Chapter Four
Kingston
"Evie," I groan, one fist wrapped around my cock, the other planted against the shower wall. Images of her play behind my eyes like a fucking movie. She's on her knees, staring up at me with those blue eyes, a dangerous smirk on her face, her hair a mess.
Goddamn, she's beautiful.
I've been obsessed with that photo she sent me for three days now. She'd probably kill me if she knew how many times I've jerked off to it, but that hasn't stopped me, either.
I squeeze tighter, working my fist up and down my shaft. Her name rumbles from my lips in a loud groan as my balls draw up.
I come hard, my seed splashing against the wall.
"Fuck," I pant, locking my legs to keep myself upright. "Fuck."
I'm losing my mind. There's no other way to put it. I've been messaging her at every opportunity for the last three days. She hasn't messaged back since I told her we were getting married, but I know she's reading them.
I can wait her out. I'm a patient motherfucker.
I quickly scrub up, wash my cum from the wall, and then climb from the shower to grab a towel. It's not even fully around my waist before I'm reaching for my phone to message her again.
My goddamn legs nearly give out when I see a notification from her.
Evie: A reporter asked me about you today.
Me: What'd you say, princess?
I hold my breath, praying she didn't tell them I'm the fucking creep who won't leave her alone. At this point, I wouldn't blame her. I know I'm coming on strong. I know she has every right to block me and tell me to fuck all the way off.
Obsession like this can't be healthy, right?
It should worry me how little I care about the answer to that question. I want to be this obsessed. I want to keep messaging her, thinking about her, dreaming about her.
I just want her, dammit.
Evie: I told her that you were nice to me.
"Yes!" I shout like I just sank the puck and won the Cup.
As far as I'm concerned, this is better than a winning goal.
My girl could have told the reporter that I won't leave her alone.
She could have told the world that she doesn't know me, or that I'm ridiculous, or any number of other things that would have made it clear that there's nothing between us. She didn't.
She told them that I'm nice to her. They're going to eat that shit up like she just told them that we're fucking, and I know she's smart enough to realize that.
Me: I'll always be nice to you, Evie.
I stride into the bedroom, waiting for her to respond…praying she does. Two days without her messages is my limit. I'm ready to snap. Had I not been in Cincinnati for a game, I probably would have hunted her down.
Evie: Have you really been listening to my album, or was that just a line?
I grin, settling back against the pillows.
Me: The cracked blacktop is an old, familiar friend who never judges our vices and our sins. But it's a damn cold substitute for what we're too afraid to let begin.
Evie: Did you just Google the lyrics?
I laugh softly, my hands flying across my screen.
Me: Hell no. I memorized them. You wrote that one with Clayton Devine and Bentley and Cami Reynolds.
Evie: Yeah. They're good friends with my dad.
It's wild to me that she grew up surrounded by some of the biggest stars in the world. I've been stalking the fuck out of her Instagram. A lot of girls in her position would be spoiled little princesses. Not Evie.
She's so fucking sweet. There isn't a single story about her being rude to fans or to waitstaff or to anyone. Everyone loves her. They all want to be close to her.
I'm sure having a father in the music business didn't hurt when it came to getting a foot in the door, but she started in dive bars, just like he did, as if she were determined to do it the hard way just to prove to herself that she could.
Me: Did you always want to sing?
Evie: My dad and I wrote a song when I was nine. The first time he performed it, he brought me up on stage with him. I think I knew then that I wanted to be the one singing my words someday.
Me: You really do have a beautiful voice, baby. You were born for this.
Evie: Thank you. You're not so bad at the hockey thing, either.
Evie: Were you really MVP two years in a row?
If I smile any bigger, my goddamn mouth is going to get permanently stuck.
Me: You looked me up.
Evie: What? No.
Evie: Okay, maybe. You've been messaging me a lot. Like a LOT a lot, Kingston. I was checking to make sure this obsessive behavior was normal for you and not a sign of a serious condition.
Me: Liar. You like me.
Evie: If your head gets any bigger, it won't fit in your helmet.
I shouldn't say it. I know damn well that I shouldn't say it…
Me: I don't plan to wear one with you. When I'm inside you, making you scream my name, you'll feel every inch of me, princess.
Evie: Kingston.
Me: Have you thought about it?
Evie: What?
Me: Have you thought about how I'll feel inside you?
I hold my breath, praying this isn't the moment she hits the block button.
She doesn't, but she doesn't answer me either.
Me: I'll take your silence as confirmation.
I quickly decide to change course before she really does block me. My hand drifts across my cock, though, squeezing the hard bastard. I can't help it. She's actually talking to me.
I feel like a goddamn fan boy living his best life right now.
Me: What's your favorite thing to do?
Evie: Why?
Me: I want to know what you like, princess. Tell me everything. I mean it. I want to know everything.
Evie: I like big dogs, scary movies, and the bars in Nashville. You?
Me: Little dogs, rom-coms, and staying in.
Evie: You do not like little dogs and rom-coms.
I scroll to my photos and send her one of me holding my older sister's Yorkies.
Evie: Aww. They're so cute!
Me: They belong to my sister. I'm their favorite, though. They lose their shit when I visit.
Me: Favorite place?
Evie: My grandma's cabin in Tennessee. It's in the middle of nowhere. It's always so peaceful. You?
Me: Wherever you are.
Evie: …
Me: I'm serious.
Evie: Go to sleep, Kingston. You have practice in the morning.
