Broken By A King: The King Brothers #3

by Lang Blakeney, Lisa

  "I think Miss White here likes tequila," Saint chimes in.

  "Tequila? I don't drink that. Last time I had tequila was in–"

  I snap my eyes up to his and the realization hits me. The sight of pure satisfaction spreading across his face explains everything running through my head right now.

  "Georgetown." I finish my sentence.

  "That's right, Freshman–Georgetown."

  Sixteen

  SAINT

  "What are you doing?"

  "What do you mean, Pop?"

  "With that girl in there. What are you doing? What was that Georgetown comment all about? You've got about three minutes to explain before she comes back from the bathroom."

  "It's something between me and her."

  "Did you knock her up?"

  "No, Dad."

  "Did she go to college with you? Is she saying you two have a love child stashed away somewhere?"

  "Dad, are you watching Lifetime movies again?"

  "I can tell she's a nice girl," my mother interjects. Always the voice of calm and reason.

  "She is."

  "She's a looker too," she says.

  "She is."

  "You meet a lot of lookers though," my father adds.

  "Not like this one."

  "So you're interested in her?"

  "I think so."

  "I don't think she gives a rat's ass about you."

  "She will."

  "Did I make you this cocky?" my father asks incredulously.

  "Yeah," my mother chuckles. "I think it's inherited."

  "So you signed with Carson for a girl?" my father asks as if it's the most ridiculous thing I've ever done. Which it hardly ranks up there with some of the other shit I've pulled.

  "That about sums it up."

  "Then you're crazy, not stupid."

  "I guess."

  "Crazy I can live with."

  "Thanks, Dad. I think."

  "Shh, she's coming back," my mother whispers.

  Sabrina walks quietly back into the room while staring at all three of us. I wonder how much of our conversation she heard. I can't read her expression at all.

  "Can I talk to you for a minute, Saint?"

  In the words of Scooby Doo ... rut roh.

  "Sure, you want to see my old bedroom? We can talk there."

  "Not even a little bit."

  "Your loss," I say trying to lighten the mood. "I was going to show you all my high school trophies. Show you how badass I was."

  "So it's like I figured. You peaked in high school."

  My mother giggles at that joke.

  "Very funny. How about I take you to meet Mork, Mindy, Laverne and Shirley then."

  "Who?"

  "The chickens."

  My mother had the chicken coop rebuilt. This is the third rebuild, and I swear it looks like The White House. These chickens probably have a better life than some people. There's no way she's ever going to put one of them on the grill as nature intended. They're like her babies. Before I can point out each hen and my nephew's rooster to Sabrina, she cuts me off with a finger pointed to my face.

  "So you are the stranger?"

  "The stranger?" I play dumb.

  "The stranger that I drunk talked to at the hotel in Georgetown three years ago. The stranger who must have been responsible for helping me into my room and tucking me into bed with two Advils and a cool compress."

  The gig's finally up.

  "Yeah, that was me."

  "So why would you not tell me that this whole time?"

  "I didn't know if that was an event that you wanted to be reminded of. You were pretty upset that night. And then once I realized you didn't recognize me, I didn't think I should mention it. So I decided to leave it alone. Up until today that is."

  "You took my clothes off!"

  "I sure did. You were sweaty and drunk."

  "Oh my God."

  "Oh my God is right. Have you ever tried carrying and undressing a hundred and forty pounds of dead weight? It ain't easy."

  "A hundred and thirty, smartass."

  "If you say so, babe."

  "And the Freshman remark the other day?"

  "It was obviously your first time doing shots, and you were drunk as a fish, so I called you Freshman."

  "How do you remember all of that?"

  "It was a memorable night."

  "We didn't–"

  "No, nothing happened. I like my women alert and coherent. Plus I was supposed to get married that weekend. I don't do revenge sex. Not my style."

  "And you recognized me in the restaurant the night I was with Jason?"

  "Immediately," I say as I move closer to her. "And it pissed me off that I had to wait for him to make a mistake, before I could approach you that night."

  "A mistake?"

  "He took his eyes off of you."

  I usually gravitate towards taller women like models and actresses because I'm so big; but I'm towering over all five feet four inches of Sabrina right now, yet I don't feel like I'm smothering her like I thought I might.

  We fit.

  "And I have to say," I continue talking as I walk her backwards towards the chicken coop. "That I'm a little hurt that you didn't recognize me at all. Ever. I must not have made a very good first impression. I should try again."

  I'm making her nervous, but the kind of nerves that I like to see. Yellow light nerves. The kind that tell me that she's definitely attracted to me, but that I should proceed with caution.

  "In my defense, I drank those shots back to back. I couldn't see straight."

  "That's no excuse. I'm unforgettable."

  "Saint, you've got me pressed up against a chicken coop."

  "I've been waiting to do this for a long time, Freshman. I think the chickens will be okay."

  Three years ago I was smack dab in the middle of a momentous year. I did what I promised my mother and finished school with a degree in physical therapy, I signed a record setting rookie contract with the NFL, and got engaged to my then girlfriend Adrianna. I was young, rich, and on top of the world, but I was also overwhelmed and had been for a long time.

