Chapter One #3
If King or Nixon or Atlas or Rush were standing somewhere nearby, I was pretty sure my last worldly thoughts would be about how beautiful they were.
And they were.
And he was.
Perhaps the most beautiful of them all.
The oldest, time etched his lines more sharply—the strength of his jaw, the cuts of his cheekbones, the razor's edge of his brows.
Beautiful.
"Savvy?" his voice asked about a split second before I threw myself at him.
Now, I had dreamed of throwing myself at a one Mr. Kingston Rivers more than a few times. More often than I ever cared to mention. He was related—in a very convoluted way—to one of my best friends, I had spent many a nights drooling over these men, this man in particular.
In almost all of these dreams, nudity was involved.
Not a soaked body.
Okay, well, sometimes a soaked body.
But no fear turning my belly upside down.
"Fuck," he hissed, slamming and locking the door behind me, reaching behind me with one hand as the other held onto my hip as my arms, well, clung to him.
Not in the sexy way I had pictured them many times before. But in absolute crippling fear.
"What's going on?" he asked, his voice concerned, but firm at the same time as the light flicked on overhead. His hands sank into my hips, pushing me away, pressing me against a wall.
I don't need to mention the wall-pressing fantasies here, right? Because those existed too.
"Christ, you're shaking. What happened?"
"Men," was the only intelligible sound that escaped me as he stood there, worry seeping from those deep, chocolate brown eyes.
My hand pressed to my heart, sure it was steadily thrusting itself roughly enough against my ribcage to attempt to bust right through.
"Men? Men were chasing you?" he guessed, glancing over toward the door for a second before his gaze landed back on me.
My head jerked up and down. "Two? Or three..." I added, not sure if the other had left Harry to follow me too.
I imagined witnesses to their illegal activity were maybe more important than Harry's beating.
"Okay. Deep breaths," he demanded softly, pressing a hand at the center of my chest, his wide palm making it so that both his thumb and his pinkie were grazing either of my breasts, something I absolutely should not have been noticing. Not at a time like this. But when you’ve imagined a man's hands on your breasts for years, you noticed it when it happened. Even if only for a second.
Okay... two.
Three tops.
Finally, I sucked inward, feeling my chest shake with the new air, but finding it clearing some of the terror from my brain, allowing thoughts to move freely once again.
Swallowing past my dry mouth, I found the words that needed to be said. "They were beating my boss."
"And they saw you," he added.
"Yes."
"And chased you."
"Yes."
"Where were you?"
"At work."
"Work is closed," he reasoned.
"I forgot the lettuce!"
Yep.
And that was the moment when my overwrought system decided to exorcise its emotions in the most humiliating way possible.
Tears.
Nope.
Not just tears.
Sobs.
"Okay," King said, his voice soft as his arms closed around me—one low at my hips, pulling me to his chest, one behind my head, holding me there. "Alright. It's okay. Did they hurt you?" The shake was about all I could manage. "Good. It's alright. We'll handle this. I'll handle this," he clarified.
He could, too.
It wasn't just desperation that sent me in his direction, just familiarity, just proximity.
Kingston was someone fully capable of helping me navigate a potentially dangerous situation. Because that was what King did for a living.
Security.
Well, that was what he did now.
In the past, he made a life and living undermining security in a much less than legal way.
But now, now he was retired from that.
Now he was someone who had the know-how, the connections to help me make sense of this, to tell me what to do, to make sure I didn't end up in a vat of acid or with cement shoes on or whatever other ways criminals disposed of pesky loose ends like me.
"You're shivering," he added, his fingers massaging at the tension in the back of my neck.
"Come on. Let's get you something dry to put on.
And something warm to drink. Then we can talk about it, okay?
" he asked as the sobs settled, as complete and utter embarrassment replaced the fear that had been there just moments before.
I pulled back—and doing so, thinking how, well, unthinkable it was that I would actually pull away from him once I felt his arms around me—swiping at the wetness on my cheeks, letting out a completely attractive sniffling noise as I attempted to keep my nose from running.
"Yeah," I agreed, a bit distracted by the way his white tee was a bit translucent now wet from my body before reminding myself that there were more important things to be thinking about, dragging my gaze from him and at his apartment.
I'd been in the parking lot of his business before, had watched my friend—and his sort-of relative—Peyton go into his apartment from afar, but had never seen it myself.
It had once, clearly, been the storage space to the building out front. The floors were still cold concrete, but had been painted a warmer cream color.
The edge of my shoe was touching an oversized brown and white carpet for the living space, with a long brown material sectional, oversized coffee table, two armchairs, and a puffy round dog bed.
The inhabitant was fast asleep on it.
"He's quite the guard dog, huh?" King asked, lips curved up, creating little crinkles beside his warm eyes.
"Oh, leave Padfoot alone. He has plenty of other good qualities."
I'd named him.
Padfoot.
King had an adoption fair volunteer practically thrust the little black ball of fluff and cuteness at him, completely unprepared. He'd brought him into the shop to stock up on food and beds and about fifty different toys and treats. And asked me to help him name it.
A bit tired of Marleys and Charlies and Maxes and Coopers, I had suggested Padfoot, something that had made him smile because he had been the one to take his Harry Potter obsessed sister to the midnight releases and—therefore—had intimate knowledge of the characters.
"He is a good squeaker extractor," King agreed, his hand again touching my hip, trying to steer me with him.
Luckily, the slight shiver could be attributed to my wet and cold as he led me past an L-shaped kitchen with warm honey-toned cabinets, swirling counters, brown and tan backsplash, and stainless steel appliances, and down a small hall with a full bath and single bedroom.
His hand dropped to go to his dresser, rummaging around for clothes for me—and likely a shirt replacement for himself, as my eyes roamed over his king-sized bed with tousled white sheets and brown comforter, picturing him there when I had pounded on his door, the pillows making his usually neat dark hair muss slightly, endearingly.
"Come on," Kingston invited, moving toward the doorway to lead me back to the bathroom where I found more warm neutral, brown and cream colors and an oversized all glass shower enclosure.
"Take a shower if you want," he invited, producing a towel.
"Warm up," he added, piling the clothes on top of the towel.
"Come out when you're done," he added, casting an odd, concerned look as he backed out of the door, closing it behind him.
Alone, I took a steadying breath, inwardly wondering how it was possible that my brain was more focused on King's apartment—and the man himself—than the events of the night.
Maybe it was shock?
They always threw that word around on TV shows without actually explaining what it was. So maybe my reaction was that. Maybe my brain didn't want to think about what had just happened, and was choosing happier thoughts instead.
And Kingston Rivers, well, he had always been a very, very happy thought.