His Brother’s Fiancée

2. King

2

King

King groaned and rolled over in bed. The coolness of the silk sheets did nothing to ease the pain. He winced as he felt the bruises blossom, fresh and new, across his ribs. As he pushed himself up, the numbness sleep offered wore off completely.

King stood in front of the mirror, framed in thick wood to complement the family cabin, and examined his ribs. In some areas, they almost completely covered some of his ink and turned his tattoos into shadowy figures.

As he ran his hands across the ripples of his stomach, he felt a touch of pleasure blend with the pain.

“That’s the price you pay,” he told his reflection.

The gray eyes in the mirror stared back at him. Effie used to tell him, “the skies are angry today,” when she’d gaze up at him. He hated that, how she could read him to easily.

King looked at himself in the mirror for another minute, then headed to the bathroom. The floor boards creaked under his bare feet like the wail of faraway ghosts.

He turned on the faucet above the bathtub, intending to give himself a quick shower. As he waited for it to heat up, though, he couldn’t stop thinking of the past.

When King had left the mob bosses in L.A. he’d worked for the past few years, he knew there would be a tax. He just hadn’t known when to expect p*****t to come due. But as soon as he’d seen the thugs in the parking deck, he’d known.

He’d once worn a suit that was just like the ones they wore.

“King Smith?” one had asked.

King hadn’t replied. He’d simply turned to take whatever they had for him.

The first hit was always the hardest. The one who’s asked his name was young, barely eighteen, and inches shorter than King but built like a bull. As soon as he felt the solid knuckles against his jaw, copper filled his mouth.

“The hell is wrong with him?” he’d heard one of the others ask as his knees hit the pavement.

He couldn’t tell the difference between fists and kicks, they were all over him. A swarm of furious punches and digs. It had felt like his entire head had filled with blood, and the sound of a rib cracking was like the snap of a twig.

But King had refused to fight back. It would have only made it worse. Even through the swollen slit of his eyes, he could see that young one pause when they were done.

King knew that look. The kid was wondering if he should get in one last good kick, like the villains always did in the movies. The money shot that would dislocate King’s jaw or shattered his nose.

He wasn’t sure if he remembered this quite right or if he just wished he’d done it—but he thought he’d lifted his head just enough to give the kid a good shot. But in the end, the young man walked away with the rest of the crew.

King shuddered in the bathroom as he stripped his clothes off and slipped into the steaming shower. It was cold as hell outside, as a sort of final f**k you for his return to his hometown. There was supposed to be some serious snow outside tonight.

Which was why he’d chosen to head to the cabin in the first place. That, and it was the only property he technically owned. Even if Thorne or his parents found out that he was here, there wasn’t s**t they could do about it.

He lathered himself up instead of getting angry about Thorne, and what a thieving, conniving piece of work his little brother was. Getting away from Thorne and their politician father was the best thing King could have done. Even if it had cost him some things.

Like Effie, he thought.

He grimaced. He scrambled to think of something else, anything else. He found himself replaying the past again in his head.

For nearly two years, King had been a fixer for the bosses. It was his dues. He’d been the bad guy long enough, the boogeyman nobody wanted to stumble upon in the dark streets. And it had been thrilling at first.

King could still remember the first time one of the boss men met him in person. It took weeks of meeting with lesser members as they vetted him, tried to get his angle. When King was seated across from the paunchy, middle-aged man in the private dining room in Everest, one he hadn’t even known existed, it was a bit of a let down. The boss had milky blue eyes and skin like crepe paper. Nothing like Marlon Brando’s Godfather.

“King Smith. What kind of name is that?” the man had asked.

“It’s what my parents gave me. Sir,” he’d added on quickly.

“Yes, your parents. Chicago’s modern-day Kennedy’s,” the boss had said with a small laugh that sounded a bit girlish. “I’ve seen my share of rich prep school boys looking to sample the other side. Is that what this is about? You have something to prove to your daddy? You too good for his money?”

King’s face had burned. He’d hoped in the dimness of the restaurant, a bodyguard at attention on either side of the boss, that nobody noticed.

“No, Sir,” he’d said. “I just want to make my own money.”

“Top-rated schooling. Well-read, well-bred. I imagine you’d make a very nice living working for your family business. I hear it’s a bit more on the up and up than mine. Nepotism notwithstanding, but there’s politics in any business. Family or not.”

The boss nodded as the waiter presented a bottle of scotch. Two fingers worth were poured elegantly into crystal tumblers.

“Macallan 1952,” the boss said as he raised the crystal to his lips.

King followed suit and let the amber burn fire down his throat after holding it along the apex of his tongue for six seconds to smooth it.

“Fine and rare,” King said.

The boss smiled. “You’re familiar with the year.”

“It’s Macallan’s best.”

“So tell me. If it’s not to get back at your daddy, what is it? Why do you want to work for me?”

This is what King had prepared for.

“You’re right,” he said as he pulled in a breath. “It does have something to do with my father, but it’s not an act of revenge. I… I don’t want to be like him.”

The boss leaned back as caviar was brought to the table. “And why is that?”

