Broken By A King: The King Brothers #3

by Lang Blakeney, Lisa

  "I'm sorry–"

  "I asked you to stop apologizing." His voice grows deeper and firmer.

  I clamp my mouth shut, because I swear I was just about to apologize for apologizing.

  "I need to go check on my soup. You come down when you're ready," I say and then head full speed ahead down the steps. I think I even skipped a couple of steps trying to get away from him as fast as I could.

  He watches me as I scamper away. Probably trying to make sure I don't fall flat on my behind again. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, Bottle is patiently waiting for me with a sloppy lick on the back of my hand. This gesture only assures me that I must be a complete basket case. Bottle only licks me calmly when I'm the one who's anxious or angry. She has a knack for always sensing my energy. She should have been a therapy dog.

  I wasn't expecting this.

  But something about this guy makes me step back in a virtual time machine and become a total dweeb again. I look like a straight-up amateur. Like I've never had a conversation with a hot as sin man before. Like he can smell the "virgin" on me.

  It's bad enough that I didn't even want him here and what has started out as a sucky day has now officially turned into the worst day ever.

  Of course, it doesn't take Nathaniel Carter aka Columbo long to take notice.

  * * *

  Thirteen

  TINY

  "What's wrong?" My father asks with a fair amount of concern.

  "Nothing."

  "Did he say something to you?"

  Always my superman.

  "No, Dad."

  "I know you were never a hundred percent on board with this plan, hun, but give Stone some time. Life has dealt him a shitty hand."

  "You've made that abundantly clear the hundreds of times we discussed this."

  "Your mother always opened the house to friends and family in need. It's the Christian thing to do."

  "You haven't been to church in twenty years. Now stop talking. It isn't good for your throat."

  I put my hand on his forehead to check his temperature.

  "Of course, if he gets out of pocket, let me know. You know I don't play that mess."

  "Calm yourself, Rambo. He's fine. It's just...I don't know what to say to him. I'm saying all the wrong things."

  He relaxes his face.

  "Oh, is that all? Just be yourself, baby girl. That's all you can do. I bet he'll be in a much better mood after he eats some of your cooking. I swear it smells just like your mom's soup. You get closer and closer to her secret recipe every time you make it."

  I do my best to smile in response to my father, but it's getting more difficult, not easier, as the years go by without Mom. I know he genuinely meant what he said about the soup as a compliment, but it doesn't feel that way. It feels like a backhanded compliment. Like I'm not doing a good enough job filling her shoes.

  In fact, I'm pretty sure that I'm doing a really piss poor job of filling my mother shoes. Probably because I don't want to fill them. I shouldn't have to. I'm not his wife. I'm his daughter and her death has left me with my own hollow parts to fill. Her passing was senseless, painful, and I'm never going to accept it.

  Unlike my mom, I'm serving the chicken soup with a few fresh herbs on top as a garnish and warm rosemary olive oil bread in the same way I've seen some of the chefs do on the Food Network.

  Stone finally returns from the second floor and stops at the entrance of the kitchen and watches me silently. I'm starting to think that he likes to observe. Like I'm an animal in the zoo. A very odd and clumsy animal.

  I turn to see what he wants, but his intense glare almost causes me to drop one of my mother's handmade ceramic bowls on the floor. His eyes are the color of a full moon.

  "You need help?" he asks. Shocking the shit out of me. I didn't expect him to be...helpful.

  I shake my head no. "Uh-uh."

  He ignores my response and starts opening up cabinets anyway. He finds and grabs three spoons and drinking glasses. Making sure to rinse and wipe each of them down with a clean paper towel.

  "Stone didn't eat much on the way here, so make sure to fill his bowl," My father calls out from the den.

  "I don't eat much," Stone says with a curtness. "Don't fill it."

  And oh hell, I swear his voice just dropped about ten octaves when he gave that almost angry order. Stone has a very deep, rich, and distinctive voice. In a crowd of ten thousand men, I could pick him out. It's a sumptuous and heavy voice, and any other day I'd be turned on by it, but not right now.

  Right now, I'm trying to understand why he sounds so indignant, and he's literally only been in our house for ten damn minutes. What the hell did we do to him? I know he's been through a lot but sheesh.

  "Then don't eat," I say with a bit of edge to my voice.

  I don't even have to see him; I can feel my father reprimanding me from the other room.

  "Or maybe just eat a little bit," I say trying to clean things up. I make sure to keep my back toward him. "I'll go grocery shopping after I liberate my car tomorrow and get you some of the things you like, if that would be better for you. Just make a list."

  "Liberate your car?"

  "The police impounded it after I was arrested."

  "What kind of car."

  "An old BMW wagon."

  It was my mothers.

  "You drive a station wagon?"

  I feel a lot of judgment in the air from someone who probably hasn't driven in five damn years.

  "I'm sorry but what exactly are you driving?"

  His mouth stays firmly shut but his eyes.

  They're rippling.

  Like molten silver.

  "I don't need anything special from the store," he says with a clipped voice. "Whatever you cook is fine. Where are the napkins?"

  Jackass.

