King's Baby - A Bad Boy Romance (21 page)

Chapter Seventeen

King

It’s been four long
weeks without Holland. I’ve thrown myself back into the life of a drug lord
full throttle. In two short days I discovered my light, my anchor, the person
who made me want to be an upstanding, honorable man. But after the catastrophic
ending of our abbreviated romance, that’s impossible. I’ve gone back into the
dark. This is a world I’m familiar with, the one I’ve always known.

One more drink and
I’m out. I’m leaving Miami in the morning. I’ve been on a reckless binge for
five long days. Candy keeps telling me I need to sleep, and she’s usually
right. She’s been telling me to take it easy all week, but I’m not interested
in taking it easy. I’m interested in all things self-destructive, and if she
doesn’t like it she can just fuck off.

“King . . .” Candy
says
,
her voice laced with concern.

“I know, Candy.
That’s the hundredth time you’ve reminded me. Don’t say it again.” I reach out
to set my drink down, but I’m seeing three of everything, and my hand bumps
against the edge of the table, sloshing
scotch
whisky
and ice cubes all over the floor.

“Whoa there.” Candy
thrusts her hand out, catching the glass before it completely slips out of my
hand. Our fingers brush, and my bloodshot eyes meet her serious gaze. “You
really should go back to the hotel, sir.”

I flop back into the
leather booth and wink at her despite how irritated I am right now.

“I pay you to keep
track of my schedule, not babysit me, so give it a rest.” Taking the hint, she
turns away, and the pulsing crowd of club goers swallows her up.

I know Candy, though.
She’s out there somewhere watching over me, and deep down inside, I appreciate
that. I’ll never tell her, but I do. My world is a dangerous world when someone
is in his or her right mind, and I am so not in my right mind. I haven’t been
since Sebastián told me the only person in my life who’s ever made sense is a
minor. I’m navigating in the dark, completely off course, and I don’t even fucking
care.

“Melody, come here.”
I close one eye and crook my finger at the sexy little kitten that’s been
hovering around me all week. She’s never too close like some of the annoying,
junkie sluts who have been throwing themselves at me, hoping for a free high or
some prime cock. Those women make me want to vomit. Not Melody, though. She’s
never out of my sight. Whenever I look around, no matter where I am, her forest
green eyes are quietly watching, waiting,
anticipating
my needs.

“You ready?” I ask. She
doesn’t speak. She just nods. I like that—no strings, no complications,
no
feelings. She’s just there when I want her and gone when
I don’t.

I stand and sway, but
Melody steadies me. I drape my heavy arm over her petite shoulders as we make
our way to the doors and into a car that I’m positive Candy has had waiting on
standby for hours.

“I’ve got this, baby,
slide on in,” I say, slurring my words, leaning heavily against the luxury SUV
and watching her perfect, round ass disappear into the back seat. Melody’s not
a working girl, not a stripper or a druggie, and she doesn’t drink. She’s more
of a groupie. Most importantly, she is without a doubt twenty-three years old.
Lord knows
,
I’ve had her checked out. There’s nothing
I don’t know about her. When I fall in after her, she stays in her spot by the
opposite window until I pat the space next to me, inviting her to come closer.

“Do you need anything
tonight?” she asks in her baby voice. That’s the worst thing about Melody, her
shrill as nails on a chalkboard voice. No one’s perfect though . . .
no one
except Holland.

“Just take me home
and put me to bed, baby, that’s all.” She slides her hand from my knee along
the inside of my thigh. When she’s gone far enough, I take her wrist and return
her hand to her lap. Melody doesn’t complain. She simply laces her fingers with
mine and rests her head against my shoulder.

We arrive in front of
the Welch Hotel, and when the driver hustles around to open my door, I’m
blasted by the humid, heavy wind blowing in off the ocean. I can taste the salt
in the air—or maybe that’s the salt from tequila shots earlier. Who
fucking knows?

While walking through
the grand lobby, as always, I’m practically accosted by George, the concierge.

“Mr. Romero, sir! Is
there anything I can send up for you this evening?” He’s obnoxious—good
at his job, but what the fuck does he think I’m going to want at three thirty
in the morning? Sure as hell wouldn’t be drugs. I’m the most famous non-drug
using drug Lord in the world.
And not women, obviously.
I’ve got a beautiful one on my arm . . . well, more like under my arm, trying
to keep all six foot five of me in an upright position.

“No, I’m god . . .
good . . .” Shit, I’m fucking plastered. I loll my head back and watch George’s
brows lift before he goes back to shuffling papers around at his concierge
podium.

