53. Kingsley
53
KINGSLEY
“F ind your balance. Arms extended. Widen your stance.”
“Is this necessary? Why do I have to do this if we’ve hired all these people to look after me?”
I sound whiney even to my own ears. Which is something I’ve never been.
Dante shoots me an exasperated sigh, then moves in behind me, standing so close, I can feel his breath on my neck. He raises his arms to cover mine and starts firing off more instructions.
“Hold your arms straight, hands firm around the gun. Left leg back, right foot forward.”
He moves closer and removes one of his arms, letting it fall to my waist. He puts a leg between mine and pushes my feet apart. In doing so, he has plastered his chest against my back. I can feel, even between the layers of fabric between us, the ridges of muscle that zigzag across his chest. Even the arm that holds mine, steadying my shooting hand, feels like concrete the way it wraps around my body. My breath catches. My heart aches. My soul burns. I can’t understand why he is so insistent on me learning to shoot a gun, but I’ve decided to humor him, hoping that when he sees how hopeless I am at handling a firearm, he’ll abandon that idea. If anything, it has made him more determined in his insistence on teaching me. And boy, does the man have patience when it comes to teaching me how to shoot.
With his arms still around me, I fire off a few shots, always missing the target when the bullets ricochet off a nearby rock.
“Getting better,” he says, reloading the gun and handing it to me. He steps away. “Now, on your own. “I’m watching.”
I go again, my aim this time better, encouraged by Dante’s promise of lunch sooner rather than later if I manage to hit the target. He keeps reloading the gun and handing it to me to keep practicing until I get the target. After four hours of practice, I finally hit the target twice, my stance is balanced and firm, and I am actually enjoying the exercise.
“We should go hunting,” I tell him, my voice full of excitement.
“There’s plenty of things we should do, King, but hunting is definitely not one of them.”
* * *
New York is full of charming little Italian restaurants, but none more so than Papa Gino’s, which is nothing more than a hole in the wall that opens up to a casual dining space of epic proportions.
“Why is it so empty?” I ask, as Dante guides me to a corner table.
“They don’t open until five. The chef was kind enough to do me a favor and accommodate us for lunch.”
“That’s generous of him,” I say, frowning. I can’t imagine what sort of a favor a chef owes Dante.
He pulls out a chair for me and we sit, my eyes swiveling around the cozy restaurant as the amazing smell of basil and garlic wafts through the air. I close my eyes and inhale the rich aroma, allowing it to assault all my senses. When I re-open my eyes, Dante has his glistening honey toned eyes fixed on my face, untold emotions flickering within them. I can never tell what he’s thinking, but just the way he looks at me is enough to undo me.
“What?” I ask, looking around me self consciously. He always manages to make me feel uncomfortable with the way his eyes caress me, and I know this has more to do with me not being able to read him. I have made a life for myself out of reading others, but when it comes to Dante, I always draw a blank.
“The fact that you’re a bundle of contradictions.”
I cock my head and wait for an explanation. He takes a sip of his wine then sets the glass back down, taking his time. It seems he is intent on making me wait. I like this version of Dante. The calm, relaxed, laidback man with a casual air about him. And Dante wearing black – don’t even go there. His signature dress code lately has been black slacks and a black shirt. Today he wears a turtleneck, which does nothing but direct my attention to his throat, or what little of it I can see.
“Kingsley the Chameleon,” he finally says, smiling to himself. He looks up at me, regards me with eyes blazing with curiosity, then licks his lips in a way that makes me want to jump out from my seat and right into his lap. I have to force my hands to the side of my chair just to keep myself grounded.
“You slayed in the club as a poker playing diva. You held your own as a man was about to rape you then showed your claws when you got away from him. Then you fiercely refused a ride to safety even when you stood in the dark in the middle of nowhere. And had the balls to steal my car…” he stops and chuckles to himself, and I know he is remembering something, because his face lights up at his next words. “You somehow fooled many, many men into thinking you were a boy, then pissed the shit out of Marco, who I know for a fact is not the easiest person to piss off. You swam half naked in my pool and sent my soldiers into meltdown, then you defied gravity and sent yourself hurtling to the ground trying to help me save you from a rogue madman. Oh, and did I mention you can shoot? All that, and now you sit here in this restaurant, looking like you just had an orgasm inhaling the smell of garlic. I told you… contradictions.”
“It’s the little things, Dante,” I tell him, feeling a blush rise up my neck at his words. “The little things.”
