King's Baby - A Bad Boy Romance (6 page)

Standing
in front of Snow White’s mirror, I dab and wipe at my face, trying to restore
my previous twenty-one-year-old look, but I’m just making it worse, so I quit
and focus on my hair. Luckily, when I peek inside one of the drawers in the
vanity, I find a hairbrush. I manage to smooth out the bird’s nest in my hair
so I’m presentable. A knock on the door startles me, and I hear King’s voice
asking if I’m all right; he does that a lot.

“Yeah,
just a sec, I’m coming.” I say, crossing the cold marble floor in my bare feet
to unlock the door. When I swing it open with too much force, it yanks me back
a step. Damn thing looks like solid wood, but it must be hollow.

 
King stands in front of me wearing
charcoal grey sweatpants
that hang
low on his hips and
a brooding expression on his face. His
bare
, chiseled
chest and abs are inches from my face, and one of his arms is casually stretched
over his head, holding onto the frame of the door above us. He’s literally
breathtaking . . . as in I can’t breathe when I unintentionally give him
a
once-over.

“I
wanted to talk to you for a minute.” He sounds so serious. No way did he figure
out my age in the last ten minutes, did he? My rising pulse whooshes in my
ears, and a thin film of perspiration breaks out all over my body.

“The
color just drained out of your face.” He reaches out to cup my cheek in his
hand, and I lean into it without thinking. “I know I keep asking, but are you
okay?”

“Yeah.
Sorry, I just got a little lightheaded there for a second.” Half-lie.

“Well,
I’m not letting you put these suicide shoes back on then. How the hell do you
walk in these things?” he asks, lifting my stilettos that are dangling from two
of his fingers.

“I’m
fine. I can walk,” I say, taking the shoes and slipping them on. The balls of
my feet scream as I grow taller, but nowhere near tall enough to look King
directly in the eyes—and that’s good, because I’m still scared of what he
wants to talk to me about. He sighs when he catches me wincing.

“They
look painful. Come on, let’s talk. It’s nothing bad, I promise,” he says,
taking my hand to lead me back to the living room, where we sit on the corner
of the couch facing each other. I tuck my leg under me as we sit, holding
hands. I wish I could pull my clammy hand out of his, but I don’t want to give
him the wrong impression, and if he’s holding it, I can’t fiddle with the hem
of my shirt like I am with my free hand.

 
“I wanted you to know that I don’t make a
habit of trolling the dance floor and luring women into my home. In fact,
you’re the only woman who has ever been in here.”

“Oh
. . . okay.” I’m not sure I believe that. Why would he have a bachelor pad like
this on top of his nightclub and not use it to do bachelor-ish things?

“I
truly am sorry. I acted like a caveman, dragging you back here when I should
have been treating you like a lady.” The heat of a deep blush creeps up my
neck. I’m sure King feels it on my cheeks, but I don’t say anything because I
don’t know how I feel about his apology. No girl wants to hear the man who took
her virginity apologize for doing it. But King doesn’t think I’m a girl. He
thinks I’m a woman, a twenty-one-year-old woman out dancing with her adult
friends and having drinks.

His
phone begins to chime, drawing our attention to a table in the kitchen where it
lies. The ring tone is a piece of music that I recognize instantly, Beethoven’s
Symphony No. 5
. I find it strange
that a hot club owner has a classical ringtone. King pulls me up and walks
directly behind me, with his hands on my hips, to the kitchen.

“I
love classical music. I’m really looking forward to hearing you play,” he says,
propping his chin on my shoulder and reaching past my hip to grab his phone off
the counter.

He
begins to absently draw little circles on my bare belly while he listens to the
person on the other end.

“They
have your phone,” he says, moving his mouth away from the phone. “And your friends
are outside the apartment, waiting for you.” He thanks the caller, disconnects
the call and slips the phone into his back pocket.

“I
have to give you back. I wanted to keep you a while longer and prove to you
that I’m not an animal.”