When we stumble into
the room after a nauseating elevator ride, Melody helps me out of my clothes.
She is patient with me, and after what seems like a long time of me weaving and
swaying about, she undresses and slides into the California king bed next to me
like a good girl. She knows the rules: no touching below the waist and no sex
of any kind. She can plaster herself against me if she wants to—in fact,
I rather like having her warm body next to me. I’ve taken to closing my eyes in
my drunken stupor and imagining this quiet, obedient girl is my intelligent,
talented, sexy Holland. I haven’t fucked anyone since Holland launched herself
into my arms a month ago in Savannah’s bathroom, and I don’t plan to for a very
long time . . . maybe never. I’ve had the best, and I’m not willing to settle
for less. Maybe I’ll wait the two years until she’s legal and try again? Yeah,
right, King. She’s sheer perfection. There’s no way she’s going to be single
then, not to mention the fact that she knows what I do for a living. She
doesn’t approve of my lifestyle, and I don’t blame her. I was going to change
for her . . . I wanted to be different, better . . . but now she’s gone, and
I’m trying to set a Guinness world record for consecutive days being drunk as
fuck.

 
My heavy eyelids droop, and after several
feeble attempts to keep them open, I give in. The room still tilts in the dark
while the alcohol numbs my heart, keeping the painful memories at bay. Melody’s
steady, even breathing helps to lull me into an agonizing sleep, where no
amount of alcohol can block Holland from my mind. She haunts every dream, with
her clear grey eyes looking through me or past me like I don’t exist. Worse are
the dreams where she is with me again—her sweet, citrusy scent invades my
nose, her hot, smooth skin slides over mine, the sexy sound of her moan fills
my ears when I make her come, her silky hair slides between my fingers, and I
swear to God she’s real when I wake up panting and covered with sweat, with a
heart full of hope and a major hard on.

Chapter Eighteen

Holland

New York is amazing,
exactly what I needed to take my mind off of King. Daddy’s meeting us at the
hotel in Manhattan this morning. Mama and I flew in last night so we would be
well rested for a Saturday full of touring the school and dorms, but even with
all the excitement, I can’t shake the feeling of emptiness that’s been boring a
hole through me all week. I’m actually kind of pissed that it’s affecting my
Juilliard experience. If I hadn’t met King, I would be one hundred and ten
percent peeing in my pants excited, but instead, I’m dark and gloomy inside. I
put on a smile and fake it till I make it in front of my parents so they won’t
be suspicious. I mean
,
this is my chance to study with
the best of the best in the world. There should be no reason for me to be down
in the dumps.

“You almost ready,
honey?” Mama says from the adjoining room of the hotel suite.

“Yeah, I’ll be right
there. I just have to find my shoes. Have you seen my white Converse?”

“Oh, Holland, do you
have to wear those things? They aren’t very feminine or professional.” Mama is
standing in the door with her hands on her hips.

“Yes, Mama, I do.
We’re going to be doing a lot of walking, and I don’t want blisters on my feet.
I’m wearing a skirt, see?” I say in my own defense, spinning in a circle to
show that I’ve taken her advice to dress up a little. It’s a long, straight
black eyelet skirt with a slit up the back. I didn’t have anything to do with
this outfit, though. Savannah chose the white sleeveless blouse with a
multicolored striped blazer. It’s hers. She insisted I break away from my black
and white habit and add some color to my—in her own
words—‘pathetically dull and boring’ ensemble. She wouldn’t approve of
the shoes either, but I don’t care. This outfit’s modest, comfortable, and
versatile—very much like me.

Mama rolls her eyes
and turns to finish getting ready to go meet Daddy. I find my shoe tucked in
the bottom my duffle bag. I swear I packed them both in my suitcase . . .
Savannah. That brat tried to sabotage me. She hates Converse, says they’re
clunky and sloppy. The nerve. And for some reason, she especially hates this
pair that says
Love
down the back of
the heel and
Life
on the other. I’m
trying really hard to love life right now, so the shoes are my way of saying
fuck this whole thing with King.

After a quick ride in
a disgusting cab that smells like a mixture of barf and sweat, we walk past the
reflecting pool in Lincoln Center and into my new home away from home, The
Juilliard School. The June Noble Larkin lobby entrance is open and inviting,
and I’m shocked that this enormous, foreign place actually
feels
like home the second I set foot inside.

“Sweetie, close your
mouth,” My mom says, reaching out to actually close my mouth for me while Daddy
brushes her hand away.

