The King Brothers Boxed Set

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  Once a month I like to book a celebrity deejay for the club. I love music. In another life I would have been a musician, but sometimes you just have to play the hand the you've been dealt in life.

  Me: This is what happens when you don't come to the club. You don't know what's going on. He's going out of the country on tour next month, so it was now or never.

  I'm a little disappointed. I had to call in a lot of favors to get Khaled into Philadelphia this week, and I wanted to reap the fruits of my labor. It's been part of my long-term brand strategy to attract different clientele to the club certain nights, and tonight will be a big step toward that.

  Roman: His management is looking specifically for you.

  Me: The contract is in a file with his name on the desktop. The manager is looking for the side deal I cut with him to book the date. An extra $1000 on top of Khaled's price. The cash is in the safe.

  Roman: Still, it would be better if you were here.

  Me: Not coming.

  "I swear I know her," Mendez says loudly in my ear.

  The general manager's wife leans over to Mendez. "She's Dan Pearson's little girl. Now will you please be quiet."

  "Not so little anymore," he says under his breath.

  "Shut up," I whisper.

  I take another long look at Sloan and for the first time in days, I ask myself what the hell it is that I think I'm trying to accomplish by bogarting my way into her life. What the hell is wrong with me all of a sudden?

  She's the daughter of an NBA legend. She's been raised as a pampered princess her whole life. I don't care what she says about not wanting love, of course she's looking for the fairy tale. She wants a respectable corporate drone she can take home to mommy and daddy, marry, and have babies with. She doesn't want any parts of what I have to offer.

  She wouldn't know what to do with a king like me.

  Twenty

  Sloan

  Cutter King is a slumlord.

  He's never here and he doesn't fix anything. Not only is my thermostat on the blink, but now I don't have any hot water. I can't even wash my hair, and I need to be showered, dressed, and at work by nine.

  I suppose that's why he hasn't been around, not that I was looking for him, because I guess that's what slumlords do. They duck their tenants, so that they won't have to actually do anything that costs them money, time, or effort.

  Thank God Kyle works from home. He has hot water and has graciously offered me the use of his bathroom. I pack up one of my reusable Whole Foods totes with toiletries and a towel and head down to his apartment. I knock on the door a few times, and when he doesn't answer I shoot him a quick text.

  Me: I'm outside.

  Kyle: Sorry, I'll be there in a second.

  I lean against the door, my hands full of stuff, wrapped up in my fluffy robe when the door to 7B opens. The unit next door to Kyle's.

  The hairs on my forearms rise and my nipples rise to attention.

  Damn Benedict Arnolds.

  "Morning, princess."

  It was just a matter of time before we saw each other, and now I wish we hadn't, because my body is starting to crave what it can't have. This man gets better with time. Like a fine wine. Today he's wearing a pair of soft gray sweats which are slung low, showcasing the perfect V of abdominal muscles that point straight toward what looks like a large piece of morning wood. I can't imagine waking up to that every morning. Well, maybe I can. I'd never get anything done.

  Focus on his face, Sloan.

  Focus on his face.

  "Landlord."

  "Why are you at my neighbor's door in a state of undress?"

  "Funny you should ask that, but I need to take a shower and lo and behold, I don't have any hot water. Do you know anything about that?"

  "Did you report it to the super?"

  "Of course I told him, but the landlord has to actually approve the work so that Pete can do his job."

  Kyle finally opens the door with a messy head of hair looking like he just rolled out of bed. I know he says he works from home, but I've never really been sure about what he actually does. Something about networks and such.

  "Sorry about that, gorgeous. I was on the can. You may want to watch a little TV or something before you go into the bathroom. Give the air freshener I sprayed a minute to do its job."

  Good grief.

  "Take a shower in here," Cutter offers. Actually it almost sounds like an order, not a suggestion.

  "And who are you?" Kyle asks.

  "I'm Cutter King, the new owner of this building, your next-door neighbor, and a friend of Miss Pearson's."

  Kyle turns to me looking for confirmation.

  "Yep, he's the new owner."

  "Who you know and never mentioned?"

  "Yes."

  "That's interesting," he says giving Cutter another once-over.

  "If you're tired of chitchatting out here in your pajamas, and you want to get to work sometime this year, I'd say it's time for you to come take that shower. I'll call Pete while you're getting ready."

  Kyle looks back and forth between Cutter and I and much to my chagrin, I can tell that he already sees it. The pull between us. The fierce attraction.

  "You know what, Sloan, I totally forgot about an appointment I have. The dentist. I'm actually going to have to hop in the shower right now to make it on time. So why don't you shower at Mr. King's here, and I'll catch up with you later."

  He's totally lying.

  "But Kyle–"

  He grins mischievously. "Don't give me a hard time about it. You know how bad my molars are. I have to make this appointment or I'll keep putting it off. Go on now." He actually gives me a small push toward Cutter. "When you get off work tonight, I'm going to tell you about the brilliant thing my nephew did the other day. Little man called nine-one-one and nearly gave my sister a heart attack. They broke down the door to the house and everything."

