King's Baby - A Bad Boy Romance (18 page)

I
don’t know what he came to say. I don’t know if he found out I’m only nineteen
or if he’s just pissed that I haven’t been answering my phone, but this isn’t
the sweet, tender King I’ve been dealing with for two days. This King is
furious and desperate and hurting.

“God
damn it, Holland.” He growls between kisses, and I feel the tension and frustration
rolling off of him like a cornered animal. Panic spurs me on, and I tighten my
hold and push my fingers through his hair, ignorantly putting myself in harm’s
way. He whirls around and sets me roughly on the edge of the vanity without
breaking our kiss and works to unbutton his shirt while I fumble with his belt
and unzip his suit pants.

A
tiny, weak voice in the back of my mind, under a pile of sheet music, is
telling me to stop. This is wrong, it’s dangerous and reckless, but when he
slides inside me, that pathetic voice of reason fades into nothing.

I
pull my mouth away from his and bury my face in his neck while the force of his
thrusts lift me off the vanity over and over. The only sounds in the small room
are King’s grunts and my gasps with every fierce penetration. There are no soft
sighs or gentle moans of desire floating between us. It’s clear that this isn’t
adoration or cherishing. It’s punishment—his or mine, I don’t know which,
but this isn’t
I miss you
or
I need you.
This is
I’m sorry
and
I’m angry
.
My apex aches with every relentless slam of his hips against mine, but I accept
it willingly. If he’s trying to hurt me, the effort is soon futile when the
pain turns into pure pleasure. His ferocious grunts echo off the walls of the
tiny bathroom as his powerful presence drives me over the edge in seconds. I
crash down around him, the rusty taste of blood spreading across my tongue as
my teeth sink into his shoulder and I gasp in ecstasy.

God,
What the hell am I doing?

“Bite,”
King says, thrusting hard into my pulsing core.

“Me.”
He thrusts again and I cry out.

“Again.”

I
obey his command without hesitation and bite down on his shoulder . . . hard.

“Fuck,
Holland,” he roars, slamming into me one last time as he loses control while I
completely come apart at the seams in his brutal embrace.

“This
is killing me, God damn it! I feel things for you, but I can’t . . . I just
can’t.” He pants in my ear, no longer sounding fierce or strong.

Clinging
to him with my heart pounding in my throat, I don’t know if I should laugh or
cry. He just told me he has feelings for me, but the anguish behind the
admission shakes me to the bone. My body trembles like a leaf in his hands the
longer he holds me, the tighter his embrace is, until I can’t breathe. I really
cannot
breathe. I’m suffocating, so
much so that I can’t speak the words my brain is screaming, “LET ME GO.”

My
head swims and my heart pounds like a jackhammer from the lack of oxygen. Just
when I’m sure I’m going to pass out, he loosens his death grip and collapses to
his knees. I gasp, gulping in the steamy air as my back scrapes against the
handles of the drawers on the vanity behind me.

Stunned
and dizzy, I try and wrap my mind around what’s just happened here. Something
is very wrong—that’s obvious—but I don’t grasp the enormity of the
problem until I feel King’s body jerking in my arms and realize he is silently
crying. The sobs that rack his body destroy my heart forever.

It’s
killing him.

He
has feelings for me.

He
can’t.

It
all adds up to
It
’s over
.

Chapter Fourteen

King

I
haven’t needed many people in my life. My father was a cold man who
concentrated on building his drug empire, and my mother was wrapped up in
looking like the perfect wife, so when I stepped onto the jet, I was never
surer of anything in my life. I need Holland.

I
can’t even get on the plane without texting her and promising to text her again
in a few minutes. What the fuck? The dread of having thousands of miles between
us is disconcerting. If someone hadn’t fucking murdered three key distributors
in my Miami club where I move the bulk of my product, I would have never left
her. This fucking business was the death of my father, and it’s going to be the
death of me too if I can’t find a way out.

“Sir?”
The stewardess says, lightly touching my shoulder. “Hmm?” I pull myself from my
reverie and look up into a pretty young blonde woman’s eyes. It’s odd not to be
attracted to her. She’s lovely, but no one compares to the sweet, innocent
creature that recently robbed me of my common sense and my heart.

“We’re
about to take off. You’ll need your seatbelt.” She gestures to my lap, and as I
buckle it, I realize that on any other occasion I would be planning which way
to fuck her at cruising altitude, but not tonight. Not ever again. I wanted to
find someone special, but I never imagined being pussy whipped. Kingpins don’t
get pussy whipped. They manipulate and steal. They threaten and kill and rule.
That was my father. He may have named me King, but he was the real King—the
King of Cocaine. It’s a title I never wanted but inherited just the same when
he was murdered while trying to cheat a Colombian kingpin a few years ago.

“Can
I get you a drink?” she asks, blinking her big, brown doe eyes. I glance at the
gold nameplate on her blouse.
Candy.
Figures. She’s probably a stripper at one of my clubs as well as a stewardess.
I should probably know her. Hell, I’ve probably fucked her. God, I hate the
asshole dick I’ve grown to be.