“I’m
sorry. My friends are probably frantic. I should go.” I lean my head against
his for a moment before he turns me in his arms. His eyes search mine again for
that little thing he just can’t seem to find. He inhales a breath and holds it
for a second before blowing it out. His breath is warm and smells like
toothpaste, which reminds me that he was going to have a cigarette earlier. He
must have a toothbrush stashed in his apartment, somewhere other than the
bathroom. It strikes me as sweet that he would brush right after smoking. My
Aunt Corinne and a few of my parents’ friends smoke, but the smell is very
obvious and it clings to their clothes and hair like Pigpen’s dirty cloud.
Not King, though.
In fact, I can’t smell it on him at all. I
would have never known he was a smoker if he hadn’t told me.

“Okay,
gorgeous, I’ve interrupted your night long enough. When can I see you again?”
He squeezes me tight and chastely kisses the tip of my nose while I scramble
for an answer. I can’t possibly see him again . . . can I?

“I’ll
give you my number.” Two little frown lines form between his brows.

“You’re
not giving me a fake number. I hope I didn’t scare you off tonight. I really
want to see you again. I was serious about hearing you play.” His eyes follow
his finger as he traces the edge of my jaw, sending a shiver up my spine.

“I
won’t give you a fake number. I promise. You can call me before I leave.” I
smile, and he presses one last lingering kiss on my lips before leading me to
the door. I have to ask about that bathroom before I go. It’s too outlandish
not to mention it.

“Hey,
what’s with the golden bathroom?” I ask and he chuckles.

“I
had a decorator that thought my name was funny. I let her take a few too many
liberties and ended up with a bathroom
fit
for a King
.”

I
roll my eyes and mouth ‘wow’ to myself when he turns his back. I get the idea
that he may actually like his royal potty.

When
the door to the club opens, the music seems much louder. In fact, the whole red
floor looks a little different. Could I have been that drunk?

“Holland!”
Savannah yells across the bar before nearly trampling a couple in her effort to
get to me. The couple barely escapes, and the woman says something that I can’t
hear, but I’m sure from the look on her face that it’s not nice. Mika is right
on her heels, apologizing to them for Savannah.

“Where
the hell have you been? We’ve been looking all over for you. Shit, I thought
you’d been kidnapped, or roofied, or kidnapped
and
roofied.” She grabs me into a suffocating bear hug,
inadvertently yanking my hand out of King’s.

“I’m
sorry, we were dancing, and it was so loud that King brought me up here to
talk,” I explain while she holds me at arm's length, checking me over from head
to toe like she’s my mama.

“Savannah,
this is King,” I say, twisting out of her arms to avoid the pat down she’s
giving me. “He’s the owner of this club. And King, these are my friends,
Savannah and Mika.” King extends his hand to both of my friends, who are
standing frozen with their mouths hanging open.

“Oh
. . .” Is all Savannah can manage, but Mika has her wits about her, and as
usual with strangers, she strikes up a conversation, easing the awkward moment.

“The
owner, huh? Wow . . . impressive.” Her gaze passes back and forth, from his to
mine. “I love your club. I’m here every weekend.” King flashes her his perfect
Superman smile.

“I
appreciate your business, but more than that, I appreciate you bringing your
friends—this one in particular,” King says, nodding in my direction. We
all stare as he bows and lifts my hand to press his lips against my knuckles in
a soft kiss. I think we all jump simultaneously when he breaks the spell with
his next comment.

“I
also want to apologize for stealing Holland away. Please accept an open tab for
the rest of the evening and a free membership to the VIP club for future
visits. It’s the least I can do. Savannah shakes her head when she’s returned
from Shockville and announces that an open tab isn’t necessary, because
apparently, we are leaving. But before she can refuse the memberships, Mika
steps forward, accepting his offer enthusiastically.

“Thank
you, Mr. Romero. We would love that.”

“Very
good then. I’ll have someone put your names on the list.”

He
turns his attention back to me, and a tingly sensation flutters in my chest.
“Your number, Holland?” King says.

