbor Kyle from down the hall. He saw me earlier and stopped to ask me why I had bandages on my face, and if I heard any news about the quiet lady who was evicted out of the apartment next to him. He's a bit of a gossiper.

  "Let me call you back, Bitsy. It's my neighbor."

  Kyle's seen me at my worst, so I think nothing about throwing on the closest thing to me (a ratty, old, oversized Penn sweatshirt) and grabbing the door.

  "Hey, Kyle–" I say as I open the door.

  But it's not Kyle.

  Instead I find Cutter King standing at my front door looking pretty much like he did last night. While his face is not covered in blood like it was before, it's obvious that his wound hasn't been properly cleaned. I can clearly see the long gash above his eye which looks like the blood was simply wiped off and temporarily covered with Vaseline.

  "Who the fuck is Kyle?" he asks in a no nonsense, authoritative voice.

  "None of your business."

  "Humor me."

  "My neighbor," I respond woodenly.

  "That's the way you answer the door for Kyle The Neighbor?"

  I look down at myself. I love this throwback sweatshirt from my college days. It's big, and worn in, and while my favorite sweatshirt is long enough to almost hit past my knees, I have nothing on underneath it but a pair of lacy boy shorts. I didn't think much about it before, because I have no romantic interest in Kyle, but maybe I should have put something else on before answering the door.

  "He's like a brother to me," I explain.

  "I seriously doubt that's the way Kyle sees it."

  I pull at the hem of my shirt.

  "Are you going to continue to stand in my doorway, or would you like to come in?"

  Cutter finally smiles and walks through the door like he owns the place. His thick soled boots sound thunderous walking across my wood floors. I consider for a moment asking him to take them off, so he won't scuff my newly buffed living room, but he might interpret that as an invitation to stay. Which it isn't. I only let him in for the sake of being polite.

  He takes a seat in the center of my couch. Spreading his tremendously muscular thighs widely apart. Hands clasped behind his head until he notices a hand-carved wooden statue of a woman on my side table. A keepsake from my last trip to the Caribbean. He picks it up. Rotating it around in his hands. Examining it in a way that I imagine he appraises a woman's actual body. With great interest and deliberate care.

  I inadvertently clear my throat. "Wait here for a second. I'm just going to change."

  "Please don't put on any pants on my account," he says coolly. "What's good for the neighbor to see is fine by me."

  "Me putting pants on has nothing to do with you. I'm just a little cold. Something is going on with my thermostat."

  "Uh-huh."

  I walk into my bedroom and look for a pair of clean sweatpants. Mr. chatterbox continues to talk to me while I'm in there. His booming voice reverberating against the walls of my apartment.

  "Why did you think it was Kyle at the door?"

  "We're not sure but we think the woman who lived next door to him was evicted. I thought that was him coming down to talk about it. We're just a little concerned about her."

  "You mean a little nosy."

  "Same thing."

  "I see they took good care of you at the ER."

  While it took forever to be seen, my wounds were definitely well irrigated and bandaged.

  "They did."

  "Did they give you good pain meds?"

  "Yep."

  "You know you shouldn't take those with alcohol."

  He must have noticed the opened bottle of Cabernet I left on the kitchen counter.

  "I'm aware."

  I find a pair of clean navy blue leggings in my bottom dresser drawer. They actually match perfectly with my sweatshirt.

  "And how's your sister?"

  "I haven't talked to her."

  "Are you angry with a seventeen-year-old kid?"

  "You were pissed at her too."

  "Yeah, but she isn't my sister."

  I return to the living room.

  "Obviously I'm still worried about her. That boy has some kind of hold over Dawn, and I'm not sure if she sees that it's toxic."

  "He's probably convinced her that you had that punch coming."

  "You think so?"

  "Yeah, I've known dirtbags like him my whole life. Don't worry about it though. I'm pretty sure he understands who he's fucking with now. I bet right now he's deciding on whether or not your sister is even worth the trouble. I guarantee you he'll decide by the end of the week that she's not."

  I'm quite familiar with the King brothers' reputation, and I'm a little worried that his words seem like a threat. While I know Dawn's boyfriend shouldn't be allowed to just walk around violently hitting women in their faces, I'm worried about my sister more. The last thing I need is for Cutter to do something to that kid that would push Dawn further away from the family and right into his arms.

  "Don't touch a hair on that kid's head," I order.

  "Did I say I was going to hurt him?" he asks obviously offended by what I've said.