“Oh, leave her be,
Gloria. She’s taking it all in. It’s pretty impressive, isn’t it, Princess?”
Daddy’s arm circles my shoulder, pulling me into a side hug. God, I love him.
He’s such an honest, patient, generous man that sometimes I wonder how he ended
up with my mama—not that she isn’t great too. She’s just the opposite of
him in every way possible.

“Yeah. Wow, it’s so
much bigger than I thought. The pictures didn’t do it justice.”

“Nothing but the best
for you,” Daddy says. His warm, smiling eyes are on me, and I have the sudden
urge to cry. This is it; this is what I’ve worked my whole life for, what
they
have worked so hard to give me.

“Oh now, none of
that, Princess. This is
gonna
be a fun day.
no
crying.” He gives me one
more quick
squeeze before opening the door to my future.

Juilliard is
impressive and inspiring. After an hour of touring The Paul Recital Hall, The
Peter Jay Sharp theater, one of ninety-eight private practice rooms, a library
that houses original manuscripts by Beethoven and Mozart, and the classrooms
where I’ll be taking my liberal arts classes, we are ready to head over to the
dorms. Our guide suggests a lunch break first, though, so we roam the streets
of Manhattan and settle on a little Italian restaurant where we stuff ourselves
until we’re nauseated with the best pasta I’ve ever eaten.

An hour and a half
later, our guide meets us in the lobby of The Meredith Wilson Residence Hall
and we take an elevator to the seventh floor to tour a dorm suite. My parents
haven’t told me anything about my living arrangements. They wanted it to be a
surprise, but I couldn’t wait to see so I Googled it. I know that each suite is
set up for eight students, including a common area in the center, with five
connected bedrooms—three doubles and two singles. I’m assuming I will be
in a double, as it’s less expensive, and I kind
of
like the idea of not being totally alone.

“This is nicer than
my first apartment,” Mama says quietly, gazing out a bay window at the
panoramic view of the Lincoln Center and Manhattan.

“Are you happy,
Princess?” Daddy asks. He thinks this is the first time I’ve seen the dorms.

“Yeah, of course,
Daddy. It’s beautiful. I can’t believe how much space there is.”

“Wait until you see
upstairs. They have a fitness center and private practice rooms. No more
driving to
STRINGS
to practice,” he
says.

Our afternoon is long
and exhausting. After looking through the room and all of the amenities in the
residence hall, we are allowed to return to the school to wander around on our
own.

When we get back at
the hotel, I collapse into bed and thank God I wore my Converse. My feet ache,
but it would have been so much worse if I’d worn the pumps Mama wanted me to
wear.

I lay in the dark and
listen to my parents chat in the room next door. You’d think they were going to
be the ones living here next fall. It’s
sorta
cute how
they banter back and forth, until I hear Mama kiss Daddy and tell him she would
love to be a doe-eyed freshman if he were her professor. Ew. I get up and
quietly close the adjoining door and turn on the light. My phone beeps and my
heart skips a beat. I haven’t thought of King all day, but like Pavlov’s dog,
the beep of an incoming text makes me hopeful. It feels like an eternity since
I’ve seen his ruggedly handsome face or heard his gruff voice, and now every
molecule in my body aches for his touch. Just like that, my long, happy day
full of sensational new experiences turns to shit.

I toe off my shoes
and kick them across the room into the bathroom and flop on my bed with a huff.
I know it’s not him, but a tiny part of me wants to believe it is, so I hold
the phone face down against my chest so I can’t see who it is. It beeps again,
and again and again. Savannah. She’s popped my fantasy bubble with her
relentless texting. I tilt the screen up and read her messages.

How’s the big apple? How was your tour?

Holland. I’m talking to you.

Don’t ignore me, woman.

Hey. Best friend Savannah here. Remember me?

My God, she’s
impatient.

Keep your panties on, woman! It went great, dorms are nice
and the views are phenomenal. NYC is the biggest place I’ve ever seen.
Sorta
scary. I think I’ll stay at school or the dorm for the
entire four years . . .

No way. You have to get the whole big city experience, ride
the nasty subway, get lost looking for museums, hang out in Central Park, party
in clubs—oh wait, scratch that, sorry. How are you anyway?

