20
Finally, the night air starts to cool, and King emerges from the room.
He leaves the woman behind, pulling a long-sleeve shirt over his torso.
His hair is a mess, sticking out in every direction.
He groans before muttering something to a group of guys hanging around the hallway. They nod. Probably a farewell.
It’s hard to even make out what King said, voice so deep, vibrating with a heavy slur I can barely parse through the slang.
He ignores the rest of their jabbering and starts walking. I fall in behind him, keeping my distance, not calling out yet. He’s walking with that beautiful, manly sway of his hips he’s always had, but now that he’s out of it, it’s more of a swaggered roll, which makes him more alluring.
I follow him for almost a block until we reach his truck. He’s smoking a cigarette like his life depends on it, oblivious to my presence.
It’s a total reversal; he used to be the one following me, making sure I was safe. He was the shepherd, and I was his "Little Lost Lamb." Now, he’s the one wandering off the cliff, and I’m not about to let him sink or end up back in a cell.
He’s alone now. No girl, no hangers-on. This is my chance. But if I approach him now, will he explode? I consider jumping into the truck bed, but if a cop sees me back there, it’s just one more reason for him to get pulled over.
"King," I call out softly.
He still has the cigarette in his mouth, the cherry glowing bright in the dark. He looks over his shoulder, but it’s a cursory glance, like he thinks the wind is just playing tricks on his ears.
"King!" I call out a little louder.
He reaches the driver’s side door and yank it open, but before stepping in, he stops.
He pulls down the front of his pants and starts pissing right there on the pavement, groaning as his head tilts back.
He’s swaying on his feet, clearly still drunk or high, looking up at the sky and blinking as if his vision is failing him.
"King!" I shout his name again.
He looks slowly to his right, squinting. It’s dark, but he should know me. He should recognize my face. He looks down at his dick, gives it a shake, and tucks it back in. He ignores me. I take the risk and run up to the truck. He looks at me and a loopy, vacant smile crosses his face.
"I don't got any money, sweetheart," he says, his voice thick and foreign.
"King, it's me. It's Erica."
He freezes for a split second, his expression unreadable, and then he lazily enters the truck as if he’s still out of it.
As if he never saw me.
He slams the door and cranks the engine.
His movements are sluggish but there is no time.
I have no choice. I scramble over the side and hop into the bed just as he guns it harder than I thought he would, the sudden lurch sending me slamming hard into the tailgate.
The ride is a nightmare. He’s swerving all over the road, driving like a man with a death wish. Or a man who is so damn wasted that he’s going to end up hurdling over a cliff or into someone.
I’m huddled in the back, terrified that if he hits something, I’m a goner. We drive for what feels like half an hour, leaving the city lights behind for pitch-black country roads. Even though it's the middle of June, the wind whipping over the bed makes me feel frozen to the bone.
Eventually, the truck screeches to a halt.
Is it over?
The door slams, and King stumbles out. He’s muttering gibberish, sounding completely exhausted. I climb out of the bed and follow him at a distance. We’re in front of a giant, beautiful house.
King doesn't head for the front door. He drunkenly staggers around the side and climbs through a window that looks like it was smashed recently.
I see the saw-edged glass and a few splatters of blood.
He must have cut his hands breaking in. I follow him through the frame, the glass crunching under my shoes, but he doesn't even turn around.
Inside, it’s gorgeous. A spiral wooden staircase with a golden railing leads up to a second floor.
I follow him up, looking over the glass railing that acts like a see-through wall, looking down at the marble floors of the living room far below.
This is a rich person’s house, and he’s broken in.
The King I knew in Brackenridge would never do this.
I hear him in the bathroom, muttering to himself, and then he starts to sing. It’s some slurred melody, maybe rock, maybe rap, I can’t tell through the heavy tongue. He stumbles into a bedroom, and I hear the heavy thud of him hitting the mattress. Then silence.
The house is dark. I gingerly step into the room and see him. He’s face-down, arms straight at his sides, feet hanging off the edge of the bed. The sheets are unmade, like he’s been crashing here for days. He groans, turning his face to the side, and falls into a deep, heavy sleep.
I walk over to the bedside. "King?"
I sit at the foot of the bed, my heart racing, not knowing what to do. When I’m sure he’s out, I move closer and put my arm around him, gently petting his messy hair.
"Please come back," I whisper as he starts to snore lightly.
In the middle of the night, he stirs, shifting in his sleep. "Gia..." he whispers in a drawn out slurry speech, the name sounding like a plea. "Don't leave..."
I freeze.
"I don't want to be alone," he mumbles, so quiet I can barely hear it. "Just hold me, please."
There’s that name again. Gia.
"Please... please... it feels good," he whispers, moaning softly before he groans and sinks back into the quietness of sleep.
Where is Gia now?
Was she a girlfriend who died?
If they loved each other so much, why isn't she here to stop him from destroying himself?
Or did he… hurt her?
Is that why he's on this path of destruction?
As I sit there in the dark, watching him breathe, I realize I know absolutely nothing about the man I love.
???