"Jesus," I groan through a laugh, squeezing my dick again. I want her in my bed, cuddled up with me so bad I can taste it.
Me: If you think I'm going to pretend you don't know that because you've been cyberstalking me, you're wrong. Knowing that you're looking into me has me so goddamn hard, princess.
Evie: GO TO SLEEP!
Me: I will, but only if you agree to go out with me tomorrow night.
Evie: I can't.
I growl, not thrilled with that answer.
Me: If you're worried about the media, I'll make sure they're not an issue, Evie.
Evie: You must not have cyberstalked me very hard, Kingston.
Me: What does that mean?
Evie: I have a show tomorrow.
"Dammit," I growl. I'm officially an asshole. Well, I mean, I've been an asshole, but now it's official. Her show is all over her social media. It's all over the radio, too. The only excuse I have for forgetting is that all my blood has been pooled in my cock for the last five days straight.
Me: Sold out, right?
Evie: Yeah.
Which means I'm going to have to work magic if I want tickets.
Me: Maybe I'll see you there.
Evie: Don't you dare, Kingston Monroe!
Me: I have no idea what you're talking about.
Am I a liar? Yes. I know exactly what she's talking about. Am I telling her that? Fuck no. Is her warning going to stop me? Also, fuck no.
I want to see her again. No, that's not true. I need to see her again…before I take a page from her dad's book and do something drastic like kidnap her gorgeous little ass.
Showing up at her concert has to be the better option, right?
The fact that I actually have to consider the broader ramifications of a half-cocked kidnapping plan for a moment probably isn't a good sign. It's not a good sign at all.
Jesus H. Christ and all his saints.
If she doesn't marry me soon, I'm going to snap.
Judging by how appealing that half-cocked kidnapping plan sounds right now…I think I may already be halfway there.
Evie: Do not show up at my concert, Kingston. I mean it!
Me: Sweet dreams, princess. I would tell you to break a leg tomorrow, but I happen to like yours exactly like they are. If you break one, I'll be pissed about it.
Evie: Kingston!
Me: Damn. I can practically hear you growling my name from all the way over here.
Me: I'm going to dream about you saying it like that while I'm inside you.
This time, she doesn't answer.
She still doesn't block me either.
We are so getting married.
"Ineed a favor."
"Jesus Christ, Kingston," Davis Miles groans into the phone. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"
"No, actually. Why?"
"Because it's almost midnight, you asshole," my publicist growls. "What did you do and what do you want?"
"My bad," I mutter, not really meaning it. The man is the biggest pain in my ass to ever exist. I also pay him a small fortune. So what if he's losing an hour of precious beauty sleep? It's not like I ever ask him for anything. "I need a favor."
"Heard you the first time," he sighs. "What is it?"
"I need a ticket to Evie Alexander's show tomorrow.
As close as you can get me to the stage.
It's sold out." I've already scoured every resale site out there.
There's nothing. At least, nothing that isn't in the nosebleeds.
I want her to see me from the stage and know that I'm there for her.
I want her to know that I meant it when I said that I'm not going anywhere.
She's mine. Sooner or later, she's going to accept it, too. The fact that she messaged me tonight tells me that she's close. She just needs a little push.
Davis is dead silent.
"Did you hear me?"
"I heard you," he mutters. "I'm just trying to decide if I want to help you or not."
"Why the fuck wouldn't you help me? You know people. If anyone can find a ticket, you can," I remind him. "And I pay you a helluva lot of money."
"That, you do. But you aren't Kasen Alexander, either."
"What does that mean?"
"It means the whole world watched his daughter step over your dumbass on live television.
And if you're begging for a ticket, it's because she didn't invite you as a guest, which means she doesn't want you at the show.
Which means you're creeping toward stalking territory, and I'm not sure I want to be the motherfucker aiding and abetting this shit when we're talking about Kasen Alexander's daughter," he says.
"The man will murder us both, Kingston."
"I'm not stalking her. We're talking."
"Define talking," he growls.
"Well, Davis, it's when two people exchange dialogue," I say, grinning as I settle back against the headboard. "I say things, she responds, and vice versa."
"And are any of the things she says, 'Stop talking to me, you weirdo?'"
"Not yet."
"Do they involve threats of protection orders?"
"No?"
"Your tone instills so much confidence," he says, deadpan. "Fine, I'll find you a ticket. But if you manage to piss Kasen off, I'm firing you as a client, denying involvement, and writing a statement about how you've always been unhinged and in need of copious amounts of therapy."
"Man, fuck you," I say, laughing despite myself. Why are all my friends assholes? Clearly, I need more supportive friends.
"Just do not make more work for me, you prick. I'm still dodging calls about the shit you pulled at the game."
"Tell them we're getting married," I say, shrugging.
He laughs abruptly. "You've lost it, brother."
He isn't wrong. I have lost it. I'm also not kidding. I'm marrying Evie Alexander. I refuse to accept anything less than that outcome. It's simply not an option. And I'm willing to be as unhinged as necessary to prove to her that I'm her future.
We both know that's what she really needs from me—not for me to back off or act like I'm fucking normal or cool or whatever, but for me to go all in and prove that there's nothing I won't do for her. I'm guessing no one has ever done that. They were all too goddamn busy chasing her star to see her.
I see her, though. Underneath all that sarcasm, she wants to be loved. She wants it so fucking badly. She's just afraid to let herself trust that it might be real.
This is, though. So fucking real.