 
My phone. Where is my phone? I glance at
Savannah’s hands and then Mika’s. No phone. “Yes, but I don’t have my phone,” I
say.

He
looks at Savannah, and she jumps when she realizes he’s waiting for her to give
me the phone.

“Oh,
sorry. The bartender found it in a booth. Here.” She slips my phone out of her
pocket and hands it to me. I pull up my phone number and turn the screen to
King, proving it’s my real number. He smirks and leans forward to see the
number.

“Consider
it memorized. I’ll call you soon,” he says, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek.

“You’re
amazing, Holland, and so very sweet,” he whispers in my ear. He takes several
steps backward before he turns to walk away, leaving the girls staring at me in
disbelief. Savannah regains her composure first—with her hands on her
hips, the way she does when she’s being motherly.

“We
are going home right now, Holland Blue Bennett, and you are telling me
everything that happened with that man tonight . . .
everything
.”

“Me
too,” Mika says enthusiastically.

“Okay,
okay. Let’s go then. My feet are killing me in these stupid shoes.”

Chapter Two

King

“Monty,
buzz me in, will you?” I need to be alone. What have I done? That woman
completely bewitched me. I lost control tonight, and I don’t lose control.
Holland is irresistible. That long, silky black hair and those clear, grey,
haunting eyes did something to me—something I can’t explain. The way she
melded with the music and the crowd on the dance floor made my head swim.
Before I knew it, I was in the elevator and going down to get her. I can’t
believe I broke rule number one—don’t bring strange women into the VIP
club, let alone my apartment. Smashed that rule. Rule number two—don’t
give the guests something to gossip about. Rule obliterated. I’m sure the whole
club is buzzing about the woman King hauled off to his apartment. Fuck. I can’t
believe I wasn’t more discreet. I should have never brought her here. Rule
number three is just plain common sense—never, ever have unprotected sex.
I crushed that one too. At least she’s on birth control, or so she says. I
don’t see her lying, though. She seemed honest. I went after her. She wasn’t
some slut looking to score the big dog.
I
wanted
her
. Fuck, King, you sound
pathetically pussy whipped right now, and you don’t even know this woman. Why
would you think she doesn’t sleep around when she let you do her after thirty
minutes of dancing and light flirting?

My
bartender, Monty, buzzes me into my apartment, where I flop down on the couch.
I can still smell her on the cushions. I roll over
face-down
to inhale her intoxicating scent. What the fuck is going on? It’s not like I
can’t get a piece of ass whenever I want. I own the hottest fucking club in the
U.S. Something’s been different over the past couple of years, though. I
haven’t been craving my normal meaningless one-night stands. They’ve become
boring. Lately, I’ve been yearning for something more, something
normal
. I’ve found myself searching for
a person I can trust, someone I can spend some time with, someone with common
interests. I don’t do long-term relationships. The longest I have ever been
able to stand the same woman is a weekend, maybe two weeks—that’s it. But
Holland . . . something in her soul called to mine. The second I laid eyes on
her, I knew she was special
.
I don’t
believe in love at first sight, but something clicked when I saw Holland. The
atmosphere changed and the earth shifted under my feet.

I’m
sleeping on the couch tonight. I never sleep on the couch, but she’s everywhere
out here and nowhere in there—and I want her everywhere. I’m starting to
regret letting her go. Actually, that’s not true. I regretted letting her go
the second she started panicking about her phone and her friends.

 
I’m calling her in the morning. Shit, I
might not even wait that long. This must be how a drug addict feels after
getting high for the first time: the temptation, the rush, and then, as soon as
it’s over, the craving for more. I’ve never been addicted to drugs, but if Holland
Bennett were a drug, I’d be addicted to her.

 
I’ve been staying in the club apartment
and overseeing operations since we opened two months ago. I spend every evening
in the club until it closes to make sure things go smoothly. I’m love stoned
tonight, however, and I have no desire to be around clingy women and drunken
people. I’m staying in.