“Yeah,
sweetheart, a rusty nail.” My brief eye contact and blasé tone make it clear
that her only requirement on this flight is stewarding. She makes her way to
the back of the plane, expertly mixes my drink, delivers it, and takes her seat
while we taxi down the runway. Yes, she’s done this before, I’m sure. She’s
familiar enough to know I fucking hate flying and that I need a drink in my
hand during take-off.

I
swirl the ice in my tumbler and flex my jaw as the jet lifts into the air. The
pressure in the cabin regulates and I relax. It’s the take-off I hate most. As
soon as I hear the ding indicating it’s safe to remove my seatbelt, I unbuckle
and text Holland again. I twist in my chair and pull at my collar when she
doesn’t respond. She’s fine. I’m overreacting. I have an entire team watching
out for her in my absence. There’s nothing to worry about. So why do I feel
like something terrible is going to come from my leaving her?

Candy
approaches me with another drink and a pair of headphones. Yeah, now I remember
her. A very attentive girl, she always anticipates my needs. I like that. She’s
flown with me before, and I haven’t fucked her. I remember that I respected her
professional attitude. I think she was a brunette, though. That must be why I
didn’t recognize her tonight.

“Thank
you, Candy,” I say, looking at her in earnest this time. It’s a relief to know
she’s not expecting anything from me.

Five
minutes go by, then ten.
Still no reply.
I heave a
deep sigh and lean my head back, put on the headphones and close my eyes while
I listen to the playlist of classical music Candy has cued up for me. It’s not
easy to settle my mind, knowing what’s waiting in Miami for me and
not
knowing what Holland is doing, but
the alcohol and the music help a lot. Candy deserves a bonus and a full-time
job as my assistant. I’ll see about making that happen tomorrow. No more strip
clubs for her.

My
neck is aching and my right foot’s asleep when Candy lightly taps my shoulder
two hours later. I open my eyes and remove my headphones. Candy is just an
outline in the dim lighting of the cabin, and her voice is soft and soothing.

“Mr.
Romero, we will be landing in fifteen minutes. I thought you might like
something to eat before the seatbelt light comes on.” She’s holding a tray with
my two of my favorite childhood snacks. I tilt my head to the side and frown.
The drink and music I understand, but this? She must have done some serious
research to know that my mother used to give me spicy popcorn and gelatin with
mandarin oranges when I was little. In fact, I can’t think of a way she could
possibly know this. She reads the question on my face and busies herself with
sliding the tray table over my lap from its hidden compartment. I grab her
wrist sharply, and she jerks her head so that we are eye to eye.

“How
do you know so much about me?”

Her
dark eyes widen, and I get the impression she can’t answer me—as in she
is physically incapable because she is so afraid. I loosen my grip, and she
relaxes microscopically.

“I
don’t mean to frighten you, but you do need to tell me how you know so much
about my likes and dislikes.” She shifts, looking away, but I sense her answer
will be honest.

“I
know your head of security, Sebastián. I asked him to help me with details to
better serve you.” I release her wrist, and she transitions smoothly to the
galley to make me another
drink
—club soda this
time though, exactly what I want when I’m not in the mood to drink alcohol. My
God, I never realized Sebastián was so observant.

“How
do you know Sebastián so well?” I ask, scooping up a handful of the popcorn. It
tastes exactly the way my mother used to make it when I was a kid. Sebastián
has always been part of my life. He worked for my father before I was born.
There isn’t anyone still alive who knows me better.

“I
met him working in a club in Dallas.”

 
I know there’s more though. She returns
to set my drink down at precisely ten o’clock, and I realize that’s where I
always place it too. Always.

“Met
him how? Were you a waitress or a stripper?” I ask. For the first time since
taking off in Houston, her sweetness wavers.

“Neither.
I did the books,” she says curtly. I’ve offended her with my assumption.

“Sorry,
that wasn’t a dig. I just assumed from your name and because you look familiar
that you . . . well, you know.”

Her
demeanor softens, and one corner of her lip lifts in a demure smile.

“It’s
short for Candace, which was my mother’s name, and I don’t care for her much,
so I have always gone by Candy. And you recognize me because I’ve flown with
you before.”

“You
were a brunette, yeah?” I ask, leaning back in my chair and lifting my ankle to
rest on my knee. She’s on the up and up. Good.

“Yes,
I was,” she says, brushing a stray strand away from her face.

“Why
the change?”

“Ah,
well, that was actually Sebastián’s idea,” she says, fiddling with a bracelet
on her wrist.

“Oh
yeah? Sebastián’s idea, huh? Why’s that?”

She
shifts her weight from one foot to the other, looking anywhere in the cabin but
directly at me.

“Well,
I told him how much I’d like to be permanently employed by you and . . .”

“Go
ahead.”

“Sebastián
said you prefer brunettes, and I didn’t want you to be attracted to me, so I
changed my hair.” The poor thing rushes through her answer, but I’m impressed.
This is a first, a woman changing something about herself to repel instead of attract
me.