  Negotiating a deal when you're still in school is like walking a minefield. There are so many regulations in place that my father had to be careful of. So many offers to consider. So many hands to shake. On top of all of that I had to make sure that I was keeping my body in pristine condition and keeping my woman happy.

  My face was well known in the sports world. They were always talking about me on television and when I did an appearance on The Kid's Choice Awards, that's when women my mother's age started to recognize me too. It was nice for a minute, but then it became difficult.

  So when I met a woman, a beautiful woman, who was my age and had no idea who I was and didn't even really care, it was refreshing. It was nice to help someone out who didn't have any ulterior motives that night. She was just a girl who didn't know how to hold her liquor, and I was just a guy trying to help her.

  I never forgot the innocent girl from the hotel bar, dressed like a corporate shark, but undressed was soft as butter and glimmered like sunshine. That's why when I saw her for the second time in the restaurant that night, I couldn't believe my eyes.

  I had to touch her. To know she was real and not just an apparition. Fuck the guy she was sitting with. I had to know for sure. So I touched her briefly, barely touching the back of her neck with my fingertips, and that's when I felt it. That's when I knew for sure. My mind wasn't fucking with me. It was definitely the same girl.

  "You're worrying again."

  I can tell by the lines etched in her forehead.

  "I'm trying not to."

  "Put your arms up and around my neck."

  "I can't reach all the way up there."

  I take a moment to drink her in, because I know that I need to make a very important decision right now. She's way more of a serious person than me. She could get hurt. Should I stop this? Am I fucking with her head? I don't
even know what the hell I'm doing myself.

  She's standing motionless.

  Watching and waiting for me to dictate where we take this. How far we take this. I have to make a decision. She needs me to make it. So I do.

  Fuck it.

  I bend down low to the ground in front of her and slowly lift up her skirt inch-by-inch keeping my face close to her pussy. I wish I could strip her bare. As memory serves she has a beautiful body worth worshiping, but there's plenty of time for that later. Especially because we're in my parent's backyard in the middle of the goddamn day.

  I bend my head to the left and kiss the side of her hip, then hold my lips there for a few seconds. Savoring her scent.

  "You smell fucking delicious."

  She squeals with surprise when I lift her up like she weighs nothing, her skirt bunched up around her waist, holding her up by her hips.

  "Wrap your legs around my waist and your arms around my neck."

  "Saint–"

  "Now look up at me."

  She looks up, but I can tell that it's difficult for her to do. She's reserved, careful, conservative. She's fighting this, but even she can't deny what's brewing between us. What's been growing for weeks.

  "Good girl, Sabrina. I'm going to kiss you now, because I've been wanting to for a long time, and frankly it's for your own good."

  "God you're an–"

  "Quiet."

  I cut her off at the knees with a kiss. It starts off softly. Gently. I start exploring the inside of her mouth with soft strokes of my tongue, and she tries mirroring my moves with her tongue as well.

  It feels sublime.

  Learning how soft or hard she likes to be kissed. Familiarizing myself with her taste. And when she brushes her tongue across the scar on my lip, it makes my dick rise in deep appreciation. I use her hips to grind against my hard on, and I can't help it when a possessive moan rumbles deep inside of my chest from the friction.

  I want her.

  Badly.

  But I only brought her here to pacify my father, not dry hump her by a chicken coop. She deserves better.

  So I pull back.

  "Saint."

  Her breathing is labored and her eyes are closed as she takes a minute to calm down. When she opens them and directs her gaze on me, they're full of lust and confusion. I can see that in her mind she's running away from me already.

  "Sabrina–"

  "I think we should stop."

  "Why?"

  "For a lot of reasons."

  "Were you thinking about them during that kiss? Because if you were, I'm doing something vey wrong."

  "The kiss was nice."

  "It was."

  "But it can't happen again."

  "But it will," I say confidently as I slowly lower her to the ground. Making sure that she feels every hard ridge of my body as I slide her down against me. Reminding her of what she's saying no to.

  "We had an agreement."

  "A gentleman's agreement," I say.

  "Yes."

  "But I'm no gentleman."

  I bend back down and help her adjust her clothes. Smoothing down her skirt and inhaling her intoxicating scent while I'm down there.

  "What are you afraid of, Sabrina?"

  "I like Jason."

  "Bullshit."

  "I've liked him for years."

  I stand back up.

  "You're using him as a shield."

  She's pissing me off. She's had a thing for this same man for three years. A guy who's never stepped up, and now all of a sudden that I'm in the picture he's sticking his chest out a little. Classic dickhead. I can't believe that I'm competing with the likes of this dumb ass.

  "I'm not saying I'm not attracted to you, Saint, but we made an agreement and my job is everything to me. You're my client, and I'm interested in someone else. Let's not make things complicated."

  "What the fuck is complicated–"

  "Saint, are you out here?"

  My father. He has the worst timing ever.

