Chapter Three
Savea
"So how was the sex?"
The question came from Peyton, who was perched on the counter in Kingston's kitchen while I carefully chopped up carrots for the stir fry.
Her legs were clad in Day of the Dead skulls that in no way matched her tie-dyed shirt that declared, ‘Let's Start a Cult!’. Her pastel rainbow hair was pulled into a side braid.
Beautiful, tattooed, pierced, she was single-handedly doing her best to make everyone change their preconceived notions of what a librarian looked like.
"We didn't have sex!" I hissed, narrowly missing the tip of my finger in shock. Turning on my heel, I found her eyes rolling.
"Why not? It's the perfect opportunity. You're upset. Need comfort. He seems like he could be very comforting."
"I had just been chased by men with seemingly homicidal tendencies! That may seem like foreplay to you, but not to me."
It was no secret that Peyton got off on things that scared her.
She was the girl who read what could only be called horror porn, who attended underground fight clubs, who went to gay raves on the property of a gun-toting, openly homophobic farmer.
She was shacked up with a local member of The Navesink Bank Henchmen MC—a gun-running biker syndicate.
Getting chased through the streets was just the kind of thing to get her engines revved.
I was half surprised that Sugar—her man's road name—hadn't thought to hire someone to chase her around for him yet.
Not that their sex life needed any assistance.
I crashed at Peyton's quite a bit. I heard things. I heard things I could never unhear.
"You've wanted King for years, Savvs, years," Peyton reminded me, handing over the soy sauce I had been searching for.
"It was just a little... you know... crush. It's not like anything was ever going to come of it."
"Well, not with an attitude like that."
"You know, most friends would be trying to comfort their friend who just went through a near-death experience."
"I think we established that I was not like most friends when I dragged you to a gay swingers club on your twenty-first birthday."
I'd seen things.
I'd seen things I could never unsee.
"Jamie will be here in a few to dote on you," she reminded me.
There was no avoiding them charging in as soon as they heard what had happened.
And, I reminded myself, I was supposed to be thankful to have such amazing friends who would be there for me no matter what.
It wasn't Peyton's fault that I was feeling on-edge, frazzled.
I had been since Kingston and Nixon had dropped me off with all my things earlier, Nixon heading into the office to handle the work there while Kingston went to 'look into my case some more.' Whatever that meant.
It wasn't that I felt unsafe. The door was locked. Kingston had even engaged the security system before leaving, giving me a sticky note with the code on it, snagging my chin gently, encouraging eye contact I had maybe been avoiding since that humiliating tarantula incident.
"Promise me you'll stay here," he half asked, half demanded. "I won't be able to think straight if I know you're outside this apartment."
The sweet sincerity in his voice sent a shiver through me. Luckily, though, only on the inside. Belly shivers. It had been years since I felt them. They were just as delicious as I remembered.
Nixon had been back once Peyton showed up, dropping a gun on the counter next to her with a curt, "I know you know how to use this. So don't hesitate if you need to. I'm taking Padfoot for a run."
It had taken me ten minutes to get Peyton to stop playing with the very loaded gun. She set it aside with an eye roll, reminding me who she shared a bed with, that she knew more about guns than most NRA enthusiasts.
"You really should have told her it wasn't necessary," I insisted, feeling guilty that everyone was turning their schedules upside down to check in on me.
"Sav, you were chased down the street by deadly shadow figures," she said, having more than a flair for the dramatic. "Nothing was going to keep her from showing up here, checking you over for bruises, and giving you one of her snuggly bear hugs."
"I'm not bruised. Unless my ego counts."
"Please, the spider thing? I bet Kingston thought it was cute as fuck. I'm picturing it and even I think so. And I don't even want to sleep with you."
"He doesn't want to sleep with me either!"
Okay, so, in a very technical way, we would be sleeping together.
Which was something I had been very careful not to think about too hard since the decision had been made hours before.
The bed was big, sure, but so was King. And the idea of his arm brushing mine each time he shifted—or I tossed and turned—was going to be distracting at best. And his smell would be stronger with him lounging there beside me.
That woodsy, sawdust, and mint smell that belonged just to him.