Clubs . . . ugh . . .
I can safely say that I will not be setting foot in a dance club ever again,
even when I am twenty-one and legal. I think I’ve had enough of that scene to
last a lifetime. I lie and tell her I’m
fine
and everything’s
fine
, but she knows
fine
is a blanket term for about a
million things. This time
fine
means
I’m horrible and struggling, but I’m still alive. She gets it, like only a best
friend can, and steers the conversation away from any topic that might make me
think of King, but it’s pointless. I’m alone and tired and emotionally spent;
essentially, I’m weak. I want to call him, text him, reach out and tell him I’m
thinking about him, and I miss him. I’d kill to watch his dark eyelashes fan up
and down lazily, to feel his rough fingers trail up and down my bare backside
while he holds me against his chest.

I’ve stopped texting
and it’s my turn to reply, but I’m busy daydreaming about King, so when the
phone actually rings in my hands, I jump and drop it on my face.

“Ow,” I shout,
fumbling with the phone to answer it.

“Stop thinking about
him,” Savannah says sternly.

“How did you know?”

“Lucky guess. You
haven’t responded for like five minutes, stupid. You were either asleep or
thinking of him.”

“So you risked waking
me up after my long day?” I say.

“Had to be sure. Now
go to sleep. Think of that crazy school of yours and how cool it’s gonna be
when you don’t have any parents around to tell ya what to do.” I sigh heavily
into her ear. Easier said than done.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say,
dragging out the yes.

“Okay, night, don’t
let the big city bed bugs bite.” She’s giggling now, because she knows how much
I hate the thought of sleeping on sheets in a bed that millions of other people
have slept on before me. They could have bedbugs—real ones.

“Shut up.”

“Shutting. Laters, baby.”
Her Fifty Shades of Grey reference makes me smile. We watched FSOG with Mika
one weekend when we were supposed to be studying. If my mama knew about that,
she’d be as shocked as I was while watching it. I was aware of the basics about
sex, but I’d never seen anything like
that
.
I chalked it up to an educational experience while those two made crude remarks
and laughed their horny
asses
off.

***

“You’re burning,” I
say. Savannah has somehow fallen asleep under the scorching hot Houston, Texas
sun. It’s the
fourth
of July and one hundred degrees
in the shade. I’m panting and nauseous, desperately in need of a dip in her
pool, and she’s just over there in her lounger softly snoring, one hand limp at
her side, still loosely holding a romance novel she was reading earlier. I
don’t know how she does it.

“Huh?” Her grip on
the book tightens as she starts to come around.

“I said you’re
burning, Sleeping Beauty, and I’m dying over here. Let’s get in the water
before I puke all over your deck.”

“Gross. Okay, okay,
ya don’t have to get all dramatic on me.” She sits up and pokes at her chest
and belly, testing to see if she’s truly burned.

“Eh, it’s all good,
just a little pink.”

I raise my eyebrows
when she looks at me. She’s a lobster in denial.

“You must have sun
stroke. You’re fried,” I say.

“Come on, pukey,
let’s swim.” She waves her arm in the direction of the pool and jumps up. How
the hell does she do that? I’m dizzy when I stand up slowly and carefully in
this heat, but she can go from zero to
sixty in ten
seconds without blinking an eye. I’m more sensitive to the sun, I guess, which
is weird because she’s the one with blonde hair and fair skin, and I’m as dark
as my daddy in the summer.

Savannah jumps into
the deep end feet first, holding her nose, and I ease in via the stairs in the
shallow end and meet her halfway across the pool.

“It’s like bath
water.” I wrinkle my nose and shade my eyes with one hand.

“It’s been hot as
hell for three weeks straight. It never gets to cool down,” she says, smoothing
her wet hair away from her face with both hands and wringing the remaining
water from it.

“You wanna go inside?
You don’t look so great, pukey.”

“Stop calling me
that, and yes, I need to lay down.”

“I think you’re the
one with sunstroke, pukey,” she says, exaggerating her new nickname for me. I
cup my hands together and shove a wave of water into her face. I squeal and
turn to swim away before she attacks me.

I hate that she calls
me that all the time now. I had the flu and I’m still recovering, but she just
won’t let it drop. Savannah may be the motherly one in our friendship, but
she’s totally not into sick people, so when she had to spend a week holding my
hair and bringing me Sprite, she decided to punish me with a nickname.

Mama had to work, so
she begged—or more like blackmailed—Savannah to help me. She saw
Savannah come home a couple of mornings at dawn when her mama was at work. She
promised not to tell if she stayed with me while I was sick. She wanted to know
for sure that somebody was going to be here with me, and Savannah didn’t want
to risk being punished.

When Savannah opens
the sliding glass door on her porch, I gulp in the cold air-conditioned air and
make a beeline for the couch, where I flop down on my back and pull my towel
tight around my body.