  "I've got 'em," I say dismissively. "Just get out of my kitchen and go sit down."

  * * *

  Fourteen

  TINY

  This is torture.

  The three of us sit quietly at the dining room table and eat our meals while we catch up on sports news on ESPN. Actually, the two of them catch up on sports. I on the other hand start to push my spoon back and forth in my bowl and reminisce about the last time my mom made soup for us.

  It was the summer before the accident. I was sick with mono and feeling lethargic and depressed. I wanted to be outside with my friends, but I just didn't have the energy. So, she made a pot of this soup as her sure fire way of curing me from the inside out. My mom believed that food was the best medicine, but her soup damn sure didn't taste this salty. It makes me want to throw my bowl against the wall.

  God, I suck at this.

  "So, how's work?" my father asks. Looking at me with gentle eyes as if he knows what I'm feeling, but obviously there's no way that he could. He's slurping the soup like it's the best thing he's ever eaten. I bet the salt has to be burning his raw throat.

  "It's good. You know I love my shifts in the emergency room."

  And I do. I love being an ER nurse. The shifts are grueling, but the work is meaningful. I get to treat people when they're at their most vulnerable. When they're most frightened. People need a firm hand yet an empathetic heart when they come into the ER, and I think I've mastered the art of how to administer both.

  "What's to love about treating people with the flu during the week and gunshot victims over the weekend."

  I roll my eyes. We've been over this ad nauseam. While I know that my father is proud of me, he's always been vocal about the fact that he'd rather I work in the bike shop with him than as a nurse. He thinks I'm in constant danger, and the protective part of his personality can't stand it.

  "Gunshot victims go to the hospital across town, Dad. They have a better triage for those types of injuries. I've been telling you that for years. And what hospital do you think I'm going to work in that doesn't have its share of people with the flu? If you don't get some sleep soon, you're probably going to be the
next patient I admit."

  I'm not totally sure, but I think I see the tiniest smirk form on Stone's face. Wait, nope. He was just belching.

  "So, you actually like working around sick people all day?"

  "Yes, Dad." I exhale with aggravation. "I love my job. I've told you this about a thousand times."

  I check my cell phone after it makes a series of beeps and also some vibrations. All different notifications for incoming emails and texts I missed while my phone was dead.

  Stone gives my phone a curious look. I'm not sure why. I know he's been incarcerated for a while, but I don't think cell phones have evolved that much over the last five years.

  "Well, while Florence Nightingale here works weird hours, you will be starting at ten a.m. every day," my father says to Stone. "We're going to need to leave the house about nine to open on time."

  "You're not going to work, Daddy," I say waving my hand dismissively.

  "And you're going to be working at the shop?" I ask Stone.

  He looks at my father first before answering and so do I. My dad is crazy if he thinks I'm going to let him go to work with the flu, plus he never mentioned anything about Stone working at the shop. Living with us and working in the family business? That's quite a lot of access for someone we don't really even know.

  "Yeah," Stone responds somewhat indifferently.

  I guess someone isn't too thrilled about his new job. Well how about that. That makes two of us.

  "Are you finished eating, Dad?"

  I walk around and lift his bowl off of the table before waiting for an answer.

  "Uh oh," he says. "Guess I'm in trouble. She swiped my dinner."

  "No trouble," I say. Doing my best to lie. "You're finished with your soup and I think you should get to bed. You have a fever."

  "All right, hun. I know you're probably exhausted from your day. Thanks for the meal."

  After my dad goes to bed, I quietly begin clearing the dishes while Stone basically stares at the last spoonfuls of soup in his bowl. I lean over to clear his bowl, but he holds it down with both of his hands so that I can't lift it.

  "Leave it," he says tersely.

  Both of Bottle's ears perk up and she sits on her hind legs staring very carefully at Stone. She doesn't like his energy and frankly neither do I.

  "I thought you were finished."

  "I am."

  "Then let me take the damn bowl," I say with an attitude.

  He continues to grip the bowl and raises his eyes to meet mine.

  "I'll do it."

  Bottle growls lowly at Stone. At least somebody in this house has my back.

  "I want to clean the kitchen before I go to bed so–"

  "You don't want me here, do you?"

  I give deep consideration to what I'm going to say in response to Stone's very straight forward question. My father and I spent fourteen long days arguing about how much "help" he was going to give to Stone after his release.

  I thought that my father's generosity should have ended with giving him a small starter loan and the occasional listening ear if things were tough at first. My father disagreed. He wanted to do more.

  So, when Stone called and asked if he could stay indefinitely at our house, my father jumped at the chance to say yes. It was exactly the type of big gesture he was looking for. He was ecstatic about it. Me not so much.

  But Stone seems to be a straight shooter a.k.a. asshole, so there's no need to handle him with kid gloves. Direct is best with a guy like this.

  "No, I don't want you here."

  And then the oddest thing happens after that.

  He smiles.

  * * *

  Fifteen

  STONE

  I'm an early riser.

  Five years of waking up when correctional officers tell you to will do that. I spend the first thirty minutes or so of my day working out: push-ups, planks, crunches a few simple stretches. It clears my head for whatever bullshit I'm going to have to put up with for the rest of the day and gets me focused.