I dip a bit of crusty bread in olive oil and pop it into my mouth. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was, my stomach starting to do somersaults as we wait for our food.
“There’s nothing little about you, King. I think I’ve seen more action with you in a month than I have in a lifetime.”
I lean forward and place my elbow on the table, then lean my chin into it and look at him wondrously. “So, tell me about your boring life before I came into it,” I ask.
I’m rewarded with a laugh. A rumble that starts deep in his belly and makes its way upward, his eyes dancing with laughter.
“Food’s here,” he says, as the chef himself comes out with a trolley laden with an amazing selection of dishes for us to sample. I can’t help but feel like he’s been saved from answering my question by Gino’s timely appearance at our table. It always seems to be that way when the conversation moves to the topic of his past.
The chef starts rolling off the names of all the dishes, and I marvel at the amazing presentation and colors placed before us.
“Panzanella, wild mushroom risotto, ncasiata, chicken scarpariello, and sizzling shrimp scampi.”
I clap my hands together in delight, and can’t wait to get started, which makes Gino extremely happy.
“I’m sure you’re going to leave here in a food coma,” Dante says, as Gino walks away.
“I’m sure that’s your intention,” I reply, winking at him. “A food coma will definitely put my mouth out of commission.”
The mention of my mouth and its functions was probably not the best idea; Dante’s eyes fall to my lips in a way that makes my face flush with heat.
“Let’s eat,” he says, his words a growl more than anything else. He lifts his fork and holds it mid-air, about to say something before he starts, then thinks better of it.
“Why did you choose this restaurant?” I ask him, as I swallow my food and follow with a sip of water. The food is divine. I am doing my damndest not to moan with every morsel I place on my tongue.
“It’s the only place I eat when I come to New York. The food speaks for itself."
“That it does.”
When we finish our lunch, with me managing to over-eat, of course, we decide to walk and Dante instructs the car to meet us a few blocks away. His security detail has not left us for a second, always maintaining a discreet distance so we can blend more seamlessly into the New York sidewalk.
“Tell me about your childhood,” he says suddenly, and it’s so out of left field that for a moment, I’m lost for words.
“There’s not much to tell, really. My mother died when I was young – four years old. I was then shuffled between an array of nannies. At some point, my father decided to ship me off to Switzerland to attend school there. That’s where I’ve remained ever since. I did all my schooling and university there. I only ever came back for holidays. Mostly, it was dad visiting a few times a year. He never wanted me to come back here, for whatever reason.”
“He probably felt it was safer for you to be away from him,” Dante muses. “When did you become a boy?”
I laugh, recalling the ridiculous disguise I’d been wearing for years. Yes, it was ridiculous, but it was so ostentatious, it prevented anyone from looking closer into my identity. That most likely was what had kept me alive all these years.
“You know, I could never understand why he kept me away all these years. I mean, if he was safe, why couldn’t I have stayed with him and been safe?”
“You wouldn’t have had the life here that you did there. There’s no way you could have moved about and done your schooling without compromising on something, King. That was his first measure. His second measure was to safeguard his plan by changing your identity.”
I snicker. Think of all the things I’ve missed out on because of the way I’d been forced to change the things about me that made me who I was.
“Do you know what it’s like to go through life being something that you’re not?” I ask him. “Do you know how humiliating it was getting my period and trying to hide it from a dorm full of boys?”
I don’t notice that my eyes are moist with tears threatening to erupt until Dante stops walking and pulls me to a stop. He studies my face carefully then uses a thumb to dab at a tear that has escaped and rolled down my cheek. “I know that everything he did was for my own safety. I know that. But it guts me that I missed out on all that time with him. It’s time I can’t ever get back.”
“No, you can’t. But you can look forward to your future, King. He’ll always be in here.” He lifts two fingers against his chest and taps at his heart. I know that what he’s saying makes the most sense, but I can’t help but wonder if things would have been different had he not sent me away.
“I think you’re doing just fine, Kingsley. And with time, you’re only going to get better. You’re already on your way to being a kicks boss.”
“I don’t think there’s anything kickass about me,” I snort.
“Exhibit A - the night you knocked Tomas Wojcak in the balls when he attacked you.” He smirks, a twinkle in his eyes as he remembers something. “Exhibit B - the way you jumped into my pool in your underwear.”
“Are you ever going to get past that?” I grumble.
“Not on your life, King. I can confidently say that aside from my men going into overdrive, that was one of your finest moments.”