13. Kingsley #2
I face him, but the movement is too quick. Suddenly, the room is tilting, and I’m heading for the floor, but strong arms grab me just in time. I grunt, wanting to push him away and tell him I don’t need to be saved, but I can’t get the words out.
Rip wraps his arm around my shoulder, and then we’re walking down the hall. “I’ll walk you to your room. Clearly, you need to lie down.”
I don’t protest. After he passes the dining room, I guide him upstairs to my bedroom, which is at the far end of the house. We manage to get through the maze of my home okay, and he lays me down on my cloud-like comforter.
I’ve let life get to me so badly that I’ve finally brought myself to the point of damn-near fainting. Is this who everyone wants as the head of the Crowncrest?
Sylvie would be disgusted with me. Then again, if she were here, I wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place.
Seconds pass before there’s a dip in the bed. He’s on the edge, hands on his lap, pondering.
“What’s your deal?” he blurts.
“What?” I ask, though I heard what he asked.
Rip runs his hand through his hair. “With… like, right now. What’s up with you?”
“I’m just lightheaded.”
“Anyone with eyes can see something isn’t right,” he states. “You barely moved a muscle at the table, and you were staring like you were about to puke.”
“You know nothing about me.”
“You’re right. I don’t, but like I said, I can’t let you die on me.”
He can’t? “Why is that your responsibility?”
Rip sighs, eyes looking at the ceiling as he thinks about it. “Your death would irritate me.”
My lips curve into a small smile, his statement close to endearing in its own fucked up way. “Everything I do irritates you.”
“Correct,” he says plainly. “You’ve got a special talent for ticking me off without even saying a word.”
“It’s your mullet,” I tell him. It’s now that I realize he’s moved from the edge of the bed closer to me, his hand resting on my thigh. He raises a brow, so I elaborate. “All the hotheads I’ve ever met had mullets.”
“Ah, so I fit the stereotype.” I nod. He leans against the headboard, nodding. “Well, you don’t fit the quiet stereotype.”
“What’s the stereotype?”
“Someone soft. Gentle and smaller than you. Some I can boss around.”
I’m not sure that’s the true quiet person stereotype, just Rip’s. “And I’m not that?”
He scoffs as if I said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “You’re everything but that. Sure, you barely speak in general, but you’ll speak your mind if you need to. And your silence isn’t timid, it’s intimidating, King.”
Does this mean Rip doesn’t see me as the weak bastard that I’m beginning to realize I am?
Where is all this praise coming from? Rip, the hard-ass I’ve been working with for a month and a half, wouldn’t even give his damn brother praise, yet he’s saying I’m intimidating.
His fingers brush against my thigh, but he pulls back just as quickly as if he touched a hot stove. The gentle look in his eyes vanishes, and the intense spark returns, like he’s having a battle in his head.
Rip and I haven’t touched each other since the club a week ago.
We’ve come to an unspoken agreement to move on from everything and continue as normal, but all it’s done is make working together a struggle.
The only thing on my mind is how hot he looked with his hand around both of our lengths, and how controlled he handled me, despite me worrying he was going to freak out on me.
It was like being in the clouds; it felt so right. And then it had to end.
Why do I want to taste Rip of all people? Plenty of options to choose from, and I want the firebrand employee who swears up and down that he doesn’t like men.
“I’ll tell your family what happened. I’m sure they’re wondering where we are.” He’s standing as he speaks. I guess the silence lasted too long.
He’s about to turn out the door when I speak. “Rip.”
He looks over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “You asked…”
God, I feel like a little kid about to spill his guts to his mom so she can kiss it and make it better. What is Rip supposed to do to help me? Nothing. So why do I want him to know?
“I did ask,” he says.
“Don’t ask again.”
Fuck. Wrong reply.
I expect him to glare at me, cuss me out, or make a lame joke that doesn’t land, but Rip doesn’t do any of that. He does something I’d never expect in a million years: he disappears out of the doorway without a word.
Great.
I roll over and bury my head in my pillow as a weight settles in the pit of my stomach. This is fine. I didn’t want to share anything, anyway. It’s something not even my family has heard me vocalize, and there I was, ready to tell it to Rip Wright of all people.
Dad always taught us, if you aren’t opening up to family, keep it to yourself. Family is the only one who will give a shit. Outsiders will take the information, no matter how large or small, and run it to anyone who will listen, especially if it makes them a quick buck.
My eyes flutter shut as my body rests. I’m half-asleep when I hear. “Prince.”
When I lift my head, Rip’s kneeling right there. In his hands are various items: chips, pudding, cold leftover soup, and even a chocolate bar.
“I don’t know what you like, but I figured it wasn’t the Thanksgiving feast down there,” Rip explains as he places the food on the bedside table. “Zara gave me all of your favorites from when you were a kid. If you don’t want this, I can go back and get something else. Pick.”
I sit up. “Pick?”
“Yes. Pick.” He yanks the tab off the pudding.
I stare, dumbfounded. He didn’t ask, and he still came back. Rip didn’t need to ask.
Rip grabs a spoon, scoops some up, and eats a little. Taking another scoop, he then brings it to my mouth. I pull my head back, confused, but after a second to process, I part my lips, and he carefully slides the spoon in.
Once I swallow, he smiles. Then, he opens the bag of chips and throws them into his mouth. “I can eat a thousand bags of crisps in a day.”
“Crisps? You mean chips?”
He chews, unfazed. “No. I mean crisps.”
Rip hands me a chip, and my fingers brush against his as I take it. I nibble the end, then chew the rest, and the heavy dumbbell sitting on my chest since we were at the dinner table vanishes. Thousands of eyes aren’t on me, and the chips aren’t daunting like the mashed potatoes were.
We simultaneously chew. Maybe we’ll finish the entire bag.
“Don’t go soft on me, Rip,” I say through munches.
“I’m not?”
“This,” I gesture to us and the snacks, “is going soft. You’re the same guy who shoved me against the wall because you didn’t like what I wasn’t saying.
You’re the man who goes from calm to furious in the blink of an eye.
You once had this fire in your eyes, as if you weren’t working for my parents, you’d strangle the hell out of me for glancing at you wrong. That is the Rip I know.”
He grimaces at my words, but I watch him swallow them down. “What do you want me to do? Pretend its fine that the only food I’ve seen you put in your mouth are some crisps and pudding?”
Ouch. “Yes.”
“Well, I’m not,” he states. “I’m a douche, but that’s a whole other level of douchery. I told you, Beaumont; I’ll be pissed if you die on me.”