  I'm finishing up a set when Nate knocks on my door, fully dressed, and ready to escort me to my first day of work.

  "Ariana is still sleeping, so we need to get moving before she wakes up to walk Bottle."

  "Because you don't want her finding out that you're out of bed?"

  "She's making a big deal out of a little cold."

  "You look like crap, Nate."

  I need him to stay home, and I certainly don't need him thinking that he has to take me to work every day. I'm never going to be able to get access to his files if he's there watching me like a hawk.

  "I feel like crap, but that's not the point. When you own a business, you have to run it. I have to go in for at least a half an hour today and make sure everything is all right in there. If I don't, I won't be able to relax."

  This man seems to carry a lot of anxiety. That's where I can probably be of assistance. If I can figure out what he's most worried about, what would relieve some of his angst, I could lock this whole job up in under six months. It's simple. Identify the problem, insert myself as the solution, then take advantage of the situation.

  "Let me grab a shower, and I'll be ready in fifteen."

  I climb the stairs quietly with my new bag of toiletries and briefly glance at Ariana's closed door. I can't help but smile to myself. I had a dream last night. A funny one. Ariana poured a bowl of chicken and wild rice soup over my head. Then I made her lick it all off.

  I like Ariana, and I like that she doesn't like me.

  That means she's tough.

  She's also sexy.

  And definitely smart.

  Maybe a little too smart.

  I'm going to have to be really careful that she doesn't catch on to my real agenda here, because it's for damn sure that she's paying attention.

  * * *

  Sixteen

  STONE

  I'm standing in Nate's hot ass bike shop, leaning against the front counter with my arms crossed, defenses high, listening to his tough guy lecture between short bouts of his feverish coughing.

  "I've got three rules if this shit is going to work. Number one is that I pay salaries with a paycheck, and I pay commissions with cash under the table. Your salary isn't going to be shit, but it will give you the pay stub you need, plus your commissions should be decent enough if you can sell bikes. It's not rocket science. Harleys sell themselves."

  I've learned a couple of interesting things about my new boss this morning. First is that Nate owns the largest and oldest bike shop specializing in sales and repairs of Harley Davidson's in Philadelphia. It's damn near a neighborhood treasure, and has been standing in the same location since his grandfather opened it in the early 1980s. A great place to wash drug money.

  Second is that he takes his business very seriously. I can't fuck around in here. I'm going to have to be very strategic about what I say and do.

  Third is that Nate talks and acts very differently when he's not around his daughter. He's harder, tougher, and uses way more profanity. The kind of man I remembered was my father's best friend.

  It's kind of funny. Without me having to work him at all, he's just revealed to me his number one weakness...Ariana. He's different with her. Softer with her. She is his weak spot, but I totally understand the reason why.

  He knows that his daughter is something special.

  The total package.

  Curvy as fuck, sexy as hell, smart as a whip, sweet as pie (all right maybe not that sweet), but she can cook her ass off. So there's that.

  Any father in his right mind would be overprotective of her. God knows what Nate would do if he had any idea that I've been thinking about her perfectly round ass jiggling up those stairs ever since I woke up with a bad case of morning wood.

  Not to mention my shower this morning. I relieved myself of a lot of pent up aggression as I came all over those shower tiles. It was the way she spoke to me last night. That heart shaped mouth. Those smart-ass words fly
ing out of it. Plus, the fact that I knew she was only a few steps away from me. Lying in her bed right on the other side of the wall. Just the thought had me releasing myself under the hot streams of water pounding down my back.

  Fuck, it felt good.

  But God knows what she would do if she knew that was going on right on the other side of her bedroom wall, because it's obvious that Ariana Carter doesn't like me even a little bit.

  That's good though. She needs to keep disliking me. It will keep her out of danger. I don't know if Bucky has eyes on me or not, but I imagine he does. So, I don't even want him catching me and Ariana breathing the same air, or he might decide to put Plan B into action right away. Something tells me that he would get greater satisfaction at watching me break Nate's daughter than getting his seven million dollars back. I wonder what the fuck Nate took from him?

  "Number two is that I don't pay for health insurance. You'll need to buy that on your own, or have Ariana check you out once a year. Hell, baby girl probably knows more than most doctors anyway."

  A brief but dirty thought runs through my head.

  Ariana and I playing doctor.

  Damn, I need to get some ass...and soon.

  "And number three...don't touch Savannah."

  Savannah is Nate's only full-time employee. She seems to be a jack of all trades. She does some paperwork, orders supplies, answers phones, but mostly she sells bikes. And I see why. She's hot as fuck. In a 1940s, tattooed, pin-up model kind of way.

  She's wearing a black tank with the Carter Bike logo on it, a pair of cut off jean shorts, black Doc Martens, and her hair in some sort of pin curls with a folded red bandana tied around them. She has the perfect look for the shop. A biker's dream. Her major flaw though is that she's outside having a morning smoke. Everyone has their vices, but for me, women who smoke are a huge turnoff. So, Nate doesn't have to worry about me. I'm not interested.