  "Get up."

  "Now you're kicking me out?" he
asks incredulously.

  "Get up and sit down over at the dining table."

  He raises one of his eyebrows suggestively and flashes one of his twenty-four-carat smiles.

  "Oh yeah? Why? Are we going to do something fun on it?" he asks as he sits at the table.

  I turn my lips up and don't answer him. Then I wash my hands after retrieving the first aid kit from one of the drawers in my kitchen, pull out the antiseptic spray and a fresh gauze pad, and diligently begin spraying his cut and dabbing it gently with the clean gauze. Repeating each step methodically until I've cleaned all of the dried blood off of the gash.

  He watches me closely and quietly the entire time. The only sounds in the room are the inhaling and exhaling of breaths.

  He follows my fingers.

  Then observes my neck as I swallow.

  Then he ogles my breasts as they secretly pebble underneath my shirt.

  His inspection of me is unsettling, but I continue my work in a diligent manner. Knowing that this is the only way that I can thank him properly. At least the only way that my conscience will allow.

  "You know you never mentioned how your face got like this."

  "You're right, I didn't."

  He doesn't want to talk about it, but I continue to prod anyway.

  "Was it work related?"

  "What is it exactly do you think I do for a living?"

  "You own the club."

  "Yeah."

  "You own that restaurant in Manayunk."

  "I do."

  "And you help wealthy people fix their problems."

  He nods silently in agreement to that.

  "But I'm sure that sometimes that problem solving stuff gets messy."

  "Sometimes," he says gruffly. Obviously annoyed with the direction of our conversation.

  To finish I pull out a tube of Neosporin and spread some of the ointment across his cut. Although Cutter doesn't flinch at all, I imagine that a cut this deep must hurt something awful, so I start to blow gently on the wound. Hoping that it will provide some relief. Realizing almost immediately that I probably shouldn't have done that.

  "Dammit, princess."

  He starts shifting in his chair.

  "Shh." I quiet him. "Stay still."

  I'm pretty sure I already know what he's thinking. What he's feeling. The sexual tension between us is palpable. It's been this way since the first day we met.

  After finishing with the ointment, I look through my assortment of differently sized Band-Aids in my kit and decide on a couple of Mickey Mouse ones for his gash. He'll probably hate them which is entirely the point. They'll look hysterical on his gargantuan body.

  "These are going to look great on you." I giggle.

  Cutter surprises me by sliding one of his massive palms behind one of my thighs to pull me closer. His touch immediately initiates a gush between my legs.

  My body is a backstabbing turncoat.

  "I'm not a Mickey Mouse fan," he grumbles in protest.

  "What are you talking about. Everybody likes Mickey Mouse, and these will help you get lots of attention in the club. The girls will be falling all over themselves trying to make sure that you're okay."

  "They will, huh."

  I can feel his warm breath on my neck.

  It smells like a peppermint Tic Tac.

  He slides another hand behind my other leg.

  "What are you doing?" I whisper.

  "Nothing. What are you doing," he says in a deep voice that makes me tremble. Close to my ear. Being careful to avoid the side of my face covered in gauze.

  "Cutter–" I say unconvincingly.

  "When that kid hit you in the face and I saw you fall on the sidewalk, I wanted to put his ass in the ground."

  "Thank you, but–"

  "Can I have a kiss?"

  His provocative question dangerously tickles my neck.

  I can't talk.

  My only response is to offer him an inaudible head nod no.

  "No?" he chuckles softly. Pressing his lips into my skin.

  "No," I manage to eek out.

  "What's his name then? Can you at least give me that?" he asks as he takes a good whiff of my hair.

  "What?" I ask feeling a little loopy.

  "I was so fucking furious that night, I forgot to ask you," he explains. "I'm going to need the kid's name."

  I close my eyes as he just barely places his lips along my collarbone.

  "If he even breathes in your direction again, it will be the last breath he takes."

  Then my eyes pop back open.

  Cutter's words splash over me like an icy cold jug of water.

  Just when I thought I was patching up my own personal wounded hero, I'm quickly reminded that Cutter King is and will always be a menace to society. He's nobody's hero. He's a dangerous thug for hire, and I don't want to be responsible for unleashing his brand of crazy onto anyone. Even trash like Dawn's boyfriend.

  "Don't touch a hair on that kid's head, Cutter."

  He laughs into my neck.

  "You said that already."

  "I mean it."