  "Ready or not," Cutter says.

  I check the time on my phone. I've wasted ten valuable hair detangling minutes contemplating where I'm going to wash my private parts. It's not that serious. It's just a shower.

  "Fine. Let's go."

  One of things that helped me make a final decision about renting in this building was the fact that there are no two apartments in the building that look alike. Every unit has its own bit of individuality. Something special that makes it uniquely its own space. I've really never seen anything like it.

  My apartment has these cool dark wooden beams running across the length of the ceiling. Kyle's has a cozy window nook where you can sit and drink coffee and read a book. And Cutter's has a large open face red brick wall in his living room. What he doesn't have much of is furniture or window treatments. It definitely looks like he just moved in.

  "You know someone can see everything in here at night."

  "Who can? We're on the seventh floor."

  "What about the people in that building across from us. Right on the seventh floor, genius. They can look in here and see everything you're doing. You need some blinds or some curtains."

  "I'm not modest. If they want to look they can look."

  I roll my eyes.

  "Forget I mentioned it. Just point me to the hot water."

  "Right in here. How much time do you have to get ready?"

  "Less than an hour. Why?"

  "I'm calling Pete now. I'm not sure why some of the units have hot water and you don't, but he'll get to the bottom of it. It'll be repaired by the time you get home."

  "Thanks, landlord."

  My shower is heavenly and informative. There are several brands of shampoo in Cutter's bathroom, no conditioner, only one brand of soap, and two washcloths. It makes me think that a woman has been in this shower lately. Of course I can't let that random thought go.

  "Are either of these washcloths clean?" I yell through the door. Hoping he can hear what I'm saying.

  He opens the door to the bathroom.

  "Aah!" I quickly turn my b
ody around with my back facing him. Although the doors to his shower are frosted, he can definitely see my silhouette through them. "Would you get out please."

  "I couldn't understand what you were saying. It could have been important, so I came in."

  "I asked if either of these washcloths were clean. I forgot mine."

  "No, let me grab you a fresh one."

  Figures.

  "Here."

  I crack open the door just enough to allow him to hand me the washcloth.

  "And next time just ask what you really want to ask me. I'm an open book to you, darlin'."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I use two washcloths. One for my face and one for my body. I haven't had female company over at this place at all or at my old place in a long time."

  "I wasn't asking you about any of that."

  "You're a shit liar, darlin'. You were definitely asking that. See you in a few minutes."

  After soaking my head under the showerhead to try my best to forget that I just freakin' embarrassed myself, I finish up and return to the living room squeaky clean and with my tote bag full of stuff. As I pass the open door to his bedroom, I can see a part of a gun, a shoulder holster, and what looks like a cleaning kit on top of his dresser.

  Totally reminds me of my youth.

  I can't wait to get out of here.

  "Thanks for the shower," I say as I hightail it to the door.

  He stares quietly at me for a moment then growls out an order.

  "Wait. Sit. Eat."

  "I don't have time for breakfast. I have to go get dressed."

  The food on the table looks delicious. There's hot bacon, scrambled eggs, bagels and butter, and a bowl of mixed fruit. I don't smell coffee, not everyone drinks it, but I see a few bottles of spring water over on the counter. But I'm literally standing in a pair of lacy underwear, a robe, and slippers. I'm not sure that I could manage to take two bites of what he's prepared sitting across from him in this.

  "This looks great, Cutter, but I have to go."

  "You've got ten minutes. Scrambled eggs are my specialty. Eat."

  "I thought you said steak was."

  He grins. "That too. I'm good at a lot of shit."

  I bet, I think to myself.

  "I bought a Keurig the other day. Shouldn't take long to set up. You want me to make you a cup of coffee?"

  "I don't drink plain coffee."

  "Coffee's coffee."

  "Clearly you don't drink it."

  He doesn't respond to that. I wonder why he even bothered to buy a Keurig machine if he doesn't drink coffee. Weirdo.

  "So what kind of coffee do you drink then?"

  "I like specialty espresso drinks. Like caramel macchiatos."

  "Oh, fancy coffee."

  I stare at the bacon. I haven't had a strip of that type of greasy goodness in months.

  "Okay, maybe just a few bites."

  The first bite is salty deliciousness and you can't eat bacon without eggs, so I take a nibble of them as well. He's right, they are good.

  "What's in these?"

  "If I told you, then I'd have to kill you." He grins.

  "With the gun in your bedroom?"

  "I'd prefer to fuck you to death."

  "Seriously, do you have a permit for that thing?"

  "Of course I do and that thing has a name."

  "What?"

  "My glock–his name is Benny."

  "Do you wear Benny all the time?"

  "Most of the time. When I'm in the club or when I'm working a fix. Why? Do guns bother you?"

  "I just don't think they're necessary for city living. Do you know about the incident that happened with my father in 1999?"

  "Absolutely, it was in all the papers."

  "Do you really think that three people would have lost their lives in that nightclub that night if my father's security didn't have those guns on them?"

  "They're security. It was their job to protect your father. From what I heard, your dad didn't have much of a choice. They were basically robbing him that night."