I think noticing his personal scent was when I realized I had more of a thing for Kingston than Nixon, Atlas, or Rush. Despite him being older than I would usually consider viable. Despite him showing not an ounce of interest in me ever.
I didn't know what Nixon or Atlas or Rush smelled like.
I didn't know their favorite movies.
Kingston loved Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. Which I had promptly gone out and bought after hearing him tell me how clever it was, how he saw something new in it every single time he watched it.
I didn't know their favorite time of the year.
Kingston loved summer, loved that he and his family had finally settled down in a place just a hop, skip, and jump from the shore where he could go when he had a rare day to himself: soak up some sun, surf, paddleboat in the bay, or go for a run on the trails.
I couldn't hear him talk about the beach without imagining him there—a pair of board shorts slung low on his hips, maybe even low enough to see the deep etches of his Adonis belt that I simply knew he had without ever having seen them myself, without seeing him jump into the waves, arm muscles flexing as he pushed his body up on a board, beads of water slivering between the etches of his abdominal muscles to disappear into the waistband of his shorts as he walked away from the shoreline, the way his skin would get kissed golden as the hours stretched on.
A loud snap jolted me out of my thoughts, my head jerking a little, no small amount of disappointment flooding my system as I realized I wasn't watching Kingston at the beach, but in his kitchen with Peyton, who had the keenest eyes of anyone I had ever seen.
"Where were you fantasy banging?" she asked, point blank, my flush giving away my guilt immediately. "In the bed? The shower? On this counter?" she went on, eyebrows wiggling.
"I wasn't thinking about banging anyone," I insisted.
It rang true because it mostly was. I mean who was to say if the fantasy would have gone on to have King approaching me, peeling off my bikini bottoms, and sinking inside me right there on the beach?
But there was no proof to the contrary either.
"I get that you're the type who can't have sex without feelings. But, Savvy, you have feelings. You have had feelings since that first Sunday dinner at the Mallick house when you saw those fine men file in for the first time. And remember the ovary explosion when King showed up with baby Padfoot?"
"I'm still not fully sure I could bear children after that," I grumbled, knowing it was useless to deny the crush. Even the scope of it. Peyton knew me too well. "But that doesn't change anything. It's a crush. And it is one-sided."
"Oh, honey, how can you..."
Both of us stiffened, muscles tensing, heads whipping in the direction of the door where a scraping could be heard.
Without missing a beat, Peyton hopped gracefully down, somehow grabbing the gun at the same time, releasing the safety, moving over toward me, aiming.
My own hand tightened to white knuckles on the paring knife still in my palm.
And we waited.
The lock disengaged.
But everyone knew how easily a lock or two could be picked. Peyton—who was notorious for leaving her keys in her apartment—could pick a lock in eight seconds flat with a bobby pin, a stick, a little strip of hard plastic.
It meant nothing that the locks were opened.
The alarm system started the steady beep-beep-beep.
If there was no real threat, then I had about fifty seconds to get across the apartment and plug in the code before King got a call.
"Nice," Nixon's voice said with a pleased smirk as he eyed the gun aimed at his head.
His body curved, tapping in the code quickly before reaching down to free Padfoot, whose tail looked about ready to fly off.
"I found someone lurking outside," he added, moving out of the doorway, allowing Jamie to step inside. Then promptly rush toward me.
Jamie was tall, with short, dirty-blonde hair, and a body that was slim but sturdy somehow at the same time. She was perpetually dressed in jeans and some sort of plaid button down shirt. Today's shirt was red and white, her jeans lovingly made soft at the knees from too much wear.
"You don't call me when you were chased down the street by a bunch of men?" she accused, grabbing my face, tilting it around until she was satisfied I wasn't hurt before wrapping her arms around me in the bone-crushing type of hug I had come to expect from her.
"You hens cluck. I'll be in the office," Nixon called, giving me a nod from over Jamie's shoulder.
"I'm fine, Jame. I promise. It was scary. But I got here. I'm fine," I assured her, feeling her move back, casting Peyton a glance. "Put that down, would you?" she demanded, waving toward the gun.
Placing the knife back down, I moved through the living room to set the alarm before coming back, hearing Jamie and Peyton talking in hushed whispers.
Guilt stabbed at me for not reaching out immediately, knowing I would be one of their first calls if something even half as traumatic happened.