  "Your mother's cake is ready, and you should bring Sabrina back inside anyway. It's cold as hell out here."

  "Coming, Dad."

  I slide my hand up the base of Sabrina's neck and grip the back of her hair. Tilting her head up to me.

  "We'll talk about this complication later, Freshman."

  And I give her another kiss.

  "We've got a long car ride home."

  Seventeen

  SABRINA

  I've got a lot going on at work, and I'm kind of glad that I do, because it keeps my mind off of the fact that I've kissed Saint Stevenson twice and he hasn't called me for almost two weeks. I realize that he's been out of town playing two road games, but football is different than other sports. The team comes home to practice and then flies back out to their games, because they have at least a week between each one. So he's been in New York twice and hasn't called. But whatever. It's not like we're together or anything. And like I said, I'm busy.

  The reality show housewife that I handle was just renewed for another season, but she's so broke that she's been calling me nonstop for a week to find out if her first check came in. This is not a good sign. Her spending is out of control. I feel a little bad for her though, because all she's really doing is trying to live up to the image created for her by the network. If viewers only knew how staged and scripted these shows were, they wouldn't waste their time watching.

  I also have the opportunity to participate in a big meeting in about ten minutes that I'm over the moon about. Peter has finally convinced Spin to come into the office to discuss moving forward and invited most of the team to sit in. He wants our presence to show Spin that keeping them on board and happy is our number one priority.

  Uh oh, here comes trouble.

  "Hey, girl."

  "Hey, Abby," I say flatly.

  "Excited about Spin?"

  "Sure."

  "Guess I'll see you in there."

  "Yep."

  Abby heads towards the conference room then turns back around as if she actually just remembered to tell me something. Puh-lease. Whatever she is about to say was the whole point of her stopping to talk to me in the first place.

  "By the way, did you know that Jason gave me one of his clients?"

  "Oh yeah, when he was over my house the other day, he may have mentioned wanting to get rid of some new band that's been a headache for him."

  Abby scrunches up her face as soon as I say over my house.

  Ha!

  "They're actually a really cool group. If this Spin thing works out, I may just get them signed on as one of the opening acts for their next tour."

  "Sweet," I respond with faux enthusiasm and a saccharine smile.

  "I actually need to catch up with Jason, before we head in the conference room. I'll see you in there."

  She's looking for some sort of reaction from me, but I don't give her one. Not this time. And it's not because I'm working hard not to give her the satisfaction, but because I actually don't give a damn about any of it.

  "See ya."

  I'm sitting in awe of the three beautiful men in the conference room who make up the group Spin. The guitarist Ren. The drummer Paxon. And of course lead singer Marley. After a few minutes of introductions, coffee pouring, pastries and pleasantries, Marley doesn't waste much time getting down to business.

  "So everyone, we agreed to this meeting because everyone at Carson has been such huge supporters of our career, and we felt that we at least owed you the courtesy of coming in; but having said that, the three of us have already agreed that since Priscilla is no longer with the company, we're ready to move into a different direction."

  My stomach drops. Along with probably everyone else's in the room. We thought that the fact they were taking the time to come in was a good sign. Or at least a sign that they were open to being convinced to stay. Now it seems as if they're shutting us completely down, before we even get to make our case.

  "We're sorry to he
ar you say that, guys. We've shared a long and committed relationship with Spin. One that we're very invested in keeping. Why don't you tell us some of your concerns. Give us a chance to address them."

  "To be honest, Pete, we stayed with the company this long only because of our loyalty to Priscilla."

  "Are you following her somewhere else?"

  Word around the office is that Priscilla is starting her own firm, which would make sense. Her husband started the company with his connections and money, but it was her personality and attention to detail which kept clients happy.

  "We gave it considerable thought, but we've grown so much as a group, and as men, that we feel at this juncture that we need to go with a company that is more aligned with our consciousness."

  "In what way?"

  "Well for instance, I'm sure your office is still burning fossil fuels. We are more interested in a company that is concerned with doing business in an environmentally green building. Using wind and solar energy. Composting food waste. Finding ways to reduce their carbon footprint."

  There's an uncomfortable silence in the room. My guess is because there's nothing particularly green about a prewar office building in Midtown Manhattan, and there probably won't be for many years to come. It would cost a fortune to implement some of Marley's ideas.

  "To be fair gentlemen," Marisol speaks up. "We don't make decisions about office space and things of that nature. Mr. Carson owns this building, but he doesn't make building administration decisions. He contracts a management company for that."

  "And that management company will do whatever the person paying them tells them to do. You're just proving my point–that Carson is a seventy-year-old millionaire who has no interest in what his impact on the environment is. On what world he's leaving for the next generation. We're not comfortable with that."

  I think I'm starting to realize just how loyal Spin is to Priscilla. More than any of us realized. It sounds to me like they don't want to stay, because they now have a strong dislike for our owner. The philanderer. The out of touch CEO. And there's zilch we can do about that. So I might as well put my two cents in. This may be my only chance to speak to my favorite group of all time.