“I
see. Well, I appreciate your dedication to professionalism, and you don’t need
to worry about your employment. You will always have a job with me, and I’m
seriously involved with someone, so it’s safe to color your hair however you
like.” I smirk and watch as every muscle in her body visibly uncoils.

“Thank
you,” she says just as the pilot’s voice comes over the intercom.

“Setting
down in five, sir,” he says.

“You
can take this, Candy. It’s okay, I’ll get something at the club.” But she doesn’t
sweep it away like I expect her to. Instead, she hangs back, biting her lip.

“What
is it, Candy?”

“Sebastián
and I are involved. I want to be honest with you. I really need this job. I
have a little boy to support.” Her body jerks after spewing her secret, as if
she can’t believe she’s said it out loud.

Shit,
she’s fucking Sebastián. That’s fabulous. As long as I’ve known him, he’s never
been married. No steady woman, no kids, just one hundred percent dedication to
my family and his job. I’ll have to talk to him about this. Women make a man
weak. God knows, I’ve learned that lately, and I can’t have my head of security
weak in any way. It could cost us all our lives.

“All
right, Candy, thank you for being honest.” It very well may cost her her job,
but I’ve got other things to worry about right now. Candy removes my tray, and
I watch her bustle around in the galley, putting things away, wiping down
counters, and arranging things that don’t need arranging. She doesn’t take her
seat until seconds before the seatbelt sign begins to glow above the entrance
to the galley. I’ve buckled up so she won’t have to tell me. She glances
quickly at my lap and sits in her designated seat at the rear of the plane,
laying her trembling hands in her lap. Sebastián has some serious explaining to
do the minute I get home.

I
take my phone from the inside breast pocket of my suit coat and text Holland
again.

Getting ready to land. You’re quiet,
baby. You okay?

I text again.
Call
me.

And again.
Call.
Me.

If
she doesn’t answer my text or call, I’m turning this plane around and flying
straight back to Houston. Fuck the dead distributors, fuck my father and his
empire,
fuck
my drug selling, murderous, lavish life.
Fuck it all. The only thing that matters to me now is Holland.

The
plane touches down, and I breathe easier when we are back on the ground where
God intended humans to be. If he wanted me to fly, he’d have given me wings.

I’m having the jet refueled. I’m coming
home right now if you don’t call me.

And
I will, dammit.

Standing
just inside the hanger in the dark, I work on my third cigarette while I wait
for the jet to refuel. Dragging my hand through my hair, I rub the back of my
neck. My chest is as tight as the strings on Holland’s violin and my pulse is
racing. I feel like I’m having a fucking heart attack, but other than smoking,
I’m healthier than a horse, so I chalk it up to anxiety.

Why
the hell isn’t she calling me? Doesn’t she know it’s not nice to mess with the
King? No, of course she doesn’t. She doesn’t know I’m a fucking drug lord, and
she never will if I can help it. I have to find a way to cash out and start
over with her.

The
whine of the plane’s engine escalates, and I prepare to board again when I feel
my pocket vibrate. I almost tear my suit trying to get to my phone, and when I
see her gorgeous face on the screen, I tip my head back to look into the
twinkling stars of the Miami sky and sigh.
Thank fucking God
,
it’s her
.

She
apologizes for not calling sooner, and I flirt so shamelessly that I can feel
her blush through the phone. Something isn’t quite right though. I can’t
pinpoint it, but it bothers me, a lot. After I agree not to come home right
away, I head to the club with a nagging feeling of doom.

Carlos,
my head of security in Miami, maneuvers the car away from the airstrip, sitting
stiffly in the driver’s seat and sweating bullets. How appropriate.

“Fill
me in before we get there. I need everything you’ve got before I start fucking
talking to the cops.”

“Alberto
Guerrero, Nikolai Alkaev and Juan Martinez were all shot in the VIP
area—close range, one shot to the head each, same weapon. I checked it
all out before the police got there. Neat and clean, nobody caught on camera,
nobody in security saw the shooter, no obvious explanation, and nobody’s
talking.

How
the fuck did nobody see the shooter?” I shout. Carlos cringes and jerks his
head away from the boom of my voice.

“Sir,
the cameras were disabled and the guards on the VIP floor were switching
shifts. We change switch times randomly, but they still hit at exactly the
right moment, when we were at our weakest.”

“There
should never be a moment of weakness, Carlos, ever. That’s why I fucking pay
you out the ass.” I reach out to grip the dash to keep from punching Carlos in
the throat. I need to get everything out of him first, though. He can’t fill me
in if he’s holding his neck and gasping for breath.

Those
three distributors were from all corners of the world, and we were on the verge
of moving product overseas regularly.

“Sir,
I think it was an inside job.” Carlos’s voice trembles. If it’s an inside job,
it’s his responsibility, and when you fuck up that royally, you don’t get to
live. He’s got balls being honest, and I respect that. It doesn’t change the
fact that he’s going to die though. The decision won’t be entirely up to me.
Sebastián has always handled these situations. It’s his hands that technically
get dirty, not mine.