  "Or what? What are you going to do if I touch him?"

  "Or . . . or . . . I don't know what. Just leave him alone. Pretend like it never happened. Like you didn't see anything."

  "As if I could ever do that."

  He gingerly touches the edges of my bandages.

  "When did the doctor say these could come off?"

  "Where is this coming from?" I yank my head away from his touch. "You and I aren't even friends. Why do you care about what happens to me so much?"

  "That's a valid question."

  Cutter takes both hands and pulls my knees forward. Lifting then sliding my butt completely onto his lap. As I fall forward I have no choice but to grab ahold of his shoulders. Shoulders so strong that they feel like they could carry the weight of the world on them if they needed to.

  "First of all, I would defend any woman who was sucker punched by a man. Friend or no friend. And secondly, your best friend is about to marry my best friend. In my book that means you're like family now, and a King always takes care of what's his."

  "Like family? That's a big leap," I say while foolishly trying to push against his shoulders and wiggle out of his hold. "I'm not yours."

  "Not yet."

  "Not ever."

  "You should stop fighting this." He grins flashing a couple of teeth. "You're going to regret those words later when we're holding each other post orgasm, and then it's going to be all awkward for you."

  I almost slip up and laugh.

  I've got to admit, the guy is hilarious.

  "Are you going to make a pass at me every time we see each other?"

  "Probably."

  "It's such a waste of his majesty's energy," I tease.

  He laughs out loud.

  "Nice to see you finally recognizing my royal lineage, as well as accepting the fact that we'll be seeing each other again . . . and again. I think I'm growing on you."

  He pulls me in tighter. Staring at me hard. Without even blinking. Gripping the sides of my hips and my ass. The position enables me to feel how hard he's growing through his jeans. Like a stiff steel rod. A very thick, steel rod. It's way more information than I needed to know. I suppose I imagined that he was pretty large down below, but to have proof, to actually feel the proof is a whole other matter. I panic and push on his wound with the heel of my hand, hoping he'll wince, then loosen up his hold on me. It works.

  "Christ! Are you trying to hurt me on purpose?"

  "I'm trying to get you to stop manhandling me."

  "All you had to do was ask nicely."

  "I'm not a nice girl."

  He smirks, then drops his hands away from my hips in a dramatic fashion, allowing me to maneuver myself off of his lap.

  "You're a confusing girl."

  "You're confused about the fact that I don't want to sit on your lap?"

  "You were all over me when we first met."
>
  "You have quite a knack for embellishing, your majesty. That did not happen. I was cordial. Pleasant. I was not all over you."

  "I'm not imagining it," he says with a clipped tone. "You're just fighting this for whatever reason."

  "Fighting what exactly? Sleeping with you?"

  "Obviously."

  "Are you implying that it's obvious that I want to sleep with you?"

  "One thing I know is a woman's body, and yours definitely responds to me every time I'm within ten feet of it. I'm confident that if I had asked nicely, I could have talked you right out of that pretty dress today."

  "Unbelievable." I shake my head in astonishment. Annoyed with his presumptuousness but mostly angry at myself. "I'm sure my behavior just now confused you, but please understand that I didn't just let you kiss my neck because of some strong attraction toward you. It's because you've caught me in a weak moment."

  "Weak for me."

  "I know this may be a difficult concept for you to grasp, but I'm just not interested in sleeping with you. It would be a waste of time. For both of us."

  "No, seriously."

  "Oh my God, you're so irritating. I am serious!"

  "Seriously stubborn," he scoffs. "I'm attractive, I'm rich, and a damn nice guy. What's not to like?"

  "Plenty."

  "Are you afraid of just how good it could be between us? Is that the real issue?"

  "No, I'm afraid that you need major psychological counseling. There is no issue. I'm just not interested. Do you comprendo yet?" I ask in my version of a bad Spanish accent.

  "Oh, there's definitely an issue." He chuckles.

  "Believe it or not, not every woman is charmed by you."

  He cocks his head to the side, in a quizzical manner, as if what I've just said is an impossibility.

  "No, you're definitely attracted to me. It's something else. Every time I try getting close to you, you run from me like you're frightened."

  Because I am.

  "So then I guess the real question is why do you keep trying to get close to me?" I retort.

  He sits for a moment, as if he's contemplating my question, when really all he's doing is eye fucking me as usual. It's actually disturbing how I'm starting to get used to it. Expect it. Dare I say . . . enjoy it.