“I have a brother,” he said, but stopped himself before saying Thorne’s name. Not that he needed to. The boss knew everything about him. “And, in our family, we’ve always been yin and yang.”

“The angel and the devil,” the boss said as he spooned a small dollop of caviar onto his fist. “How quaint. And let me guess who you are.”

King didn’t say anything. The boss didn’t offer him any caviar. Instead, King watched the boss enjoy an entire four-course dinner while being served nothing, not even a second glass of that forty-thousand dollar scotch.

When the boss was satisfied, he looked at King.

“You start tonight,” he said, standing up.

And thus it began, King thought. All the blackmail, bribery, extortion that you could ever dream about, just waiting for me to put on that suit.

He got out of the shower, turning off the water. Wrapping himself in a towel, he hustled back to the bedroom to get dressed.

Now, the bruises were no longer coupled by welts and open wounds. They’d entered the dull aching stage. It had taken the bosses’ fixers six months to collect from him.

The bruises suited him more than he liked to admit. At least this way, you could see the damage, instead of just imagining it.

Being the bad boy was all he’d ever known, and he’d played it his entire life.

Thorne was always the good one, the responsible one, the one who followed all the rules and fit so neatly into the family’s expectations.

King sighed. Thank God for melatonin, he thought.

It was the only thing that even gave him a shot of sleeping without being a zombie the next day. The whole getting up early in the morning schtick wasn’t for him.

He spent a few minutes tidying everything in the bedroom. It was one of the things King liked about himself. Fastidiousness.

In order, there was comfort. His mouth kicked up when he thought of how not everyone appreciated how much he loved things clean. That was something about him that Effie never understood.

It was one of those things that drove him crazy. How she’d dump her purse on the first available surface when she walked into a room, or how she’d kick off her shoes, not even bothering to pushing them neatly against a wall. Those romance novels she left dog-eared and scattered everywhere.

But, still. It was part of the balance, that yin and yang.

“Love is weakness. Weakness is for losers,” he reminded himself.

Now get dressed, for God’s sake.

King realized he wasn’t quite ready to put his clothes on, though. He needed the brand new stick of deodorant that he’d bought at a convenience store on his way here. It was still in a plastic bag, hanging by the front door.

He re-anchored the towel around his waist and started down the hallway. The scent of a wood fire flooded his nostrils.

“What the hell?” He could have sworn he’d put out the fire last night, but as he entered the living room it was roaring. “s**t!”

A head popped up from the other side of the couch. King’s heart almost stopped, sure that this was it.

That last beating was just a warm-up. This one wouldn’t just stop at bruises, he was certain of it.

And then he realized it was her.

“Effie?” he asked, uncertain. “What…”

She looked at him, her eyes wide.

“King?”

He felt so exposed for some reason, standing there in nothing but a towel.

“What the f**k are you doing here?” he demanded.

It came off angrier than he intended.

“Sorry, I… I didn’t know you were here. Or anyone was here. There wasn’t a car—what happened to you? Are you okay?”

Her eyes were wide as she examined the bruises on his chest.

“What are you doing here?” he repeated.

“I… I don’t know,” she said softly.

What did that mean?

“How did you get in? Wait, never mind. Where’s Thorne?”

“He’s… not here?”

It was a question, not an answer. It just made him more confused.

King shifted slightly, completely thrown by Effie’s sudden appearance. Of course he’d seen Effie a few times over the years. She could only be avoided so often, as the person who was practically glued to Thorne’s side.

He stared at her, and she stared back.

“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

As he got dressed, he ran over scores of things he should say. Her being here, surprising him like this, it was the last thing he needed.

When he stormed back into the living room, Effie was on the couch with her shoulders covered in the thick blanket. He could see the low-cut satin camisole underneath. It dipped into dangerous territory, but he refused to let that distract him.

Who cares if she’s even hotter than she was in high school?

“Where’s Thorne?” he asked.

Great. That’s a really strong opener.

“He’s… he’s…” Effie gestured, and then dissolved into tears.

King glanced around the room, but there was no one to help.

This is exactly what I need, he thought.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“He’s cheating on me!” she said between sobs.

Awkwardly, he reached out and patted her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he said. “He’s—”

“It’s not okay! I freaking caught him in bed with someone else! Someone who looks just like me, by the way.”

“Oh,” he said, frowning. “Well, I guess that’s kind of good.”

“Good?” she asked, exasperated.

“I mean, at least he’s attracted to you, right?” King could hear the smugness in his own voice, but he couldn’t help it. “I mean, kind of keeping it in the family. You are both so good at that.”

He just couldn’t stop himself. King hadn’t realized until that moment that for the past three years he’d harbored so much anger over her dating his brother.

“You’re a jerk, you know that?” she asked.

Effie stood up and let the blanket fall onto the couch. She grabbed her jacket, but not before he could see that she’d taken off her bra to sleep. The sudden chill from losing the blanket hardened her n*****s instantly against the thin fabric. He felt his c**k stirring below, but pushed the urge aside.

She deserved this.

King heard the front door slam and a car start in the driveway. Slowly, he made his way onto the patio. His erection refused to wane even when her SUV was out of sight.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?