Down
the hall in my bedroom, I strip down to my boxers and grab my comforter and a
pillow. In the living room, I make a bed on top of Holland’s sweet scent. Everything
about that woman is sweet—her smile, her scent, her personality—but
my favorite sweet thing is the way she tastes on my tongue.

It’s
too soon to call her. She’s probably just getting to her car. I should have
offered to drive her home. I could have at least called a car to pick her up at
the door. Those shoes of hers were killing her feet, and rightly so. I’m sure
she’s fine. She’s with her friends. I ruined their night by stealing her away.
Well, I’m pretty sure I didn’t ruin Holland’s night. I can’t fucking believe
I’m doing this when I grab my phone and text her to make sure she’s safe. I’ve
known this woman for all of an hour, and I’ve been separated from her for
fifteen minutes, but I’m worrying about her safety. Something is very fucking
wrong with this scenario.

 
Just
wanted to be sure you made it to your car safely. The parking lot can be a
dangerous place for incredibly beautiful women like you. I hope whoever is
driving is sober. I feel terrible for not making sure of that before you left.
I could have called for a car to take you all home, but I was distracted
thinking of our time together. Please let me know when you’re home safe and
sound--King.

My
text is saccharine and romantic, like a boyfriend worrying about his
girlfriend, ugh. My thumb hovers over the
send
button while I contemplate the possible ramifications of sending this text, but
I tap the button anyway. I have to.

I
reach over the back of the couch to the console table and grab the remote and
my smokes. I switch the television on to ESPN and toss the remote on the
cushion next to me. I flip open my Zippo, hold the flame to the end of my
cigarette, and take a long drag. I hate smoking. It’s a nasty habit, but it
comes with my lifestyle.

My
phone chirps; it’s a text from Holland.

 
Thank
you for being concerned. Mika is driving and she is sober. We’re safe and
sound. Thank you for the compliment. I had a nice time tonight too
.–
H

She
has no idea the kind of man she’s dealing with, and I don’t ever want her to. I
steer clear of relationships, another rule I made for myself when I was
younger. They’re messy and time consuming, and they require honesty and
dedication. My father’s line of work never allowed for any of those things,
especially honesty. I knew how my family made money, and so did everyone else,
but it was a taboo subject that no one ever mentioned.

Note
to self: scratch that rule from the rulebook . . . permanently. I’m pretty sure
Holland is the thing I’ve been searching for to help me escape my crazy
lifestyle. In the short amount of time we spent together, she has already made
me want to be someone different. She’s not the type of woman who associates
with dark people from the world’s underbelly like me. She is delicate and
fine-spun, graceful and angelic, so contrary to myself. I didn’t know exactly
what I was searching for until I saw Holland on the dance floor tonight. It was
the first time since I was a child that I didn’t feel unclean or polluted.

Right
now, I want to text her back, but more than that, I want to hear her voice. I
want to tuck her under my arm and kiss the top of her head and snuggle with her
until morning—and that’s a little unnerving. I don’t do this. I don’t
form bonds or connect with women. I show them a good time, get what I want, and
dismiss them. That’s what a drug lord’s son does.

I
prop my feet up while John Anderson talks about the day’s sports scores and
highlights on Sports Center. I lean my head back against the couch and pull the
last of the carcinogens from my cigarette deep into my lungs. I blow the smoke
straight up and watch it swirl and roll up to the ceiling until I smell the
scent of the filter burning. I toss my duvet onto the floor and stomp into the
kitchen, where I drop what’s left of the smoldering filter into the sink. I open
the fridge and grab a Corona, twist off the top and head into the den where I
can check my security cameras and see what’s happening in the club. The cameras
cover the main entrance, the elevators, all of the exits, and every bar, as
well as the dance floor. Everyone is having a good time. Everything’s in order,
and even though I know she has gone home, I find myself searching the crowd for
Holland’s sultry figure. Every woman with raven hair causes me to look twice,
searching for her haunting eyes, those curves, and that sweet mouth. Fuck,
King. Go to bed.

I
punch the button, shutting off the monitors, and return to the couch, where her
scent is already fading. I need to change that soon.