  "He has a lot of money, Cutter, and not all of it was in his wallet that night. He should have just given them the money and left the club. End of story. No one would have been hurt."

  "And then what do you think would have happened the next time he went out? Celebrities like your father are marks. Thugs like the guys that tried to rob him that night would have robbed him again and again and again. It would have never stopped."

  "That would have been better than people losing their lives."

  "I can't disagree with you there, but neither one of us were there. We don't know exactly what happened. Maybe your dad's people didn't have a choice. Either way you can rest assured that I don't go around shooting people at clubs. Even criminals. I carry my weapon for protection, and I've rarely had to use it."

  "But you have used it?"

  "Rarely."

  "Uh, huh."

  "Juice?" he offers with a saccharin smile.

  "No, I'm good. I'll just drink a little water." I watch as he awkwardly maneuvers his legs from underneath the table to stand. "You know this dinette set is way too small for you. You need something bigger."

  "It came with the apartment."

  "Oh, I never saw her much. I wonder what happened to her."

  "Don't know. Didn't ask."

  Cutter stands behind me and leans over my shoulder placing a bottle of water in front of me. He smells delicious. Like bacon and leather and soap.

  "So, tell me," his voice rumbles deeply with the sound of morning, "how did your date end the other night with the suit?"

  "Wonderfully."

  Actually it ended without fanfare. Not even a kiss good night. Clark and I ended our date, like we end our sales calls, with a cordial goodbye.

  "Did you end up having to fake it?"

  He sits back down at the table and looks at me straight on.

  "I don't put out on the first date," I say resolutely.

  "Really?" He raises an eyebrow. "So it was the first date."

  "Yes, if you must know, it was the first date. A very nice first date."

  "But it was the last one, princess."

  "What makes you so sure? I think my guy may have something to say about that."

  "Your guy?" he asks incredulously and then one of his eyelids starts to jump. "Trust me when I say that after I get inside of you, that there'll be no second date. Now pass me an everything bagel, and when you're done eating, I'll drop you off at work."

  Twenty-One

  Cutter

  I'm completely mind fucked.

  The moment Sloan stepped out of my bathroom, fresh faced, no makeup, and with her hair pulled back from her face, I had a moment of recognition.

  A realization.

  A revelation.

  It. Is. Her.

  How could I have been so stupid not to have realized all these months that they were one in the same. The pretty girl who stopped me cold in my tracks when I was just a kid sneaking into the stadium is the same stunning woman who is stopping me dead in them today.

  It explains so much.

  It explains everything.

  The attraction. The incredible pull I have to fix her every problem. The desire to be the source of all of her laughter. I don't need a psychology degree to understand that I've been unconsciously tapping into some childhood fantasy shit.

  Me: You'll never believe this.

  Camden: So you're speaking to me now?

  Me: You're the only one who will understand. So for now, yes.

  Camden: What is it?

  Me: Sloan is the girl from the stadium.

  Camden: The girl you trolled every high school in Philly to find?

  Me: Yes.

  Camden: The glamazon is THAT girl.

  Me: YES!

  Camden: Well fuck me.

  Me: Exactly.

  Camden: Is that why you bought her shitty ass building? I heard that's where you'r
e living now.

  Me: I didn't know it was her when I bought it.

  Camden: Well God help her now that you've put these two puzzle pieces together. She's never going to get rid of you.

  Me: It all makes sense now.

  Camden: What does?

  Me: My fixation with her. It's not me falling in love or anything as ridiculous as that.

  Camden: Yeah, then what is it?

  Me: An unfulfilled childhood crush. You know that's some powerful shit.

  Camden: And now that you know this, Dr. Phil, are you over her?

  Me: Once we sleep together, and it ruins the "fantasy" of the perfect fourteen-year-old her, it will be done. Then I can get back to life as usual.

  Camden: The titty bar.

  Me: Exactly.

  Camden: Good luck with that rewarding relationship goal.

  Me: Thanks, asshole.

  There's a long pause while Camden continues to type. I can see the dots moving.

  Camden: Roman and I decided not to take on any new clients until you come back.

  Me: Your choice.

  Camden: I'm focusing on the tapas lounge and he's handling the club. Jade is helping with both.

  Me: I figured.

  Most of our private clients cannot actually pay us to fix their problems using money from their corporate accounts. They'd have to cut us a check, and checks leave paper trails. Trails that have to be explained. Most of our clients decide to pay us privately. Off the books.

  On the flip side, if we accepted payment strictly as consultants, it would raise red flags with the IRS. That's why we own the restaurant and the club. To wash the money. But they are still legit businesses that have to be run. Businesses that have to be successful in order to continue washing the money. It isn't as easy as Joseph used to make it look. That's what I'm hoping my brother and Roman are getting a glimpse of. Just how much work it takes to keep everything we're doing squeaky clean and functional.

  Camden: How much more time are you going to need before the three of us sit down and figure this out like rational human beings.

  Me: Since when are you rational?

  Camden: When, Cut.

  Me: Don't know.

  Camden: Fine.